mahogany desk, hands folded on its polished surface, nodded. “Yes.”
“The Antoninni winery in Florence, Italy.”
“In Tuscany, Nicolo. Tuscany is a province. Firenze is a city within it.”
“Spare me the geography lesson, okay? You’re investing in a vineyard.”
“I have not made that commitment yet but yes, I hope to invest in the prince’s winery.”
“The prince.” Nick laughed, but the sound was not pleasant. “Sounds like a bad movie. The Prince and the Don, a farce in two acts.”
“I am pleased you are amused,” Cesare said coolly.
“What’d you do? Make him an offer he couldn’t refuse?”
The don’s expression hardened. “Watch how you speak to me.”
“Or what?” Nick leaned over the desk and slapped his hands flat on the surface. “I’m not afraid of you, old man. I haven’t been afraid of you since I figured out what you were two decades ago.”
“Nor have you shown me the respect a son owes a father.”
“I owe you nothing. And if respect’s what you want from me—”
“We are wasting time. What I want from you is your professional expertise.”
Nick stood straight, arms folded. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning, I need to know the true value of the vineyard before I make a final offer. A financial evaluation, you might call it.”
“And?”
“And, I am asking you to make the evaluation for me.”
Nick shook his head. “I evaluate banks, Father. Not grapes.”
“You evaluate assets. It is your particular skill at the company you and your brothers own, is it not?”
“How nice.” Nick’s lips drew back from his teeth in a lupine smile. “That you noticed your sons own a business so different from yours, I mean.”
“I am a businessman, Nicolo.” Nick snorted; Cesare’s eyes narrowed. “I am a businessman,” he repeated. “And you are an expert on financial acquisitions. The prince offers me a ten percent interest for five million euros. Is that reasonable? Should my money buy me more, or will I lose it all if the company is in trouble?” The don picked up a manila envelope and rattled it. “He gave me facts and figures, but how do I know what they mean? I want your opinion, your conclusions.”
“Send an accountant,” Nick said with a tight smile. “One of the paesano who cooks your books.”
“The real question,” his father said, ignoring the jibe, “is why he wants my money. For expansion, he says, but is that true? The vineyard has been in his family for five hundred years. Now, suddenly, he requires outside investors. I need answers, Nicolo, and who better to get them for me than my own flesh and blood?”
“Nice try,” Nick said coldly, “but it’s a little late for the ‘do it for Dad’ routine.”
“It is not for me.” Cesare rose to his feet. “It is for your mother.”
Nick burst out laughing. “That’s good. That’s great! ‘Do it for your mother.’ Right. As if Mama wants to invest in an Italian vineyard.” Nick’s laughter stopped abruptly. “But it’s not going to work, so if you’re done—”
“There are things you do not know about your mother and me, Nicolo.”
“Damned right, I don’t. For starters, what in hell possessed her to marry you?”
“She married me for the same reason I married her.” Cesare’s gruff voice softened. “For love.”
“Oh, sure,” Nick said sarcastically. “You and she—”
“We eloped. Did you know that? She was betrothed to the wealthiest man in our village.”
Nick couldn’t keep his surprise from showing. Cesare saw it and nodded with satisfaction.
“That man is the father of Rafe’s wife, Chiara.”
“Chiara’s father? My mother was engaged to…?”
“Your brother knows. He kept the information to himself, as is proper. Sì, Sofia and I eloped.” Cesare’s expression softened. “We fled to Tuscany.”
Nick was still working on the fact that his mother had run away with his father, but he managed to ask the obvious question.
“Why? If you were both Sicilian…”
“Tuscany is beautiful, not harsh like Sicily but soft and golden. There are those in Italy who think Tuscany is the heart of our people’s culture while Sicily and Sicilians…” The don shrugged. “What matters is that it was your mother’s dream.”
Nick felt the story drawing him in.
“Then, why did you emigrate to America?”
A small tic danced under Cesare’s left eye.
“I had no skills other than those I acquired as a boy,” he said in a low voice, “skills that had a use in Sicily. And here, in this country, as well. I knew this, you see, just as I knew that if I wanted to give your mother more than a life of poverty—”
Nick leaned over the desk and slammed his hands on either arm of his father’s chair. “How dare you use my mother as an excuse for the things you’ve done!”
“I have done what I have done,” Cesare said flatly. “The decisions were mine and I offer no apologies or excuses.” His tone softened. “But if I could give Sofia this—this bit of Tuscan soil, this only thing she ever asked of me—”
“It’s a hell of a story,” Nick said coldly, “I’ll grant you that.”
But was it true? The only way to know was to ask his mother, and there wasn’t a way in hell he was about to do that.
What it came down to was simple. Cesare might be using him…but so what? A couple of days out of his life was all it would take.
“Okay,” Nick snapped. “I’ll give you two days. That’s it. Two days in Tuscany. Then I head home.”
Cesare held out the manila envelope. “Everything you need is here, Nicolo. Mille grazie.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank your wife for having eloped with a man unworthy of her forty years ago.”
Nick took the envelope, turned on his heel and walked out.
“Two days, Alessia,” Prince Vittorio Antoninni said. “That is all I ask.”
Alessia Antoninni kept her gaze on the moonlit grape vines that stretched toward
