Chapter 5
five
. . .
Brandon
The morning sun streams through my apartment windows as I balance my laptop on my knees, trying to look presentable for the family FaceTime call that's become a weekly routine.
On my screen, the familiar faces around the Grimaldi family dining room come into view.
My parents are at the head of the table, and my six sisters are scattered around with various husbands and children, creating the beautiful chaos of voices and laughter.
“Hey, Brandon!” My oldest sister, Nina, waves at the camera while simultaneously trying to keep her three-year-old from launching himself off his chair.
My mother appears, squinting like it will help her see me better through the small screen. “Are you getting enough to eat? You look thin.”
“Yes, Ma, I'm eating enough,” I dutifully report, which makes my mother, Maria Grimaldi, narrow her eyes at me through the screen.
“Show me your refrigerator,” she demands in that tone that still makes me feel twelve years old, even at thirty-two.
“Ma, I'm not showing you my refrigerator.”
She turns to my father, who's carving what looks like the most perfect roast beef in the history of roast beef. “Nick, your son is going to waste away to nothing in that Hollywood apartment.”
My father, ever the diplomat, just chuckles and continues carving. After forty-five years of marriage and raising seven children, he's learned when to engage and when to let his wife's worry run its course.
The Grimaldi family story starts with my great-grandparents, who arrived from Sicily in the 1920s with nothing but determination and a dream of building something lasting.
They started with the Grimaldi Grande, a single hotel in Manhattan that became the foundation of Grimaldi Hotels and Resorts, now one of the most respected luxury resort chains in the country.
Fast forward three generations later, and my parents, Maria and Nick Grimaldi, met in high school, fell in love, married, and had seven beautiful children, who were all expected to carry on the family legacy.
Nina, Isabella, the twins, Valentina and Victoria, Ariana, Giuliana, and me, the baby of the family.
Everyone found their place in the business. Nina runs operations, Isabella handles marketing, the twins manage different properties, Ariana oversees guest relations, and Giuliana runs food services.
Then there's me, the one who looked at a life of luxury hotels and five-star service and decided I'd rather throw myself off buildings for a living.
My parents have always been supportive, but I know there's a corner office with my name on it waiting for me whenever I'm ready to come home to the family business.
“I'm hardly wasting away,” I protest, flexing my arm toward the camera. “Stunts keep me in pretty good shape.”
“Oh, my God, Brandon!” Isabella suddenly sits up straighter, nearly knocking over a glass. “Marco and I finally watched that action movie you were in. I swear I could tell which stunts were actually you and which were the other guys.”
“Really?” I can't help but grin. My family doesn't always understand what I do, but they're genuinely proud when they see the finished product.
“The motorcycle chase through downtown,” she continues excitedly. “That was you, wasn't it?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“It looked incredible,” Nina chimes in. “Terrifying but incredible. How's everything going with work? You seem busier than ever.”
“It's good. Really good, actually. I'm booked solid through the summer.” I pause, then add with a casualness I don't quite feel, “Though I'll be honest. This body won't last forever. I'm starting to think about what comes next.”
The admission surprises me as much as it does them. I hadn't planned on being that vulnerable, but something about being around all of them right now makes me more honest than I usually am.
“That's smart,” my father says, his voice carrying that quiet wisdom that always made us kids feel heard rather than judged. “You've built something incredible, son. Whatever direction you want to take it, we're behind you.
“You know,” he continues casually, raising a fork to eat, “We've been renovating the Malibu property.
If you ever want to explore options that keep you close to the film industry but maybe a little easier on the joints, there's always room for you with Grimaldi Resorts. But only if that's something you want.”
There's no pressure in his voice, just love and support wrapped in a practical offer.
“I appreciate that, Dad. Really.”
The conversation naturally shifts to lighter topics, including Isabella's new house renovation and the ongoing planning of Giuliana's engagement party. But my father's words linger, not as pressure but as possibility.
“Exactly. Which means Brandon's officially the last holdout.” Nina grins wickedly at the camera.
I missed what they were talking about, but I can guess it likely started with my mother's desire for more grandchildren and the fact that Giuliana's the last of the sisters to get married.
“There's nothing wrong with being single,” I say, trying to jump back into the conversation.
“Of course there isn't,” my father says, his voice carrying that quiet authority. “But Brandon, son, there's also nothing wrong with wanting more than just work.”
“We just want you happy, B,” Valentina says. “Whatever that looks like.”
“Speaking of happy,” Isabella chimes in, and I can practically hear the mischief in her voice, “anyone special we should know about? It would be amazing if you finally brought someone home for us to meet.”
