Chapter 27
FRANKIE
Dante watches me as I storm toward the house and head straight for him, daggers in my eyes. But by the time I get to the door, he’s already heading upstairs, his back to me, without a lick of acknowledgement. The bastard’s not getting away from me that easily.
I fling my purse onto the entry table with all my might, kick off my shoes, and stalk up the stairs after him.
“We need to talk!” I shout, but he just keeps walking like the jerk that he is.
I was gone for a few hours dealing with a legitimate family crisis, and he filled the time with a fucking booty call.
My emotions are over the top right now, trapped inside me, making me tremble from head to toe.
Dealing with my father drained me, and having Jessica mean-girl me in the driveway just now has pushed me over the edge.
At the top of the stairs, I hear the click of Dante’s home office door shutting. Does he think that’s going to keep me out? I’ll break down the goddamn door if I have to.
But when I try the knob, it’s unlocked. I stride into the room, and see him standing out on the balcony. Good. The whole vineyard can listen to me. I’m ready to go to war.
Flinging the French doors open, I stalk over to Dante until he’s pushed back against the wrought iron balustrade.
Then I tell him, in flawless Italian, “I’m not responsible for the mix up with the wine barcodes. I didn’t fuck up. And not only did I not fuck up, but even with the sales fiasco, I’ve increased revenue seven percent since I started working in the tasting room.”
Dante looks at me, shaking his head slowly, as if I’m trying to pull a fast one on him.
“Oh, I’m sorry, did I neglect to mention that I’m fluent in Italian?” I say sarcastically. “That’s something you probably would have liked to know before now, huh? Too bad you didn’t make the effort to find out.”
“Francesca—”
“It’s Frankie, dammit, and I’m not done yet.”
I switch back to Italian, just because I’m on a roll, and because yelling always sounds so much better in a Romance language.
“What was I saying? Seven percent? That’s right.
You know how I did that? By rearranging your main attraction, increasing flow through the tasting room, making the space more comfortable for guests, and expanding the upsell offerings with baked goods and crafts by local artisans that visitors are snapping up at a record pace. But that’s not all.
“I’ve gotten your business in good with Napa’s chamber of commerce, established better relationships with shops and producers here in town, and I’m actively making Bellanti Vineyards a go-to destination for every wine tour and travel guide who comes through, not to mention sending pamphlets and gift baskets to the highest rated professional wedding planners in all fifty-eight counties, though I’ll be expanding to other states as soon as it’s viable.
“And, oh yeah, in my spare time I’m finalizing the blend that will utilize your castoff grapes and the Abbott Canaiolos in order to solve your uneven bottling numbers. Wasn’t that the whole reason you wanted the Abbott vineyard to begin with?”
“Frankie—”
I’m nearly out of breath, but I cut him off anyway. “AND, on top of all that, I solved your father’s murder.”
I tell him the man’s name, then switch back to English just to say, “Fuck you, Dante Bellanti.”
Finally finished, I stand there in the late morning sun, panting slightly as the breeze ruffles my hair and cools my rage. Dante’s just staring at me, as if he’s never seen me before. Maybe he hasn’t.
He lifts his arms and starts giving me the slow clap. Fuck this.
Scowling, I turn to go. Before I reach the French doors, he comes up behind me and grabs my wrist. Whipping around to glower at him, I yank my hand away. “Don’t even—”
“I’m fucking impressed,” he says.
Cocking my head, I gesture at him for more.
“You’re off the hook for the wine labels,” he adds. “Jessica confessed. I fired her.”
I wait in case there’s a punch line. I suppose gloating would be bad form at this point.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Did you hear what I said before? About your father?”
His face does that thing where every shred of emotion disappears. He’s unreadable.
“Dante?”
“I heard you.”
“So…?”
He digs his phone from his pocket and brushes past me into the office.
“So I have work to do. Make sure your sister has everything prepared for the First Press event tomorrow. And Frankie”—he looks back at me—“no more surprises.”