Chapter 5
Six Months Later
Orvieto, Italy
“You’re sure?” Dread splashed her belly, nauseating Cove as she stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of her bedchamber overlooking the gardens and pool of Vigneto Corallo, the Galtieri vineyard, villa, and estate that had been in the family for generations.
“I heard it from the bank manager myself,” Zio Santi said gravely.
“I would not burden you with this, but Massimo is not taking my calls. I cannot stand to watch this happen. Your papà is a good man. This makes no sense for him to give that monster Moretti signatory authority over the entirety of the Galtieri fortune and GIS.”
Chest and jaw tight, Cove fixed her gaze on the man down by the pool, who had upended their lives. Felt the bitter roots of anger and resentment. “No, it does not.”
More than once she had begun to wonder if he was the rot eating their lives from within.
The trial was in a few months and she had…
nothing. Enzo, however, had taken more and more control, nudging her out of GIS business.
Ever since Yemen almost three years ago, he had pushed Papà to seek “better qualified” heads for business, not his fashion-model daughter.
She had thought she’d proven herself, but that incident in Paris, when she’d defended and protected a man she did not even know, had been unwitting ammo in Enzo’s campaign to remove her.
On the lawn, Enzo barked orders to the staff who were preparing the dinner party for Papà’s sixtieth birthday.
She had been planning this for Papà since Mamma died.
Wanted it to be special, honoring, intimate—with family and close friends.
Now, she was relegated to an adornment. Told to dress nice. Smile prettily.
Flavio sauntered behind his dad and stopped to flirt with one of the waitstaff they’d hired in for the celebration.
“Per favore, Lupina.” Zio Santi really knew how to tug on her heartstrings with the “little wolf” nickname he and Mamma had always called her. “Talk to Massimo,” he urged. “I fear something is amiss. This cannot be right.”
“It is not,” she agreed. “I have suspected Enzo for a while, but there has been no proof. Papà defends him.” She sighed, heart heavy and feeling as if her entire world was crumbling. “I wish you were here to talk sense into him.”
“D’accordo.” He agreed—they were often of the same mind. “But this trip to the States has me tied up. I am sorry, Lupina. You know your mamma would be furious about all this.”
“I am furious.” And powerless. How could she get Papà to listen?
“Enzo has been taking over little by little here. I have been all but shut out of business decisions. Papà even let him move into the main house.” Which only served to deepen her fear that Enzo was involved in something corrupt.
“It’s maddening—why is he letting him take over? It makes no sense.”
“One would almost think…”
Her breath caught at the heaviness in his words, in what he didn’t say. “What?”
“I wonder if Massimo is being blackmailed. It is a dreadful thing to accuse a man who has worked at your father’s side for a decade,” Zio Santi said somberly, “but that is the only way I believe he would do such a thing. Never would Massimo surrender control. Not like this. Never!”
Heart stuttering, Cove covered her mouth with one hand and wrapped the other around her midsection, the earbud tucked in neatly.
Visually followed the snake Enzo from poolside back through the large glass-and-steel doors into the enclosed terrace.
The twenty-foot table had been festooned with flowers, candelabras, silverware, and crystal for the forty-two arriving in the next hour. All business partners.
If Papà was being blackmailed…then did Enzo have proof that Papà had done something illegal? “I cannot believe there would be anything to—”
“Tread carefully, Lupina,” Zio Santi warned. “Your papà is a proud man. If there is trouble, he will not easily admit to it.”
Especially if he was being blackmailed over some transgression, indiscretion, or mistake! And this explained so much how Enzo Moretti had all but taken over. Santo cielo, she detested the Morettis.
“I will talk with him—I promise.” Oh that she had an ally here. Someone to help her, protect her. Two loud raps at the door startled her. She whirled and lifted her phone. “Someone is knocking. I should go,” she said, crossing the room.
“Ti voglio bene.”
“Same, Zio. Arrivederci.” Ending the call, she drew in a breath for courage and opened the door.
Flavio grinned as he pushed his way in, but then a scowl stole beneath his thick mop of curly hair. He assessed her gravely. “What are you wearing?”
She had tolerated his intrusions and assumptions long enough. “Get out, Flavio,” she said, motioning him back out to the hall. “I am in no mood—”
“You can’t wear that tonight. You’re supposed to wear the pink dress—”
“I will never take fashion advice from you.” Besides, there was nothing wrong with her button-front gauzy black blouse whose neckline boasted a casual, drapey bow and diamonds.
In fact, it was a favorite. The gray slacks and black wedges were a perfect complement.
It kept her presentation comfortable, sensible, and elegant. “This celebration is for Papà, not me.”
“No, you have to wear the pink—”
“Enough.” Irritation flaring, she planted her hands on her hips, phone gripped tight, in no mood to deal with him. “I have much—”
“You realize my papà is handling things,” he said, sauntering toward her with a sleazy grin. “No need for you to worry your pretty little head about it.”
Heart thundering at his patronizing tone, she worked to temper her anger. “Scusi,” she said, pointing to the door again. “I must get ready for the party.”
Glee hit his muddy brown eyes. “Assolutamente sì! Pink dress.”
Resenting his giddy agreement made it next to impossible not to let the door hit him on the way out.
Once she heard his leather shoes on the stairs, she let out a frustrated growl.
She really must talk to Papà. Now. A moment later, she peeked out.
Verifying it was clear, she strode down the hall of the upper level.
While Papà did have an office downstairs, she knew that he preferred his desk and library adjoining his bedroom for this work.
She’d hoped to find him there because it was less likely that Enzo would be around.
She knocked on the door and waited. When no invitation came, she let herself in.
