Page 84 of Modern Romance September 2025 1-4

CHAPTER ONE

Amelia Baresi wasn’t afraid of a good cry. In fact, she rather welcomed it. Especially when it pertained to her late father. Crying was an expression of grief, grief an expression of love and time lost. She held these things close to her heart.

Discovering her father’s old journals from before she had come to live with him had caused a lot of tears, a lot of grief, but also a wonderful sort of connection to the father she’d lost in a terrible plane crash two years ago.

His journals began when he started his work with the Follieros as a young man, and she’d been following his journey, from scrabbling his way out of poverty with a mix of luck, timing and tenacity to revered personal assistant to the Folliero heir, Diego.

Every night, she curled up in bed and read a few entries about her father’s life, carefully doling out pages so each night felt like some part of Bartolo Baresi was still with her.

She liked the symmetry of it, even if it was based on tragedy. Every day, she worked as Diego Folliero’s assistant, living in the Folliero Castello di Natale, and every night she read about her father having done the same.

Amelia was not a stranger to tragedy. She had been raised by her mother in London for eleven years, before her mother became sick and finally admitted to Amelia that her father did not know she existed.

In the final months of her mother’s life, Alice had made strides and amends to track down her father.

Bartolo had been shocked, and no doubt there had been anger and bitterness there toward her mother for keeping Amelia a secret, but he had accepted his daughter with open arms. When her mother died, he’d brought Amelia to the Italian Alps and Castello di Natale, and raised a twelve-year-old girl as best he could.

He’d even made his home base the castello, doing his work for the world-gallivanting Diego in one place as often as he could.

Then, ten years after her mother passed, he too had died, leaving Amelia an adult orphan, with absolutely no idea how she would move through the world on her own.

She had had her first real conversation with Diego at the funeral, since he almost never spent any time at the castello, no matter how often his parents tried to get him to.

Even at twenty-two, and mired in her grief and aloneness, Amelia had known he didn’t want to be there.

But he’d come, expressed his regrets and offered her a job.

She’d taken it, a lifeline. She didn’t need the job, per se. Her father had been frugal with his money and—with the Follieros’ advisement no doubt—made sure the money was in places that passed directly to her without much interference.

But the job offer had been a chance to hold on to her father a little longer. It was the only thing she knew for sure she could do in that moment. Step into his shoes. Do what he would want her to do.

Two years later, she thought she’d done an excellent job, even if she knew Diego mainly kept employing her because of guilt…

or whatever it was he felt. Still, she’d been able to stay at the castello—since closed to all and sundry except staff—and build herself into Diego’s formidable public face, since he’d become a recluse high on his mountain.

It was her curiosity about that, she supposed, that kept her reading her father’s journals through Bartolo finding out about her existence, then trying to raise a teenage girl while doing his job, because he also often wrote about Diego.

Father had been Diego’s assistant, but Amelia could tell from his writings that he’d viewed Diego as something like a ward, though he’d only been about ten years older than Diego himself.

Amelia liked to believe that Diego offering her the assistant position meant he’d viewed her father in a similarly positive light.

That was the kind of man her father was. A caretaker. And that was the kind of woman he had wanted her to be—thoughtful and caring. He’d raised her to be aware of all the ways she was fortunate and help those who were less so. And he’d never just meant monetarily.

Though she’d never dreamed of being someone’s personal assistant, she’d found she enjoyed the role, knowing each day she was doing something that would make her father proud.

But she’d enjoy it more if she could understand her hermit boss.

She’d given Diego his space at first because he’d been mired in grief as well—he’d lost both parents and his sister in one fell, unfair swoop in the same plane crash.

But it had been two years now, and still he lived in his horrible little cabin far away from civilization, only communicating via email and very occasionally a phone call, expecting Amelia to handle whatever needed to be done face-to-face.

She wondered what her father would have done in her position.

She tried to consider that in all things, but this one especially.

She searched for answers in his journals.

Then, one cold late-November night, curled in bed in the castello, fire crackling in her bedroom’s fireplace, Amelia finally read the entry that gave her an idea.

