the invitation. “It will give us a chance to get better acquainted with one another.”
He wasn’t exaggerating about the amount of food. In addition to the pasta dish, which she’d served with the savory tomato sauce that had assaulted his senses upon arrival, the table included a loaf of thick-crusted bread, steamed green beans and a side of some sort of sausage that she told him was produced locally.
“This is excellent,” he declared after his first bite of ravioli. It was no empty compliment. The flavors sang in his mouth. “You’re an excellent cook.”
“I cannot take all of the credit. The sauce is the real star.”
“It’s very good.” In fact, he’d never tasted its equal, which made his aversion to bottled pasta sauce all the more understandable.
“It’s very popular with our patrons.”
“At Rosa.” Despite his best effort, the name was hissed between clenched teeth. From Alex, Angelo had heard a lot about the quaint and rustic eatery their father owned and had named for their late grandmother. Far from taking pride in it, he saw the place as competition. After all, it was what Luca had squandered his time, love and attention on after shipping his sons off to America.
“I used to spend more time there than I did away,” Isabella mused. Shook her head and laughed. “Scarlett, our cousin from Australia, manages it now. Her husband to be, Lorenzo, is the chef. But I am still there a lot.”
“Why do you bother? Why do any of you bother to slave away for him?”
She sobered. “I have a full life, Angelo. As does Scarlett. I am married to a wonderful man and very happy. I work for our father because I enjoy what I do.”
Angelo snorted. “You must to put up with him.”
“That’s unfair,” Isabella objected. “You know nothing of Luca.”
“Only because that’s the way he wanted it,” he shot back. “From what Alex has told me, the restaurant isn’t doing as well as it could be these days. Money is tight.”
Her face had paled. “That is true. He insists on using local produce and labor, and sometimes that has cost him more than if he’d outsourced.”
The anger that had been simmering for the better part of three decades rolled to a boil. “So, call in the millionaire stepbrother to help save the day.”
Isabella’s cheeks flamed red now and she shot to her feet. She shouted something in Italian before she collected herself and, in a more moderated tone, replied in English, “I will apologize if that is the way it seems, but what you are saying is not true. Money is not why I sought out either you or Alex and asked you to come to Monta Correnti.”
He wanted to believe her. Even so, he challenged, “Then why? Why now?”
“I only recently learned of your existence, Angelo.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “That makes two of us. Again, Luca’s choice. Or, should I say, his fault?”
He had her there and she knew it. But Isabella raised that small chin that was so similar to his.
“My motives for asking you to come here are very simple. I have two older brothers whom I wished to meet and a rift in our family that I wish to see mended. These are the reasons I sought Luca’s permission to contact you and Alex in America.” She unknotted her fingers from the cloth napkin she held and set it on the table. “If all I needed was money to save Rosa, Angelo, my husband would be happy to provide it. It is not beyond his means, and he has generously offered to do so on more than one occasion.”
“But you’ve turned him down.”
“Yes. Family is more important than the restaurant, but family is what it will take to save it.”
She needn’t have stressed the word. It would have struck him like a prizefighter’s blow anyway. He’d never viewed family as the sort of savior she was implying it could be. Before he could respond, she was going on.
“We have a plan in mind. Our cousins and I. We want to combine our families’ restaurants. They are joined by a courtyard. It is time they were joined in other ways.”
“How does Luca feel about that?”
“He knows nothing of the plan. We want to surprise him. We want everyone who is descended from our grandmother, Rosa Firenzi, to come together. As I said, it will take all of us to make it happen.”
He didn’t question whether she was referring to funding now. He knew better.
Isabella rose to her feet. “I will leave you now to finish your meal and to settle in. I have things I must see to.”
“At the restaurant?” It was a low blow and he knew it. Shame stirred, making him wish it were possible to snatch back the words and start over.
Instead of answering his question, Isabella said, “If you want for anything, I wrote my number next to the telephone in the front parlor.”
With that, his sister disappeared out the door. Angelo stood so abruptly that his chair tipped backward, clattering noisily on the tiled floor. He wanted to call her back so he could apologize. He felt horrible, putting her on the defensive, especially when she’d gone to such trouble to make his first day in Monta Correnti pleasant.
Besides, this wasn’t her fault. None of it was. Luca was the one responsible for the rift in their family. Their father was the one who had screwed up all of their lives with his selfishness and single-minded pursuits.
Oh, Alex had tried to palm off some of the blame on Lisa Firenzi, Luca’s older sister and the owner of the restaurant with which Isabella wanted to join Rosa. According to Angelo, if only their aunt had given Luca the loan he’d sought when the boys were toddlers, they could have remained in Italy rather than being sent to live with Cindy. Angelo wasn’t buying it. Ultimately, the choice had been Luca’s.
Angelo didn’t go after his sister. Instead, he uncorked the bottle of wine and filled his glass to the rim. Then, without bothering to change into the swim trunks that were packed in the luggage the driver had toted upstairs, he went outside and lowered himself fully clothed into the hot tub.
It would be several hours yet before the sun set, but, lost as he was in bitter memories of his fractured childhood, he really didn’t give a damn about either his pricey clothes or the million-dollar view.
Chapter Four
ANGELO woke early the next morning with a pounding headache that was the result of jet lag, regrets and too much wine. He’d finished off the bottle the evening before. In fact, he’d sat in the hot tub drinking it. Now, not quite dawn, he was in his bed. His head was throbbing more than his shoulder, but not quite as much as his conscience.
He owed Isabella an apology.
Women. This made two who’d gotten under his skin in short order in ways that he hadn’t thought possible.
Last night, after a second glass of wine and half an hour of bubbling hot water had mellowed his mood, he’d considered going to see Atlanta. He’d poured himself
