Page 35

ALESSIO

This should feel like paradise.

I look around as the sun sinks behind the hills of Tuscany, setting the vineyard ablaze in molten gold.

It just feels like hell.

I sit on the stone wall just beyond the main house, a glass of red wine sweating in my hand.

The vines stretch out, endless and perfect.

A life laid out neatly in rows.

Fake.

All of it feels fake without her.

I tip the glass back, but the wine tastes like ash.

Five fucking days since I left her, since I tore both our hearts in two and convinced myself it was the right thing.

I close my eyes, and it’s there, vivid and brutal. The last night we spent tangled in her sheets, her skin against mine, her heart beating just under my palm.

The way I got up while she slept, needing to breathe, needing to memorize her in the half-light.

How I stood there like a coward, watching her, my chest splitting open, tears stinging my eyes like I hadn't cried in years.

I replay the way she clung to me in the morning, silent, strong, even as I packed my things.

The way her body tensed in my arms while I could see in her eyes how her heart tried so damn hard not to break.

She held it together for me. Tried to be strong when I didn’t deserve it.

And I left anyway.

And somehow, that broke me worse.

The breeze carries the scent of earth and old vines, but it doesn’t touch me.

I glance over at the garage. Rows of gleaming, expensive cars I used to live for. Ferrari. Maserati. Aston Martin. All polished to perfection.

All the things I fought for. All the things I thought I wanted.

And it all feels hollow.

Metal and leather and speed, all useless without her riding shotgun, laughing like the world can’t touch us.

Nothing does.

Because no matter how far I run, no matter how many vineyards or fucking oceans stand between us, she's ingrained into my soul.

Still tearing me apart from the inside out.

The house hasn’t changed. Same dark wood beams. Same faded oil paintings staring down at me. Same faint smell of oak and old wine barrels clinging to the stone walls.

I used to love this place. The parties. Mom.

Now it feels like a mausoleum.

I drift into the kitchen, craving something, anything, to anchor myself.

Through the window, I catch a glimpse of the back garden.

Dad is out there, laughing as he kicks a ball around with his wife Quinn and my little brother and sister. His new family. His second chance.

He's happy.

And I'm miserable.

A hollow pit forms in my chest. Will I ever have that with Sophie? That easy kind of happiness?

The way things are now, I can't even picture it.

Sneakers scrape across the floor behind me.

I turn and blink. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Luciana grins, totting her luggage behind her. "Heard you were coming back. Figured someone needed to supervise the dramatic homecoming."

I snort. "And you volunteered for the job?"

"Someone has to keep you from brooding yourself into an early grave."

Her voice is light, but her eyes are sharp.

She knows. She always knows.

She looks me up and down, a slow, assessing sweep, as she leans casually against the counter.

She plucks an apple from the bowl. “So, how's freedom like?”

I force a smirk, the same one I used to wear like armor.

“Freedom’s overrated.”

She takes a loud, deliberate bite of the apple, chewing like she’s got all the time in the world.

“You look like shit.”

I bark out a humorless laugh. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

Luciana tilts her head, studying me harder.

“You miss her, don’t you?”

I don’t answer. I don’t need to.

The silence between us says everything. I finally blow out a breath, my hands scrubbing down my face. “She’s pregnant.”

Luciana freezes, the apple halfway to her mouth. “Jesus, Les.”

She sets the apple down, her brows pulling together.

“And you’re here? Not with her?”

“I thought I was protecting her. There were threats. Notes left at our door. People watching us. I thought if I left, if I stayed away, she’d be safer.”

Luciana's eyes widen, alarm flashing through them. "Wait, threats? Notes? Les, what the hell? You never said anything about that."

I rake a hand through my hair, the weight of it all crashing back down. "It started a while ago. Notes slid under our door. Messages left on the windshield. First, it was just threats about me. Then it turned into threats about Sophie."

She shakes her head, her expression darkening. "And you didn’t think maybe, I don’t know, letting someone help might’ve been a better idea than ghosting the woman carrying your kid?"

My gut twists. "I thought keeping my distance would draw the danger away. That leaving was the only way to protect her."

Luciana exhales sharply through her nose, like she’s trying to hold back everything she wants to say…and failing miserably.

She folds her arms, giving me that piercing look she inherited from Mom.

"If it were me, and I loved someone that much? Nothing, nothing , would keep me away. Not fear. Not threats. Not even my own damn pride."

She steps closer, dropping her voice. "You’re not doing her any favors by disappearing, Les. She needs you beside her. Not hiding somewhere, hoping it all goes away. Away from the one person you should be protecting by being there for her."

She pulls me into a hug, squeezing me tight like she’s trying to knock some sense into me.

I hug her close. "You smell like airplane seats and stale peanuts."

She laughs, pulling back with a mock glare. "I know! I need a damn shower."

For the first time in days, a tiny, reluctant smile pulls at my mouth.

***

Later that night, I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at my phone like it might bite me.

Sophie’s name lights up the screen.

My thumb hesitates before I finally hit accept.

“Hey.” My voice is rougher than I mean it to be.

“Hey,” she echoes, calm and polished.

