Chapter Three
‘BUT? WH-WHAT? Y-YOU CAN’T… You can’t do that, Mr Lorenti.’
Dario stared at the girl standing in front of his desk, her chest heaving with emotion under the shapeless plaid shirt, her striking blue eyes bright with—were those tears?
He stifled the ripple of something hot and fluid, which had hit him the minute she had stepped out of the shadows and into the light.
She was hardly the sort of woman he would ever consider dating, with her dirty work clothes, her mess of caramel curls tied back in a haphazard knot, her soft, pale skin devoid of make-up.
Not only did she look too young for the job she had inherited, clearly by default, she looked too young to date anyone.
And certainly too young for a man like him, even if she was telling the truth about her age.
The frustration which had propelled him to this godforsaken place today—thanks to the fallout from his disastrous meeting this morning in London with the Westwick Estate’s board of Trustees—swept through him. And resentment blindsided him again.
After seven years of negotiations between Lorenti Corp’s legal team and the Westwick Trustees who controlled his mother’s old home on Capri—the palazzo he had spent a small fortune renovating and restoring since his father died—those bastards had refused point blank to let him bypass the terms of his father’s will to inherit the palazzo outright.
He ground his teeth, furious that he had been unable to circumvent the demands his father had made from beyond the grave—in seven long years of legal wrangling.
It had always struck him as a cruel joke that his father had allowed him to inherit Westwick Hall, a place he had always hated, while keeping the palazzo in trust—until he agreed to marry an Englishwoman.
But after trying to force those old fools to see reason through the courts, he wasn’t laughing anymore.
But he refused to let his father win.
The bastard had always railed against the fact his only son and heir considered himself an Italian.
That Dario had never given a damn about fitting into the mould of an English gentleman so he could inherit the Westwick title and estate.
His father had cut him off when he was eighteen to try to force his hand.
But instead of capitulating, Dario had borrowed money and built a hugely successful tech business, managing to amass his own fortune without any help from his father.
The terms of his father’s will had been Lord James Westwick’s last-ditch attempt to bring Dario to heel, by keeping ownership of the palazzo—which contained the only memories he had of his mother—out of Dario’s hands unless he married an English debutante.
Seven years ago, when he’d first heard that blasted will, Dario hadn’t been concerned.
He’d simply set his legal team to work on breaking it…
Unfortunately, the ancient aristocratic friends his father had put in place were as entitled, old-fashioned and intractable as the bastard himself, and had stymied every one of Dario’s attempts to purchase the palazzo without marrying anyone.
While also spending a large portion of the Westwick trust to fight him in court.
He hadn’t cared, because he didn’t need or want his father’s money.
But the irony—that he owned Westwick Hall, a place he didn’t want, while he would never own Palazzo di Constanzo now—had only fuelled his fury.
That fury had propelled him here for the first time in fifteen years, to decide what to do with the Hall, which he had been ignoring since his father’s death.
Receiving an invitation to his sister Mia’s wedding while en route here today—she was marrying that Sicilian bastard Sante Trovato, the man who had once abandoned him on a roadside and left him for dead—had added another layer of fury to his frustration.
The fact he would have to attend the wedding only increased his anger.
If Mia was foolish enough to fall for that man’s dubious charms, so be it.
She had made it clear only a few weeks ago she did not value Dario’s counsel.
She had also refused to accept a penny from him over the years, even though she had been cut off by their father too, her blasted independence so precious she would rather starve than admit she needed his support.
But as her older brother, it was his duty to make one last attempt to get her to see Trovato for who he really was.
Which meant Dario was going to have to attend the event on the man’s private estate in Sicily in two weeks’ time.
The hasty wedding was also a red flag as far as he was concerned.
If he managed to stop himself from killing his sister’s fiancé, it would be a miracle.
But the invitation had helped Dario make a decision about what to do with Westwick Hall. He would sell off the land and raze the house to the ground. Then at least he would have had payback for his father, if not Trovato, for their attempts to destroy him.
