* * *
A heavy chill that invaded the bones wrapped Giuseppe DeAngelo’s body like a tight blanket. He added as much urgency to his steps as his old bones would allow as he walked from the main farmhouse to the vineyard.
The grapes.
Per favore, Dio.
The prayer was a litany in his head, over and over as he shuffled toward his beloved fruit. They hadn’t had a winter this cold in years and he was increasingly concerned their methods to keep the vines insulated weren’t going to work.
His gaze scanned the rows of grapes, their slender vines covered by geotextile fabrics to stave off the cold. He abstractly wished for one to wrap around himself as he plodded determinedly onward.
Giuseppe bent over the first row he came to, lifting the fabric to touch the vines underneath. His breath came out in heavy puffs and his back ached as he bent forward, but all he cared about was ensuring his vineyard stayed safe. The pain was worth it to protect his grapes.
He ran his fingers over the thick vegetation, his knotty hands trembling as he considered the vines. They’d worked through the previous afternoon to put the blankets into place. The cold vine bent pliably in his hands and he took his first easy breath as he resettled the covering in place.
The grapes were all right.
Grazie, Dio. Grazie.
He puttered down several rows, his actions the same as he lifted the blankets, checking the vines underneath. His breath puffed out in hard, heavy bursts but he paid no attention as he continued to walk the neat, even rows.
The vineyard had been in his family for generations. He’d already made plans to give it to his grandson, his own son off in London having his life’s adventures. Adventures that didn’t belong on a farm. His Gianni had never been tied to the land, but his grandson, Marco, loved it as much as Giuseppe.
Grazie, Dio. Again, his prayer of thanks and gratitude flooded his mind. His vineyard would live on.
Heavy shouts, muffled through the thick morning air, pulled him from his morning prayers. Had Marco come to help him?
Giuseppe walked toward the sounds, the heavy air distorting them. When he finally reached the end of a row, three down from where he’d begun, he saw he was right. “Marco!”
His grandson hunched over, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black leather coat. “Nonno.” Grandfather.
“The grapes are fine. The fabrics worked.”
“It’s too cold out here for you. Go back inside and pour the coffee and I’ll join you. I’ll be in shortly.”
“Bah!” Giuseppe waved his hand and moved closer. Why had he heard raised voices? Marco was alone. “I’ve been walking these vineyards since I was small. A bit of cold air won’t chase me inside.”
“Nonno. Please go back in.”
Giuseppe shook his head, suddenly aware of the strange urgency that gripped his grandson. Marco shifted from foot to foot, his dark eyes flashing like those of a scared horse. He took the last few steps to the edge of the vines and nearly fell to his feet. “Marco!”
Another man stood a short distance away, a gun wavering in his outstretched hand.
“I asked you to go inside, Nonno.” Marco’s voice broke before the man holding the gun stepped forward.
“I don’t think so. Not anymore.”
Giuseppe’s mind raced as he took in the scene before him. He’d been so worried about his precious grapes, he’d never realized there was a threat to them far greater than the cold. “What is this about?”
The man with the gun waved it in Marco’s direction. “You really don’t know? You can honestly tell me you have no idea what’s going on?”
“I want to hear it from my grandson.”
“I failed, Nonno.” Marco lifted his head, his eyes filled with tears. “I failed you and I’m sorry. So sorry.”
They were the last words Giuseppe DeAngelo would ever hear.
* * *
Kensington pulled the small bowl of oatmeal from the microwave and padded to the drop-leaf table that filled the corner of her kitchen. She added several scoops of blueberries to the steaming oats, then took a sip of her coffee as her breakfast cooled.
The thoughts that had filled her mind, leaving her tossing and turning until three, didn’t fade as she stared at the kitchen without really seeing it. Instead, she saw the hard lines of Jack’s face.
You feel the need to be in control, and there’s a difference.
Was it true?
On some level she knew that it was, but it wasn’t the entire story and it was unfair to paint her with that one-dimensional brush.
Their conversation had spun out from there, each of his questions more probing than the last. She’d made a valiant effort to defend herself, but in the end, none of it had mattered.
None of it had erased that small moue of sympathy that curved his lips in an understanding—and, to her mind, pitying—smile.
“You don’t understand, Jack. Do you and your sisters regularly put your lives in danger?”
“They don’t. I do.”
“My point is, that element isn’t a part of your family dynamic. Isn’t a part of how the three of you interact in your relationship with one another.”
“So you think your family dynamics have some influence on your life?”
“I think everything has an influence on our lives. And I think four adults who consistently put their lives in jeopardy have a funny way of looking at the world.”
“You fix the world. And you understand that need in each other. What can be so wrong about that?”
That question had hovered between them for a few moments before she’d managed to excuse herself and grab a cab back to the office, unescorted.
There wasn’t anything wrong with how she lived her life. And she was proud of the work they did. Proud of what she, Liam, Campbell and Rowan had created.
But none of it changed the fact that they lived lives outside the mainstream. Campbell and Rowan had both found their way to love, despite the rather evident dysfunction in their lives, but it didn’t mean she and Liam were guaranteed the same.
And it certainly didn’t mean questioning the shortcomings of her life with a total stranger over lunch was even remotely productive.
“So why are you giving him the satisfaction of giving it one more moment of your time?” She muttered the words to herself before digging into her oatmeal. She’d gotten through only a couple of bites when her apartment doorman buzzed her. She snagged the small phone—connected to her lobby—from
