Isit 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.
