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My gaze slid right, locking on the silver-framed photograph of my parents on their wedding day. Last month marked their thirty-fifth anniversary, except Mamma had missed the last three years. Breast cancer. Her death was the first crack in my relationship with my father. A multitude of hairline fractures created tension neither of us wanted nor knew how to resolve.
My father held onto the past as if that was his only way to preserve memories of Mamma. I would never understand the depth of his grief, having the lost the only woman he’d ever loved, but living in the past didn’t prevent time from moving on.
I stood and leaned over my father’s desk, resting on extended arms. Exhaustion swelled through my body like a tidal wave, sapping my strength and leaching spirit from my campaign to convince my father we needed to modernize. The start of a headache pounded behind my eyes, and my stomach yowled with hunger.
The chaotic spread of reports and folders across my father’s desk mocked my attempts to placate my father in hopes he would relinquish control of the company without the complete ruination of our relationship. Agreeing to spend three months managing the vineyards wasn’t going to change his position or mine. We were at an impasse.
I was proud of the Venturi name, and I wanted to be a good son. I didn’t know how to accomplish that from a business perspective, but for now, I could extend a hospitable welcome to our new guest.
Converting the old farmhouse, the original structure on the estate, into an Airbnb rental had been my mother’s idea. When I left for university and then got an apartment in Rome, she undertook the renovation to fill her time. She loved meeting people from around the world and introducing them to the wonders of Tuscany.
I closed the office door, determined to give myself a break for at least a few hours. My footsteps echoed off the terracotta tiles and vaulted wood-beam ceilings as I passed through the house to the kitchen, easily the largest space in the limestone villa. Originally built by my great-great-grandfather, Terre del Venturi had housed generations of winemakers and now it all rested on my shoulders. I was the last in the family line.
Papà had temporarily abandoned pressuring me into marriage with a nice girl from Lucca, focusing his efforts instead on convincing me to preserve Venturi Wines as it currently existed.
My hands curled into fists. I unclenched them and inhaled slowly, counting to ten. “Uno, due, tre, quattro…”
Late afternoon sunlight filled the kitchen and for a moment, I could almost hear Mamma and Eva laughing and chattering while they prepared the evening meal. The scent of fresh baked bread, roasted meats, savory sauces. Bowls and baskets of colorful produce harvested from our own garden or purchased at the market in Lucca adorned the counters and plank farm table, hewn by hand decades earlier from trees on the property. Closing my eyes, I remembered Papà coming in and surprising Mamma with a smack on the behind, her outraged shriek becoming a pleased exclamation when he presented a slab of golden honeycomb from the neighbors’ apiary.
Now the house stood empty and silent except for one sad old man unable to let go of the past. With Mamma… Without family, it was just a building. I was thirty-three, far too old to father the next generation. The only way to preserve the Venturi legacy was to expand our wine production.
My head was swimming with too many thoughts, too many emotions. I wasn’t prone to overthinking life, but today I couldn’t seem to get out of my own head. I shook my head to clear the clutter.
Welcome guest.
Forty laps in the infinity pool.
A glass of Terre del Venturi Francesca Toscana, my mother’s private recipe, bottled only for family, while I prepared a proper meal instead of bread, cheese, and cold cuts.
And, if I was lucky, a restful night’s sleep.
I checked my appearance in a nearby mirror and deemed my jeans and white button-up good enough. Grabbing a bottle of Tignanello, our bestseller, I hiked the distance from the villa to the farmhouse apartment, anxious to complete my task. My father saidguest, singular. That was unusual. Typically, the farmhouse was reserved by newlyweds or couples. Perhaps the solo traveler was a freelancer photographer—we got a lot of those in the region—or a retired American schoolteacher.
The front door of the farmhouse stood open. A large purple—purple with yellow stars and moons—suitcase near the entryway confirmed the guest had arrived. I knocked on the frame and called out a greeting.
“Buongiorno, èAlessio Venturi.”
Silence.
From the doorway, I could see into the bedroom.
Empty.
Ah, perhaps she was out exploring the garden. Given the colorful luggage, I assumed my guest was female.
Of course, greeting this traveler could not be simple. Nothing in my life was simple anymore.
Annoyance mounting with each step, I circled the farmhouse to check the terrace, then continued on. The sound of someone—a woman—singing got louder as I drew closer to the pool, the feature most guests proclaimed as their favorite.
Something-something, “moon,” something-something, “pizza pie.” I recognized Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore.”
It was an American. That hideous purple suitcase was packed with every Italian cliché portrayed on film or in music, and she would expect the Tuscan experience to fulfill those silly stereotypes.
“Papà, sei in debito con me,”I growled.
Rounding a hedge, my steps slowed, halted. My fingers tightened around the bottle of wine. All the blood in my body raced to my groin, my cock instantly rigid.
A woman—a gorgeous woman with pale skin, plump breasts, round hips, and dark hair that swirled around her shoulders—bobbed and rolled in the water like a mermaid. Instead of luring sailors to their death with her siren song, she warbled the song I hated more than any other.