I lean back against my couch, suddenly grateful for the three thousand miles between us. “Not really my priority right now.”
“Come on,” Giuliana presses. “You're in the land of beautiful people. Surely, there's someone interesting.”
“Dating in LA is a lot like dating in Brooklyn as a Grimaldi,” I say, the words coming out more cynical than I intended. “You're never really sure if someone's with you for your winning personality or because they've done the math on what the family name might mean for them.”
The line goes quiet for a moment.
“Oh, honey.” My mother's voice is soft with understanding. “Not everyone you meet will be that way.”
“It's just easier to keep things casual,” I add quickly, not wanting to bring down the mood. “Less complicated.”
“Brandon,” my father says gently, “the right person won't care about any of that. They'll just care about you.”
“I know.” I want to believe that's true, but I just don't have that experience yet. Back home in New York, it was my bank account people seemed to love. Here, the money is assumed, and it's more my connections and if I can help someone catch their big break, too.
After the goodbyes and the final waves, I close my laptop and sit in the sudden quiet of my apartment.
The truth is, I am happy. I love what I do, love the adrenaline, technical challenge, and camaraderie of film sets.
I love the freedom to take jobs that interest me, to travel, to live without the weight of anyone else's expectations.
But lately, something's been shifting. Maybe it's watching my sisters build these rich, full lives, or maybe it's just the accumulation of years and injuries that make me wonder what comes next.
My body won't be able to handle stunts forever, and then what?
The family business starts to look less like a safety net and more like an inevitability.
The resistance to settling down isn't about not wanting love; it's about trusting the person.
And it's just easier to keep things light, fun, uncomplicated with the type of work I do.
Everyone knows where they stand, no one gets hurt, and I get to keep being the charming guy who's great for a good time but not for the long haul.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Giuliana
Don't let them get to you. You'll figure it out when you're ready.
I'm typing back a thank-you when I hear the familiar sound of a key in my lock, followed by a voice that always makes me smile.
“Knock, knock,” Stella calls out as the door opens. “Hope you're decent.”
“Decent enough,” I call back, closing my laptop and standing up to greet her.
She appears in my living room, carrying a takeout container and looking slightly flushed from what I'm guessing was one of her yoga classes with Natalie.
She's in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, and there's something about the casual comfort of her presence that immediately settles the restless energy left over from the family call.
“Avocado bacon Benedict from that place across from the yoga studio,” she announces, holding up the container like a peace offering. “Figured you probably haven't eaten anything real today.”
“You figured right,” I admit, accepting the food gratefully. “How'd you know I needed this?”
“You always want food.” She studies my expression with the kind of perceptive attention that makes me wonder sometimes how she reads people so well. “You have that post-family-call look on your face. Everyone still trying to run your life from three thousand miles away?”
“Something like that.” I settle back onto the couch and gesture for her to join me. “Want to split this? It's huge.”
“I already ate with Natalie, but thanks.” She perches on the edge of the coffee table instead, close enough that I can smell her perfume mixed with the faint scent of her sweat. “Everything okay, though? You look a little…”
“Contemplative?”
“I was going to say brooding, but contemplative works, too.”
I fork a bite of the Benedict, which is absolutely perfect, and consider how much to share.
Stella and I have an easy friendship that comes with the kind of comfortable honesty and no expectations of each other.
She's safe to talk to, partly because she's not trying to fix me or change me and partly because she's dealing with her own complicated feelings about life and love.
But mostly, it's because she's never once looked at me and seen dollar signs or opportunities.
When she looks at me, she sees someone worth her time and attention.
Someone whose opinion matters to her, whose stories she actually listens to and whose dreams she takes seriously.
She challenges me to think bigger about my career, celebrates my wins like they're her own, and never makes me feel like I need to be anything other than exactly who I am.
There's something freeing about that kind of trust.
“Just family stuff,” I say finally. “They want me to think about the future.”
“Ah. The dreaded 'what's your five-year plan' conversation.”
“More like the 'when are you going to give us grandchildren and join the family business' conversation.”
Stella nods knowingly. “I get versions of that call, too. Different content, same underlying message.” She checks her phone and stands. “Hang in there and don't worry too much. I'll let you eat in peace, I've got to return some email.”
“Thanks for this,” I say, holding up the container. “And for checking on me.”
“Anytime.” She heads toward the door, then pauses and turns back. “Hey, Brandon?”
“Yeah?”
“For what it's worth, I think you're exactly where you're supposed to be right now. You've got plenty of time to figure out exactly what you want.”