Chapter 13
FRANKIE
Is it too much to hope that my life has finally, finally settled into some kind of rhythm?
Because it feels like it has—and I find myself leaning into the routine.
Though admittedly, I’d enjoy it a whole lot more if I didn’t have Donovan as my constant shadow, and an army of big burly men strategically placed around the property.
But for now, it is what it is. A safety measure, and a mandatory one.
Life is chugging along. I’ve temporarily given over my wine tastings to Greg, who is really shining in the role. I have my own hands full with the mentorship program I started to put a few of the other employees on the path to their sommelier certification.
It seems like everyone is busy right now.
The winery is flourishing, Dante’s schedule is packed every day, and I could certainly take on triple my responsibilities if I wanted to.
But at the moment, I like how comfortably full my plate is.
Considering I still have to throw up a thousand times a day, I need a little wiggle room for frequent bathroom breaks.
Meanwhile, Marco is working to get Bellanti Racing off the ground.
He just got his full competition license and has an important race in Vegas coming up this weekend.
It’s been causing some very palpable tension between him and Dante.
They’re arguing about it for what seems like the hundredth time as we sit around the breakfast table.
As I sip my tummy tea, Dante stabs his eggs angrily, spearing Marco with a glare.
“I already told you,” Marco is saying, “I’m not canceling the race. It could make or break the team. I’ve worked way too hard to get us onto the pro circuit to just walk away now.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Dante growls.
Marco smirks. “I refuse to live in fear, Dante. Besides, I’m a damn good driver.”
“He’s not talking about the driving,” Armani cuts in, silencing everyone.
I look around the table. Is Marco in danger, too? From whom? But I know better than to ask right now. The tension in here is so thick, I can almost taste it.
“Fine, fine, fine,” Marco says, holding up his palms. “Look. I will take several of our security people with me, including Farman. Someone will always be watching me, and my car. And if it makes you feel better, I’ll have a bodyguard at my side until the moment I get in the car and then immediately after I get out. Okay?”
Dante works his jaw, then continues eating. Armani says nothing. There isn’t any further discussion about the matter for the rest of the meal, so I assume Marco will be getting his way.
After the dishes are cleared away, I leave with Marco to visit the private airport in Sonoma.
As Donovan drives us in the Escalade, Marco chats me up in the back seat.
I nod along as he tells me about his plans for the racing company—which do sound promising.
In fact, the more he talks, the more I start to suspect that on at least some of the nights when he’s been presumed to be out partying and bedding women, he’s actually been at the garage under the hood of a car.
Eventually, he circles back to Dante. “It’s just so frustrating the way he’s been fighting me every step of the way.
We’re doing great on the circuit—and if things continue on this trajectory, we’ll be racing with the pros soon.
Do you know what it would do for the winery, to have the Bellanti Vineyards logo wrapped all over a winning, professional race car? ”
He’s right. “That would be unbelievable advertising. Although…I’m assuming that’s not the only reason you’re doing this.”
“It’s not.” He smiles, showing off that trademark Bellanti masculine beauty. “I do it because it’s the only thing that gives my life true meaning.”
What can I say to that? Isn’t it the same way for my sister and her horses?
Once we’re at the airport, Marco brings me to meet Dean Rivers, a pilot interested in starting a helicopter tour company and working in conjunction with the winery.
Apparently, Dean has been hounding Armani about the proposal for years, but Armani’s been reluctant to consider such a venture.
Marco, however, can easily see the potential. Hence this visit.
As Dean walks toward us, I realize he’s nothing like I expected.
He’s older, with an overgrown mop of golden white hair, a thatch of stubble along his jaw, and blazing blue eyes highlighted with deep crow’s feet, as if he’s spent a lot of time in the sun, or smiling, or both.
Probably both. His Hawaiian shirt is faded, and he’s…
barefoot. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s one of those old school, ride-the-wave, NorCal hippies that never want to give up their youth.
“Hey, man, you finally made it!” Dean says to Marco by way of greeting, flipping back his long hair with a boyish toss of his head. “Man, I’ve been waiting for this opportunity a loooong time now, you know? Well met, brother, well met.”
He gives Marco a half-hug and claps him on the back, then turns to me with a broad grin.
“I’m Frankie,” I say, holding out my hand. He takes it in his, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Dean—it’s truly, truly a pleasure to meet you…Mrs. Marco Bellanti, perchance?”
Marco and I both burst out laughing.
“I am Mrs. Bellanti, yes, but Dante’s my husband.”
“Even better,” Dean says, laughing along with us. “I have a feeling this kid here’s still too wild to be tied down just yet.”
I’ll admit, I’m a little skeptical. But then Dean invites us into the hangar, where we sit in his meticulously clean office and listen to an exceptionally solid proposal about the tours.
Soon enough, I barely notice the overly long vowels and the constant insertion of “man” into almost every sentence. He clearly knows his stuff.
Dean goes over aircraft specs and fuel prices, breaking down cost per customer per flight.
We hear about conversion rates, which type of marketing has been the most effective historically, and exactly how he would weave his business into the fabric of ours.
The more we talk with Dean, the more I realize how smart Marco was to put this idea in motion.
“You know,” Marco says. “The helipad at the winery is clear. If you’re up for it, Dean, we could do a fly over now?”
“Yeeaaah, man,” Dean says. “Frankie? You’re welcome to—”
“I’m in,” I tell him.
I’ve never been in a helicopter before, but I don’t have time to be nervous or overthink it.
