No Way, Rosé (Pour Decisions #1)

Prologue

Rosa

I ’m pretty sure that the uncomfortable, too-tall, squeaky leather chairs in Mr. Davenport’s office are a deliberate choice.

Don’t stick around, don’t get too comfortable, let’s get this over with and shove all of you out the door as quickly as possible.

I glance down at my iPad, Bianca’s face filling the screen. We’re still waiting for Allegra to accept the call. Bee is frowning and tapping at her phone. “Are you sure you sent Legs the link?”

“Yes, of course I did,” I tell her, surreptitiously checking the invite on my phone to verify. “I just have no idea what time it is over there. Could be middle of the night.”

“Nah, closer to eight or nine pm,” Bianca says. “Barely dinner time.”

I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been out of the Pacific time zone, unlike my globetrotting sisters.

And it’s closer to lunch time here at the moment.

Bianca grins as the video chat program pings and the screen splits in two, Allegra joining our three-way call.

“Hey, Bee!” Allegra says, her voice tinny through the iPad’s speaker. “And Rosey Posey. Sorry I couldn’t make it back. How are you holding up, Rosey?”

“I’m fine,” I lie. Across the room, Uncle Geno crosses his arms and frowns. “I’m sorry you two couldn’t be here, either.”

Bianca has an excuse —she’s working on a vineyard in Argentina, and it’s almost harvest season there. Allegra, well. She’s Allegra.

Allegra shrugs a shoulder. “You know how it is. I’ll try to be there for the memorial.”

Try. Yeah, Allegra can be trying, in all definitions of the word. I love my sister, but sometimes…

“You’ve got time,” I say, biting my tongue on the lecture that threatens. God knows I don’t want to hear Uncle Geno’s words come out of my mouth. Ugh. “Yeah, we won’t hold it until after harvest season at least. But you really should be here for it, Allegra, after everything Nonna did for us. Pay our respects.”

Allegra nods, her face shadowed by the city lights behind her head. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Uncle Geno coughs, pulling my attention back across the room. He’s not happy.

Who am I kidding? He’s never happy. The man takes all his emotional cues from Oscar the Grouch.

I shift in my seat, feeling unkind. His mother just died. I should probably cut him a little slack today of all days.

On the other hand, it’s not like Bianca, Allegra, and I aren’t mourning, too. Nonna raised us herself, after Daddy died and Mama ran off to Italy with Sergio. We owe her so much.

We owe her everything.

Aunt Janet sets down her knitting long enough to place a hand on Uncle Geno’s knee. He settles back for a minute.

She’s never been one to say much, but a well-placed gesture seems to work for her, at least most of the time.

“Where are you this week, Legs?” Bianca squints, probably looking for locational clues somewhere in the background. “Greece?”

Allegra shakes her head, curls dancing. “Gibraltar.” She waves a hand behind her at the gorgeous old buildings. “I might actually get some time to look around before I move on.”

“That’s so cool,” Bianca says, and I can’t help it—I frown. Travel-itinerary discussion is not appropriate at a will reading. Especially since Mr. Davenport is just now walking into the room.

Bianca winces apologetically and shushes Allegra with a finger to her lips.

Then I hold up the iPad as Nonna’s lawyer takes his seat at the wide, official-looking desk at the front of the room. “Excuse me,” I say, pointing at the screen. “I know this is a little unorthodox…”

“But so are we,” Allegra adds with a light laugh.

I slant a narrow-eyed glare at the tablet.

“Sorry, sir,” I tell Mr. Davenport, deliberately avoiding looking at the other side of the room. I can hear Uncle Geno and our cousins shifting in their seats, giving off waves of irritation, and that’s bad enough.

Not Aunt Janet, though. Even without a glance, I know she’s sitting quietly, waiting for everyone else to simmer down.

I look up at the lawyer. “You know my sisters, Bianca and Allegra…”

“Quite well,” he answers.

Allegra waves. “Hi, Jimmy!”

Cousin Gianni snorts, then coughs in a lame attempt to cover his laughter.

I close my eyes briefly. I am patient. I am calm. I am fucking zen . “As I was saying, Mr. Davenport ,” I enunciate for Allegra’s benefit. And Bianca’s, too. The pair of them will be the death of me. “Allegra and Bianca are out of the country but want to participate in the reading as well.”

“That’s fine,” he says, taking his glasses out of their case and putting them on. “As long as you don’t disrupt the proceedings,” he adds, leaning toward the screen and raising one eyebrow.

We’ve known James Davenport almost our entire lives—he’s been the family lawyer for as long as anyone can remember. And he knows us . Sometimes to my embarrassment.

“Yes, sir,” Bianca says.

“It’ll be just like I’m there in the room,” Allegra says.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he says drolly. “Just—be appropriate, please.”

Allegra smiles and nods. “Yes, sir.” She mimes zipping her lips.

“Thank you.” Mr. Davenport looks around the room. “Is anyone else joining us virtually? Your mother, perhaps?”

I shake my head, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. “No, sir.”

