But how far am I willing to go to protect what’s mine?
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m about to find out.
17
Frankie
I senseDante as soon as I walk into the house.
It’s been a long day. My thighs ache from horseback riding and I want nothing more than to slip into a hot bath, but I need to talk to my husband and make my confession.
I’ve already made up my mind that I’m going to tell him what I overheard, but I still don’t know what I want in return. I’m not even sure how to hold information like this hostage. I’m hoping seeing his face will inspire something in me, good or bad. Either my inner gangster will come out, or I’ll flake and crumble.
Slipping off my shoes, I pad down the darkened hallway, toward the low light spilling from a doorway. I’m fairly certain it’s one of the living rooms (not the one with the movie screen in it), but it could also be the library. Or the spare office. Or the games room with the pool table. Hell, who am I kidding? I can barely keep track of my own rooms in this place. Plus, I may have polished off Charlie’s wine once she’d left—and the rest of the bottle—to help me work up the nerve to come home and face Dante. So I’m a little discombobulated, truth be told.
Regardless, it turns out my instincts are dead-on.
When I enter the living room, Dante is standing near the brick fireplace, looking out a window into the dark. His profile is to me. He’s holding a glass of wine, his tie loose, the neckline of his shirt open. He’s striking in the soft amber light. Then again, when isn’t he?
If I could get away with it, I’d be content to simply stand here and watch him brood, but he intuits I’m here. Slowly, he turns to look at me, taking a small drink before settling his eyes on mine and hanging on there.
It strikes me how different we are. We’re two very separate people.
But I’m about to step fully into his world, and when I’m done offloading what I know, I pray I’ll be able to leap right back out.
“Bella Notte with your sister.” He turns back to the window. “How was your meal?”
It’s not a real question—more like words to fill the space. I’m hardly surprised that he knew where I was and with whom. He could have microchipped me in my sleep for all I know.
“Very good. As was the wine. I had almost a whole bottle to myself.”
He looks at me again, nodding to himself. “My wife is a drunk.”
“Maybe. I wasn’t, up until a few days ago…when my life took a drastic and unexpected turn. Can you blame me?”
I make my way over to him. He doesn’t acknowledge my sarcasm, or my approach.
“Dante, look. We need to come to some kind of truce. Unfortunately, we’re stuck with each other, and spending the rest of our lives fighting is just going to give us both ulcers.”
He flicks me a look, filled with disdain. “A truce implies we reach a mutually beneficial agreement. What could I possibly want from you that would benefit me?”
I lean my hip against the side of the sofa. He’s close enough that I could smack the haughty sneer off his lips if I were a braver, or more violent, person.
“My help,” I suggest. “My expertise. My knowledge.”
He scoffs, as if what I’ve just said is ludicrous, and I feel my face go hot.
“Do you even know why I spent the last three years in Italy?” I ask, losing patience.
It’s a rhetorical question. Of course he doesn’t. He never cared to ask.
He smiles at me over the rim of his glass. “Fucking your way through Sicily?”
I don’t smile back. “If I were more like you, then yes, that is exactly what I would have been doing. Instead of fucking, however, I was earning my master’s degree in soil sciences with a focus on enhancing vine production. My undergrad program at UC Berkeley was a double major in business marketing and agriscience. I’ve had a sommelier certification since I was twenty-two—”
“Bravo,” Dante says dryly, but I don’t let him goad me.
“I’ve been training to run a winery myentire life. My father, supremely lazy ass that he was, made sure I could do all his work for him someday. So, dear husband, you tell me. Does that sound beneficial to you?”
