Page 51 of Beautiful Torment (Empire of Kings #1)

ABELLA

W e board one of the Vitale water taxis, and Angelo catches up on a few phone calls while I relax. It’s a beautiful day, and I should be enjoying it, but admittedly, I’m nervous about the transition back to real life.

The Vitale estate has always felt like a home to me, and I’ve known the family as long as I’ve existed.

But today, there will undoubtedly be a dark cloud hanging over my head when I see the Vitale siblings.

I can’t help but wonder if they’ll blame me for yet another empty space at their family table—that of Matteo’s.

When we dock at Black Stag Island, I breathe a little easier, despite my nerves.

This place has been my home since I was born, and excluding my family life, I can’t imagine a better setting to grow up.

From the rocky cliffs to the moss-draped evergreens and sandy beaches, it provided a sanctuary away from the world.

In the autumn and winter months, it’s often shrouded in fog and mist, lending the perfect atmosphere to its namesake’s legend. It can be dark and moody—an ominous presence to the vessels that pass by. But within the boundaries of the island, there exists a magic unlike any I’ve ever known.

Perhaps it’s because this is where my core memories were formed.

We spent summers running wild, climbing trees, building driftwood forts, and inspecting tidal pools for treasures.

During rainstorms, we’d sneak into the abandoned lighthouse and share scary stories by candlelight.

And for years, we’d roam the woods in search of the black stag, leaving offerings for her amongst the ancient trees.

There isn’t a square inch of this island that doesn’t evoke vivid memories, and almost every one of them features Angelo Vitale.

As he steps onto the dock and pauses to take in the familiar landscape, the sight splits my chest wide open.

The day he went to prison, I felt like a part of me died.

But it wasn’t just me. It was this place.

The magic I’d always known had somehow…faded.

It was because the magic didn’t just belong to the island—it was him.

This reunion has been years in the making, and as I try to imagine it through his eyes, I can’t help but feel a shift in the air. I know he’s been back here recently, in the dark of night, when he’d slip into my room. But this time is different.

This time, he’s finally home.

None of us move. I can’t be sure anyone even draws a breath. We all wait, giving Angelo this moment that’s long overdue. Only once he opens the door to the SUV and helps me inside do I finally close my eyes and allow myself to breathe.

Nicky takes the driver’s seat, navigating us up the winding road that carves across the island.

Angelo remains quiet as he takes in the passing scenery, so I do the same.

When we reach the porte-cochère , my heart rate quickens.

With a nod from the guard on duty, we’re buzzed in—and the wrought-iron gates, emblazoned with the Vitale family crest, swing open.

As we drive through, I reach over and gently squeeze my husband’s hand. “Welcome home, Angelo.”

He meets my gaze, and for one fleeting heartbeat, he lifts my hand to his lips. “Welcome home, Mrs. Vitale.”

Those words reach deep into the broken part of me and make me whole again, if only for a moment.

We roll down the Italian-cypress-lined driveway, passing by familiar surroundings.

Tenuta del Cervo Nero —The Black Stag Estate—boasts a fairy tale landscape with a hedge maze, an olive orchard, and fig trees.

But my favorite refuge will always be the legacy garden where my mother spent so much of her time.

The heart of the estate is the Mediterranean-style villa reminiscent of a palazzo .

It was built from Italian-imported stone when the Vitales settled on the island, and it has held up beautifully over the years.

My favorite features are the columns wrapped in creeping ivy and terraces with Roman-style arches and marble balustrades.

At the center of it all is an open-air courtyard that connects all six wings of the estate.

It was designed to be a multi-generational home—timeless with a touch of old-world elegance.

Over the years, I’ve spent plenty of time on the estate, dancing in the ballroom, swimming in the pool, and getting lost in the maze.

Some of my best memories were made right here, tending to the garden with my mother, watching the sun set over the water with Angelo, and making Sunday sauce with Nonna. It’s always been my safe space.

Inside, the villa offers every amenity one could ever need, including an extensive family gathering space, a ballroom, a library, an in-home spa, and a gentleman’s den.

Each wing contains one grand suite and five additional rooms, along with a private lounge and kitchen.

Throughout the home, west-facing windows offer dramatic views and sun-drenched afternoons.

In the winter, fireplaces keep the space cozy, offsetting the months of rainy days.

This place isn’t just beautiful. It’s historic.

There are countless memories on these grounds.

But over the past six years, a shadow has descended over the estate, casting everything in darkness with one tragic loss after another.

Now, it’s up to Angelo and his siblings to breathe new life into the home, establishing the Vitale legacy for many generations to come.

An overwhelming sense of emotion swells in my throat as I sneak another glance at him. So many times, I’ve imagined him as a father. There was never a question in my mind that he would be a good one.

He catches me staring, and it’s impossible to miss the shadow flickering across his features. This homecoming is yet another reminder of everything that was taken from him. I, too, am a reminder, whether I like it or not.

We come to a stop on the circular drive with the marble fountain bubbling in the center, and Angelo glances out the window.

A grand staircase, made of polished limestone, dominates the face of the villa—a centerpiece for dramatic entrances.

Or, in this case, arrivals. Nonna Vitale, Romeo, Michele, Raffaele, Cristiano, and Mariella have all gathered for the occasion.

“Are you ready?” Angelo asks.

“As I’ll ever be.” I force a smile.

Nicky opens the door for us, and Angelo exits first, taking my hand as he helps me out of the car.

Before we even have a chance to draw a breath, Nonna Vitale praises the heavens above as she comes to greet us.

“ Finalmente sei tornato, tesoro mio .”

She gives us both a kiss on each cheek before she cradles Angelo’s face in her hands.