We talk, but it’s all surface-level. She tells me about yoga, about how Halie dragged her to a new café afterward. Her voice sounds light, almost cheerful.

But I can hear the cracks underneath if I listen hard enough.

She brings up the ultrasound, almost like an afterthought.

“I sent you a video.”

I scramble to open the file, my heart hammering against my ribs.

There, on the screen is a tiny, blinking dot.

A little bean

I see it, the flickering heartbeat, and something explodes in my chest.

“Strong heartbeat. Just like its mom.”

She’s quiet for a second.

Then, breezy as anything, she says, “My friend from yoga wanted to wait outside the doctor’s office with me. But Halie was already going to be there anyway.”

I swallow hard.

The idea of her going through all this without me kills me in ways I don’t have the words for.

We wrap up the call with more small talk.

She says she’s tired. That she’ll text me tomorrow.

When the line goes dead, I stare at the screen too long.

And for the first time in my life, I wonder if distance really protects you from shit.

Maybe it just makes you forget what you’re supposed to be fighting for.

The next morning, my father finds me brooding over a cup of bitter coffee and tosses a pair of work gloves onto the table.

“Earn your keep. We’ve got a heavy week ahead. Harvest tours. Private tastings. Full vineyard prep. I’ll need you out there.”

I want to argue. To tell him I didn’t come back to be put to work like some kid on a summer internship.

But honestly? I need the distraction.

So, I pull on the gloves and head outside.

By noon, I’m up to my elbows in vineyard dirt, cutting vines.

The next day, I'm scrubbing fermenting barrels until my arms ache.

The day after that, I'm hosting tastings, pouring glasses for wide-eyed tourists, turning on the Marchetti charm like it's a faucet.

The older women love me. They hang on my every word, giggling like schoolgirls when I wink.

The farmhands crack jokes, and I fire them right back, laughing louder than I feel.

And surprisingly, I don’t hate it.

There’s something about working the land, about sweating into the roots of something real, that dulls the edge gnawing inside me.

But it all rings hollow without her.

Every time someone clinks a glass and toasts to the beauty of Tuscany, I wonder what Sophie would think.

Would she tease me about how smug I look? Would she wrap her arms around me and say she’s proud?

I’ll never know.

Because it’s not lost on me how easily I win over strangers, how I let them hover around me, but I pushed her away.

I left the one person who mattered most.

That night, after the crowds have thinned, Dad finds me sitting by the firepit with a bottle of Valentina red and two glasses.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just pours himself a drink and settles into the chair across from me.

For once, no lectures. No silent disappointment hanging between us.

Just firelight and the clink of glass.

I stare into the flames for a long time before the words scrape out of me.

“Sophie’s pregnant.”

The fire crackles between us.

Then Dad leans back in his chair, his face going distant, probably staring at a memory.

“I was terrified when I first found out about your mother. I didn’t think I was ready to be a father. Didn’t think I’d be any good at it.”

I blink, caught off guard.

Dad? The man who always seemed like he had steel running through his veins?

He chuckles without humor. “Hell, the night your mother told me, I went for a drive. Ended up halfway across Tuscany before I realized I was just running from something I already wanted more than anything.”

He takes a long sip of wine.

“And when you were born?” His voice drops. “I looked at you, all red-faced and screaming, and it hit me like a goddamn freight train. I’d do anything for you. Anything.”

He leans forward again, eyes hard and clear.

“You think being scared makes you weak, Alessio? It doesn’t. It makes you human. But running from it?” He shakes his head. “That’s what makes you lose everything worth having. I should know. Look what almost happened with Quinn.”

The fire snaps louder between us, sending a flare of sparks into the dark.

“And whether you know it or not, I know that you didn’t just leave because you were scared for her. You left because you didn’t think you deserved her.”

He holds my gaze steady.

“But maybe it’s time you stop punishing yourself for who you used to be. And start fighting for the life you want.”

He leans forward. “You’re my son. But you’re not that kid anymore, Alessio. You’ve changed. I see it. Everyone sees it. Except maybe you. So, maybe it’s time you stop hiding behind the vineyard... and go get your girl.”

The words land heavy.

He doesn’t dress it up. Doesn’t give me permission or absolution.

Just a choice.

And for the first time in a long time, I realize no one’s coming to fix this but me.

The next afternoon, I'm behind the tasting bar, walking a group of tourists through the reds, when my phone buzzes.

A text from Valentino.

Valentino: Check the news. Now.

Frowning, I swipe open the link he sent.

The headline hits me like a sucker punch, and I freeze.

What the fuck?

Photos flash across the screen. Me leaving the club with Mikhail Orlov’s daughter.

Me laughing with Nikolai outside the club.

Jenna and Cassie, or whatever their names are, draped across my lap at a bar.

Shots so perfectly timed they look like a goddamn tabloid wet dream.

The article spins the whole story.

Playboy prince. Russian mob ties.

Abandons pregnant girlfriend in New York.

Eva Costa's byline stares back at me like a slap in the face.

Ice floods my veins.

My stomach churns.

Every fear Sophie had, every doubt she tried so hard to bury, I just handed to the world on a silver fucking platter.

I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles go white.

I’m done hiding. Done running. It’s time to go home.

Time to fight for her.