“Papà?” Making sure to close the door, she did not want to be interrupted as Enzo had been wont to do every time she tried to talk business with her papà.
In the library suite, she found him on the small balcony, palming the ancient stones as he peered out over the lush estate and vineyards. She joined him.
“Your mamma loved this view,” he said solemnly. “This…this was the one thing I had that seemed worthy of her.” He sighed and shook his head. “And it was not even I who did it but my ancestors.”
Cove touched his back. “Mamma loved you very much—and first. This beautiful villa was just la ciliegina sulla torta.”
He sniffed. “I did not deserve her, and now…she would be ashamed of me.”
“I disagree. Mamma was always understanding and patient when I made mistakes. Her love never changed.”
Looking so dignified in his suit and cravat, Papà touched her cheek. “You were always her fiercest champion.”
Swallowing hard, Cove had to broach the topic. “And yours,” she added. “But, Papà, I fear I must ask…”
He grunted. “Later, amore. Later.” With another heavy exhale, he turned back inside.
But Cove could not let it alone. “Zio Santi said the bank called him.”
Papà stopped short, a dark cloud moving over his olive complexion as he faced her. “He has no business putting his nose in my affairs! What I do does not involve him! I needed the help and…”
Shock ricocheted through her. “So, it is true?”
He looked tortured. “It is a good thing… I had to…”
“Papà—”
“It is not for you to question me, Ilaria!” He only resorted to her Italian name when angry.
It struck her to the core. “How can you trust Enzo over me? He has cut me out, pushed me aside. The transfers—”
“Basta!” he hissed. “I will not—”
“Papà,” she balked, taken aback by his temper. “I do not mean to—”
“Is something wrong?” The calm, cool voice of Enzo Moretti sliced into the heated conversation.
Papà jerked to him, his eyes ablaze.
The man had enough sense to don a modicum of contrition. “Forgive me, Massimo. The door was open…”
It was most certainly not open. She had closed it. Very conscientiously to avoid this exact situation.
“I was concerned when I heard Cove yelling.”
Yelling? She had not yet begun yelling!
“She was just leaving,” Papà said, turning to his dressing room.
Crushed at his dismissal, Cove struggled to contain the hurt and the desperate need to throat-punch a gloating Enzo as she walked out of the room.
“Ilaria.”
Heat shot down her spine at Enzo’s call. She faltered on the threshold, thinking she did not answer to him, but common decency slowed her.
“Your father is under a lot of stress,” Enzo crooned. “Do not add to it by behaving like a child.”
God, help me. Curling her hands into fists, she did not reply. Just pushed herself out the door.
The fight with Papà hung over her as guests arrived. As they mingled. She watched in silence, aching for what had been lost already. They sat poised on the brink of disaster. What would happen to GIS, to Vigneto Corallo, with Enzo at the helm of all financial and business matters?
Mamma… What would Mamma do?
As the courses were served, she took just enough to not draw attention to her extreme lack of appetite. She could not bring herself to eat, even if it was Papà’s birthday celebration.
Only it wasn’t a celebration. It was business.
In fact… Her gaze swept the length of the table, taking in the guests.
She felt a creeping dread, realizing she did not know a single person in attendance, save Enzo and Flavio.
Even their normal staff had been replaced by temporaries. Which made no sense.
Everything in her wanted to get up and leave. Hide in her room rather than participate in this farce.
A laugh bellowed from the head of the table where Papà smiled at Enzo and another person.
But she recognized that smile was not a true smile.
This was a practiced one. The same one he’d fastened on daily following Mamma’s wake and funeral when friends offered their condolences and shared fond anecdotes.
He’s grieving.
Throat tight, she glanced at her plate. Tears pricked her eyes. No way she could leave Papà alone with these…vultures. That’s what this was, wasn’t it? A feasting on Galtieri and GIS profits.
What could she do? Desperation coiled through her with an oppressive smothering.
“You didn’t wear the pink dress,” Flavio said, his breath hot and reeking of wine against her cheek as he pressed in closer.
Disgust roiled through her as she slid him a cold glare. “Wow, so observant.” Why did he sound so panicked? Disappointed with herself for such an obvious display of vitriol, she pushed her gaze away. Saw a shadow flicker at the corner of the main house’s upper terrace. What…?
“You do not understand—”
“And never will.” God forgive her, but she hated him. Hated his father. She eyed him, and past him, she saw a light go on in the house, glaringly obvious in the darkening night.
Her heart jumped into her throat. Wait—that was Papà’s office! She skipped her gaze to the men now gathered poolside. Papà was there, talking with Enzo and a few other men. So…who was in his office? Did not matter—nobody should be in there without him.
“Scusi.” She set aside her drink, stood, and strode toward the house.
“Where are you going?” Flavio demanded as he caught her arm. “You—”
“Vado al bagno,” she hissed at him. “And I don’t need your help.
” Though she felt bad for lying about needing to avail herself of the bathroom, she felt no remorse for his mortified expression.
Grateful she hadn’t worn that dress he’d been so adamant about—and its heels—she was able to hurry into the house in her wedges much quicker. And quieter.
Moving swiftly through the semidarkened hall, she eyed the threshold where light scampered out beneath the heavy door, anxious to rout the intruder.
Easing up to the side, she strained to listen.
Heard drawers opening. Doors closing. Clicks and clinks.
Enough noise that the man, who had his back to her as he dug through Papà’s desk, did not hear her enter.
He bent toward the laptop and touched something.
Palming the desk, he squinted, the blue glow of the screen washing his black hair in a halo.
“Yeah, it’s in… No idea why not, but it’s in. ”
Was he trying to hack it? “What are you doing and who—”
He whipped around.
Breath snatched, Cove gaped. “You!”