She looks at him with such tenderness and adoration, and I can’t help but get a little choked up.

I’m glad when I glance at Mariella, I see I’m not the only one.

There are also tears in her eyes as she hugs her brother and welcomes him home.

The men are stoic as they come to greet their brother, but beneath their armor, I can see their relief to have him back.

Once everyone has said hello, Nonna doesn’t waste any time.

“Come, come. You must be hungry,” she says.

Everyone laughs because it goes without saying—food is how Nonna expresses her love.

“She’s been waiting six years to feed you,” Mariella remarks.

Nonna leads the way up the staircase adorned with massive urns and sculpted topiaries.

It’s a long ascent to the portico, but Nonna is surprisingly agile for her age.

We pass through the Corinthian columns and into the open-air courtyard.

This is one of the central gathering spaces for the family over the summer, and much like the rest of the exterior, it pays tribute to the Vitales’ Italian roots.

Two long colonnades of dramatic arched glass frame each side of the courtyard, and at the center of it all is a fire feature, accompanied by plenty of plush white seating.

Over the years, this area has been the stage for many of the gatherings hosted by the Vitale patriarch.

At the end of the courtyard, Nonna pauses at the wrought-iron double doors and turns to Angelo.

“Lift.” She gestures at me.

“Right,” he utters. “It’s tradition.”

I barely have time to comprehend the meaning of that before he sweeps me up into his arms and carries me across the threshold, much to Nonna’s delight.

“It brings good luck,” she says.

Rather than setting me on my feet, Angelo pauses inside the foyer, taking it all in.

With the exception of a few minor updates, little has changed over the years he’s been away.

The entryway of the Vitale home is the picture of elegance, with vaulted ceilings and a marble butterfly staircase.

The wrought-iron railings extend all the way up to the balcony of the second level.

And on the ground floor, Romanesque arches and Classical columns lead into the central areas of the home.

Lost in his thoughts, Angelo carries me beneath the archway, past the library, and into the grand salon before he finally pauses and glances down at me.

As tension creases his brows, I can’t help but wonder if he just realized he’s still carting me around in his arms. Or perhaps he felt far too comfortable doing it.

He sets me upon my feet, and I smooth out my dress.

All eyes are on us, and I’m grateful when Nonna Vitale breaks the stilted silence by ushering us out to the backyard.

Much like the rest of the house, this space is the epitome of Mediterranean luxury.

A series of arched colonnades wraps around the al fresco dining area, offering a perfect view of the resort-style pool, expansive green lawns, and manicured hedges.

In the dining area, Nonna Vitale has the long table dressed with a feast fit for a king. The spread includes all her classics—antipasti, stuffed zucchini flowers, fresh-baked focaccia, three kinds of pasta, and of course, pizzelles and cannoli.

Even though we had a sizeable brunch on the jet and I didn’t think I was that hungry, my stomach rumbles at the sight. I never miss an opportunity to eat Nonna’s cooking, and when she tells you to eat, you eat.

“Sit.” Nonna pulls out the chair at the head of the table for Angelo, and he lingers for a moment, his eyes falling over the space with an unreadable expression.

That was his father’s chair. Now, it will be his.

A heavy silence descends over the family as an ache unfurls in my gut. A quick glance around me confirms the swell of grief rippling through the siblings as they acknowledge the significance of the moment Angelo takes his place.

Nonna squeezes his shoulders and grabs his plate, dishing up a little bit of everything for him as the rest of us sit down.

I take my place at Angelo’s right side, with Mariella beside me, while the rest of the Vitale men fill the remaining seats.

Nonna dishes up heaping plates for all the men while Mariella and I exchange a smile and serve ourselves before she gets a chance.

If we don’t, she’ll give us each four pounds of lasagna and then ask us why we don’t like her food when we can’t finish.

Rafe and Cristian pass around the carafes of wine, and everyone pours a glass except for me, which seems to delight Nonna.

She takes her seat on the other side of Angelo and glances between us, making a sprinkling gesture. “Did you tend the garden?”

“ Dio mio , Nonna.” Mariella sighs. “You can’t just go around asking that.”

“Why not?” Nonna shrugs.

A flush creeps down my neck as Angelo’s gaze burns a hot path over my face.

“Don’t worry, Nonna,” he tells her. “We tended the garden many times.”

I bury my face in my palms and die of embarrassment as a few of Angelo’s brothers chuckle.

“So I guess that was never the issue.” Romeo stabs an olive with his fork and shoves it into his mouth.

“Filter, Romeo.” Rafe elbows him.

He glances up, irritation shadowing his face.

The thing about Romeo is, he’s not trying to be rude.

Since the accident, social interactions have become difficult for him to navigate, which is why he often avoids them.

He’s blunt, and he struggles to pick up on social cues or nuance in conversations.

He doesn’t like eye contact, and often laughs when he shouldn’t, or speaks the truths most people would keep to themselves.

So I take no offense to his remark, and I try to let him know with a soft smile.

“What happened between Abella and me is private,” Angelo cuts in smoothly. “All you need to know is that we’re committed to fulfilling the obligations of the treaty.”

His brothers nod as the weight of those words settles over the table.

Everything rides on this. The rest of the Vitale family, my sisters’ lives, my friends, my cousins, the entire Seattle Cosa Nostra as we know it.

If we fail to maintain the treaty, the Greek Mafia will declare open season on all of us. The war would be bloody and endless.

“ Che Dio vi benedica .” Nonna holds up her glass of wine, and everyone else follows suit.

I ignore my stomach twisting into knots and force a smile as the rest of the Vitale siblings echo the sentiment.

May God bless us.