The waves of Uncle Geno’s disapproval from across the room are almost a physical presence.

Well, sorry, Uncle G. It’s not like I’m any happier with her decision to miss this. But that’s on Mama, not the three of us. No matter how much it feels like we’re being held accountable for her choices.

“Thank you all for being here,” Mr. Davenport starts, laying a hand on the stack of papers on the desk in front of him. “I know this is a sad and difficult time for the whole family.”

He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes briefly. Sometimes I forget he was Nonna’s friend, too.

Clearing his throat, he taps the papers again. “Your mother,” he nods at Uncle Geno—“mother-in-law, and grandmother”—he glances around the rest of the room, his gaze encompassing me, Bianca and Allegra via the iPad, Aunt Janet, and our three cousins—“was a remarkable woman. She will be greatly missed. She also lived a full life, loved her family, and had very specific thoughts about her will and what would happen after she passed. Her greatest desire was that you remain a family, supporting each other, regardless of what’s in these papers.”

I nod. Of course we will. Family is the core of everything, Nonna used to say.

God, I’m going to miss her.

Mr. Davenport starts reading the documents in front of him, and as he goes over details about safe-deposit boxes, life insurance, and bank accounts, my mind starts to wander. I’m not even sure why our generation has been included in this discussion. It’s not like any of it will affect us directly.

Uncle Geno has been running the family business since Papa passed away. Much to Nonna’s disappointment, Mama was never interested in winemaking, so she was more than happy to leave Belmonte to her brother once she left the country (and her daughters) behind. Our generation? Well, except for Allegra, most of us work for Uncle Geno in some capacity, or will eventually, but it’s going to be decades before we actually take the reins.

No, none of that “we” bullshit. Geno and Janet’s sons will take the reins. Bianca? Me? Our cousins will probably figure out a spot for us somewhere, but nothing with any authority. And Allegra? By the time she gets that wanderlust out of her system and returns from traveling the world—if she ever does—I doubt Uncle Geno will trust her with the keys to the winery’s second-oldest truck, let alone anything to do with the business. And it’s not like Janet was ever given any position of power or influence.

“In regard to Belmonte Winery,” Mr. Davenport continues.

My head snaps up, proving to everyone that I wasn’t actually paying attention until now. Onscreen, Bianca presses her lips together, probably trying to keep from snickering—the traitor.

“ Geno, you have been a faithful steward of the family winery, and I trust you to keep that tradition strong for future generations. All holdings from your father, and his father before him, are passed down to you .”

I peek over at Uncle Geno. He’s nodding, a pleased but solemn look on his face.

It’s a look we’re all familiar with. Sometimes it feels like he’s older than Nonna ever was.

“ I have every hope that your sons, my beloved grandsons, will carry on that tradition on the land bequeathed to your lineage. I love you all. ”

Oof. Not that it’s a surprise, but an actual callout to the cousins in Nonna’s will feels like a physical blow, the air sucked out of my lungs at being overlooked. Again.

I grit my teeth and force a closed-lip smile. It is what it is, and no use whining over it, right?

All I know is that I’ve tried all my life to live up to Nonna and Papa’s legacy, and once again, I’ve failed.

Failed myself, failed my sisters, failed Nonna.

I sigh and look down, trying to see where my purse has slid under my chair. I don’t think I can stay here much longer without bursting into tears.

Uncle Geno slaps both palms on his knees, starting to rise. “Thank you, James. I know how hard?—”

“We’re not finished.”

He drops back into his seat, eyebrows raised. “Excuse me? You’ve gone over everything—the accounts, the financials, the properties…”

“One property.” Mr. Davenport sets a paper aside and glances down at the one remaining in his hand. “Belmonte Winery.”

My mouth drops open.

“These are the final wishes of Maria Carmela Bianchi Lamberti, in her own words. My dearest children and grandchildren. I love you all and wish I could have remained with you forever, in our little patch of heaven on earth. I have loved every moment together and wish you all nothing but peace, prosperity, and happiness.

“As you know, when I married my sainted Leo, I brought my family birthright, Caparelli Vineyards, with me. It had been passed down to me by my mother, God rest her soul. And though I allowed my husband to run both wineries as one, it has remained my birthright throughout our marriage and beyond. Geno, when you took over for your father, you continued to treat them as one entity, as agreed upon previously. But now, in my twilight years, I wish to rebuild the tradition started by my mother and pass Caparelli Vineyards on to the next generation of winemaking women in our family. My dear daughter, Caprice, has chosen to live and work overseas with her second husband and has shown no interest in Caparelli for many years. Therefore, I leave my vines, my property, and my birthright to my three granddaughters—Rosa, Bianca, and Allegra—to carry on the proud matriarchal tradition of Caparelli .”

Dimly, I can hear Bianca gasp.

“ I also leave a modest bank account ”—Mr. Davenport holds up a folder—“ to provide some cushion should they choose to bring Caparelli back from disuse. I hope with all my heart that they do. My darlings, my tre sorelle, I wish you all well in your new adventure. ”

My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out everything around me. My breath saws in and out of my lungs as I try to wrap my head around what just happened.