Take that, you old bastard!
He hardened his heart against the genuine look of horror in his estate manager’s translucent blue gaze.
‘There is no need to become hysterical,’ he remarked, because she looked as if she were struggling to draw breath. ‘You and your staff will be paid six months’ severance which you will not have to work for, as I will close the house for good this weekend.’
He wished to find a buyer promptly for the land.
Of course, he could have sold the house too.
Even in its current state it was probably worth millions.
But the resentment that had lived inside him for so long—and had built to a tsunami this morning—meant that demolishing it felt like the perfect revenge for being prevented by his father’s Trustees from owning the palazzo.
‘Please don’t do this!’ The girl stepped forward and pressed her palms on the desk. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing. You have no right. Westwick is a part of history, it’s a…’
‘I assure you I have every right,’ he said, as evenly as he could manage while his resentment was threatening to choke him. ‘This isn’t personal,’ he lied.
‘But it makes no sense. Why would you destroy something so beautiful?’ she asked, the agony in her voice giving him pause.
Apparently, this was personal, to her. He let his gaze drift over her again. That strange prickle of memory disturbed him, but not as much as the liquid pull of arousal. Her shirt was open, allowing him to see the tops of her breasts.
‘You may think it beautiful.’ He levered himself off the chair and walked back to the window, the ache in his bad leg helping to control the spike of lust. ‘I, on the other hand, do not.’
‘But it’s on the English Heritage Registry, you can’t just demolish it.’
Dario swung round. ‘What does this mean?’
‘The Hall’s historic significance means it’s an important part of the nation’s heritage. They could bring charges against you…’
‘Puttana!’ The full force of Dario’s anger and frustration returned in a rush.
Then I will close it up and let it rot…
But as he glared at the girl, who was shaking visibly, her arms wrapped tightly around her midriff, the threat got caught in his throat.
It was what he had felt in his heart ever since inheriting the place seven years ago.
A place he hadn’t visited since his teens, when he had been locked up here for months, the pain in his leg nowhere near as agonising as the pitying glances of the staff, and the pain in his heart…
At his best friend’s—his only friend’s—betrayal.
But he was no longer that damaged boy, vulnerable and alone. Yes, his leg would never be fully healed—the pins used to repair the crushed bones had saved it, but only just. But he’d hardened his heart, not just against Sante, but also against anyone else who might betray him—or pity him—again.
‘If you’d just let me outline the plans I have for Westwick,’ the girl began, her voice quivering with emotion, ‘you’ll see it can more than make the money back that needs to be spent on it to restore it to its former glory.’
He frowned at the girl.
Former glory? Was she mad?
Westwick Hall had never been glorious. Not to him.
He still remembered the first time he had come here, age thirteen, after his mother’s death.
It had been cold and miserable that day, the ground muddy underfoot, the clouds cutting out the weak sunlight which had no warmth, even in May.
His sister had clung to his hand and looked as lost as he’d felt, while the father they didn’t remember, his face contorted with disgust, had shouted at Dario to speak in English—a language he barely understood.
Capri and his mother, and the life he and Mia had lived on the island with her throughout his childhood—free to roam as they wished—had seemed a million miles away that day, as well as in the weeks and months and years afterwards, when they had both been parcelled off to different boarding schools, forced to remain in this dreary country.
There had been no more early mornings scrambling down the path to the palazzo’s private lagoon, to go swimming in the sparkling blue waters.
No lunchtimes spent begging leftovers from the kitchen staff for him and Mia, while the housemaids cleared up the previous night’s mess.
No more lazy afternoons spent sailing or fishing, or in the wintertime messing around on his computer, gaming and teaching himself to code.
And no evenings spent feasting and dancing and falling asleep under the stars while their mother and her many flamboyant cosmopolitan friends partied until sunrise.
Gabriella Lorenti hadn’t believed in rules, and hadn’t believed much in schooling either, but she’d loved him and Mia unconditionally.