The next thing I know, the three of us are climbing into the touring helicopter.
Dean gives us a short rundown of what the tour would include as he prepares us for the flight with safety measures and makes sure our seat belts are secure.
My heart lurches into my throat at liftoff, the whump-whump-whump of the propeller blades above my head jacking my nerves. But then we’re in the air, and the helicopter steadies. The land spreading out beneath us looks incredible. We’re flying. I let out a laugh of pure joy.
Dean is talking the whole time about his plan for the collaboration. I’m listening intently while I watch the world race by beneath us.
And then…oh no.
I get the barf bag open just in time.
“Duuude,” Dean chuckles. “You nailed it in the baaag. That’s impressive. We should take a pic, put it on a shirt.”
“Good idea,” Marco says. “We could put her photo on the barf bags, with a quote about your flying being so smooth, you’ll hit the bag every time.”
Marco winks at me, but all I can do is puke again while they laugh at my misery.
When I finally run out of hurl, I apologize to Dean profusely, though he insists it’s no big deal. I’d had my tummy tea this morning, but I should have brought some with me in a thermos. I’d gotten cocky. Lesson learned.
Luckily, we land at the Bellanti helipad a few minutes later.
My face is probably green. Not entirely sure that I can stand on my own, I let Marco help me out of the helicopter.
A small crowd rushes out of the offices to see the helicopter—no one was expecting one today, I’m sure—and Dante pushes his way to the front.
He glares at the sealed barf bag in my hand, his eyes blazing, but Marco sweeps him into a handshake with Dean, leaving me time to slip away and find the nearest restroom.
Donovan is on me instantly, following like a shadow. I’m too focused on my insides to tell him where I’m going…but then I realize I’m not going to make it anyway. Turning to the row of hedges outside the office windows, I give up whatever is left of my breakfast, hoping no one notices.
When I look up, I see Donovan nearby, pretending to study a tree. Realizing that I’m looking directly at him, he smiles, giving up the pretense. Unspooling a garden hose nearby, he comes over to me and starts washing away the evidence.
“Thanks,” I say sheepishly.
“These bushes needed watering anyway,” he says.
As he walks me from the main building to the tasting room, I clear my throat and ask, “Any chance you won’t tell Dante about this?”
He hesitates. “He cares for you, Mrs. Bellanti. Considering there are men around with bad intentions, I don’t think he’d care about any…gardening we need to do.”
I nod in gratitude, and then step out on a limb. “What do you know about all the extra security?” I ask, trying to make it sound casual. “If Livvie’s out of town, then…why are there still so many guards? And what about Marco? Dante doesn’t want him racing in Vegas this weekend, but—”
“That’s a conversation for Mr. Bellanti to have with you, ma’am,” he says gently.
We step into the tasting room, and the coolness of the air conditioning feels like heaven on my face. “You’re a good soldier, aren’t you Donovan?”
There’s a shuffle behind me. “Are you Francesca?”
Spinning to the unfamiliar voice, I find a striking couple behind me.
The man is lean but broad in the shoulders, his dark hair gleaming.
The woman on his arm reminds me a little of Charlie with her glossy, straight blonde hair and how well she pulls off casual designer slacks and a blouse.
She looks poised yet breezy, as if she just stepped off the page of a fashion magazine.
“Yes?” I answer, glancing back and forth between the couple. “I’m Francesca Bellanti.”
Donovan gently takes my elbow in a reassuring gesture. “Mrs. Bellanti, it appears we have a few VIP visitors today. May I introduce Stefan Zoric and his wife Victoria—”
“Tori,” the woman says, smiling at me.
“Mr. Bellanti’s old friends from Chicago,” Donovan finishes.
“Not that old!” Tori jokes, then seems to notice my confusion. “Is it not a good day for a private tasting? Dante extended an offer to us a while back to visit any time. We were in LA for some business and decided to take the weekend to visit Napa. I hope it’s not an inconvenience?”
“Oh. Hello. Of course it’s not an inconvenience. I’m happy to show you around.” I’m smiling now, but I’m still a bit taken aback. It’s the first I’m hearing about this. “Please, call me Frankie.”
“We’ve been driving around on our own personal wine tour today, but we just had to come see the winery that’s causing such a stir,” Tori adds. “Is Dante available to join us? He and Stefan haven’t seen each other in ages. Fraternity brothers, if you can believe it.”
That’s when I realize: these aren’t mob people. I instantly relax.
“Well,” I say brightly, warming up, “I believe my husband is a little tied up at the moment, but I’d love to offer you a private tasting in the Little Cellar until he’s free.”
“That sounds amazing,” Tori says, excitement on her face. “We’d love to, wouldn’t we?”
Stefan nods, though he’s stoic. Reminds me of my own husband. No wonder they’re friends.
“And Donovan,” I add, “you’re very welcome to join us.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bellanti, but I’m still on the job,” he says, gesturing for us to go ahead.
I lead the way to the private cellar. With a little squeal, Tori hooks her arm in mine, surprising me as she falls into step with me. Stefan follows us, with Donovan at the rear.
“I’ve heard all about how incredible Bellanti wine is,” Tori goes on. “I can’t believe I’m getting a front-row seat to the deliciousness.”
Her personality is nothing but bubbles and light, a million miles away from all the darkness and mob business I’ve been dealing with lately, and I can’t help liking her right away.
“Believe me, you’re in for a treat,” I tell her.
I wish I could taste the wine with them, but maybe a little friendly distraction is exactly what I need right now.