She just—she gave us—she trusted me …?

Tears sting the edges of my eyes. I squeeze them shut as I focus on my breathing. Why can’t I catch a full breath? Am I suffocating?

Is this what a panic attack feels like? Oh, God.

I open my eyes and focus on breathing in for four, hold for four, out for four.

The silence stretches as Mr. Davenport folds his hands on the desk and looks at each of us in turn. “Any questions?”

Uncle Geno stands, his face thunderous. “What the hell was that?”

“Your mother’s last will and testament. It is quite legal, and she was of sound mind and body when she wrote it. There will be no point in challenging it.”

“But it makes no sense. Caparelli and Belmonte have been combined for decades! Caparelli can’t exist on its own.” He turns to me, his hands on his hips. “You agree with me, right, Rosa? You’ve been working for the family for years. You see how the two are intertwined.”

He’s waiting for me to nod, to fall in line like the good niece I’ve worked so hard to be seen as. The practical one, the head-down-work-hard foot soldier.

But I can’t.

In my head, I’m hearing the stories Nonna used to tell us, of growing up on Caparelli’s grounds, how proud she was when it became hers, how she chose to share it with her husband while still retaining that birthright for her own.

I’m remembering those years after Mama left, when Nonna opened her home to Bianca, Allegra, and me, providing us with a solid foundation of love and belonging after our world had been ripped apart. And now she’s leaving us the home, the vineyard, the winery and all?

I’m filled with grief and confusion and a fierce, soul-deep gratitude to Nonna for seeing the three of us as worthy of a gift like this.

Even if a big part of me isn’t sure we’re up to the challenge.

If I’m up to the challenge.

“Besides, there’s no way you’ll be able to get it up and running on your own in time to save the grapes,” Uncle Geno says.

“She’s not on her own,” Bianca snaps.

We all turn to stare at the screen. To be honest, I’d almost forgotten my sisters were listening in as well.

“Excuse me?” Uncle Geno frowns.

“She’s right,” Allegra says. “There are three of us. She’s not on her own.”

My heart clenches with love for my sisters.

He waves a hand dismissively. “Whatever. Not like you’ll be doing much from your little European vacation. You’re just like your mother.”

I suck in a breath. That bastard.

“Belmonte needs the grapes. We have plans for them. And if you don’t allow us to harvest and use them, they’ll rot on the vine.”

“Then we’ll just turn them into raisins and make a profit that way,” my youngest sister says blithely, her no big deal attitude obvious even via video call.

“Allegra!”

I fight back a smile. She always cuts right to the chase.

Aunt Janet reaches up and touches Uncle Geno’s elbow. He glances at her and shakes his head. Her hand drops back into her lap. With a purse of her lips, she picks up her knitting again.

Uncle Geno turns to me and tries to smile. It looks more like a grimace. “Our arrangement has worked just fine for decades. We’ve even honored the history of Caparelli vineyards through our Carleo Cabernet.”

Oh, right. The Carleo. The romantic, highly fictionalized “tribute” wine that Uncle Geno has been selling for years. The one where Nonna’s contribution has been reduced to a side note.

“There’s no reason to fix what isn’t broken.”

Isn’t it?

Maybe I’m the only one who’s noticed the fault lines over the past decade or so.

Maybe I’m the one who’s broken. And this could be a chance to put myself back together again.

I glance at my sisters on the iPad, butterflies in combat boots stomping around in my stomach. For once, I’m not jumping at Uncle Geno’s demand.

“I think…I’ll have to talk to my sisters about it.”

“But—”

I stand up, feeling unsteady on my feet. All these years, plugging away in the shadows, trying to prove my worth and ability to my uncle and cousins. Watching Bianca get shunted away as she tried to build a career as a winemaker. But Vittorio is our winemaker, Uncle Geno would say. Your cousin is just following in the family footsteps. You understand.

And now, unexpectedly, we might just have an opportunity to build—to re build—something of our own.

“Yes, we have to discuss our options.” Bianca lifts her chin on-screen, her expression calm. “All of them.”

“Girls!” Uncle Geno’s face is bright red. I wouldn’t be surprised if steam starts billowing out his ears. “I must insist?—”

“Nope.” Allegra laughs through the video call. “Pretty sure you don’t get to insist anything. Andiamo, sorelle mie, let’s discuss our options.”

Vittorio shakes his head, an incredulous look on his face. Leo is standing in front of Geno, his hand on Geno’s shoulder.

Not that any of us think Uncle Geno would resort to violence, but it’s probably a good time to beat a hasty retreat.

“We’ll be in touch about the financials,” I say to Mr. Davenport. Financials? Where the hell did that come from? I sound like a winery owner already.

Winery owner. Something light and fizzy bubbles through me, like a just-poured glass of prosecco. I grab my purse and the iPad and hurry out of the room. Once outside, I stare at the screen, blinking a little in the bright California sunlight.

“I have just one thing to say,” Allegra pipes up, her eyes wide.

“What’s that?”

“Holy shit.”