Diego is a troubled soul, but there is a good man under there. If only he’d find the humility to develop it. In some ways, he reminds me of myself. In some ways, it has healed me to watch his parents misunderstand him as mine understood me, spoil him as mine did not.

He will be a good man someday. I wish I could convince him of that.

A good man. She dealt with a stern, taciturn, grumpy man—via email and texts mostly. She had never considered Diego good or evil. Honestly, he was more of a robot overlord to her than anything else.

But her father had thought he would be a good man someday. Her father had wished this.

And suddenly, Amelia knew what she would accomplish this holiday season. Another way to keep her father right here with her.

She would find a way to fulfill her father’s wish.

Diego Folliero couldn’t say he liked living as sparsely as a monk, but that was the point. Not liking it.

He had studied the idea of penance deeply over these past two years.

In his understanding, pain was the price of survival.

Neither guilt nor self-flagellation could bring his family back, but the cold water he had to haul from the icy alpine lake, the fire he had to start to cook anything, the trials and tribulations of life on a tiny, remote mountaintop where Castello di Natale could be seen below was the price.

He had been selfish. He had survived. Now he suffered.

It was right.

He awoke to a frigid morning. The pain of cold sank into his joints, and he thanked the universe for it.

His pain was his price.

He got out of bed and pulled on the warm, serviceable clothes he would need to survive the day, then went about his morning routine: build up the fire in the lone fireplace, boil water for bitter coffee.

He buttered a piece of rustic bread—both food items he’d had delivered from a scrabbling farm not far away.

It was not any pain to eat so humbly when the items were made so well, but he overpaid for the privilege.

After breakfast, his next task was to deal with work.

There was one modern amenity he allowed himself—internet, and the power required for it.

He would have cut this off as well, but in order to continue the Folliero legacy, he had to be somewhat reachable.

Still, he did not allow himself to use electricity, communication or this connection with the outside world for pleasure. It was for work and work alone.

He settled into the chair at his desk, both hardscrabble items not meant for any comfort. His assistant vetted all his emails, so only the most important ones made its way to him. Every morning, he read them, dealt with them and then went back to his life of penance.

But today, an email from his assistant caught him off guard.

Mr. Folliero,

Your presence is required at Castello di Natale this Christmas season. I have handled your travel arrangements, attached below. We look forward to seeing you.

Warm regards,

Amelia

It was such a nonsensical email to receive, he stared at it, read it at least five times, trying to understand what on earth had happened for him to receive such a missive. His presence wasn’t required anywhere anymore because he refused.

His cheerful assistant had clearly gotten some kind of wire crossed.

He scowled at the email. It was addressed to him, signed by her.

Where could the confusion be? She had been his assistant for the last two years now—efficient and excellent, which he hadn’t expected since it had been a guilt hire after all—but Amelia Baresi had never pushed his refusal to attend any meetings or event in person or even via video call. She’d accepted it, dealt with it.

She was his proxy, and she understood that. Or had until this moment.

Well, he would clear up any confusion. Without even opening her attachment, he hit reply. His response was simple, no greeting or salutation. Just:

No.

He walked away from his computer, found himself pacing the small room that made up the living area. He stopped, scowled. Work had not agitated him in some time. Feelings aside from the acceptable guilt had not stabbed through the fog of nothingness in years.

He didn’t like it.

The computer dinged, signaling another email. A strange feeling, something he might have once called anticipation, settled in his chest. He crossed back to the computer, opened the email with another scowl.

Mr. Folliero,

So sorry for the confusion! I’m afraid no is not an answer, as it was not a request. A car will be there soon.

Regards,

Amelia

He didn’t miss the fact she’d dropped the warm from her regards , or that the apology and exclamation point were passive-aggressive at best.

The fact this his assistant —in other words, the woman who worked for him—thought she could order him about with not requests was…

Infuriating? Maybe. The past two years had dulled all his emotion to a gray sort of numb. So the spark of something like irritation was almost fascinating.

He typed out his next response with that strange feeling sizzling inside him. When he hit send, he didn’t even go through the pretense of standing. He sat at his chair and waited for the response to his I will not be getting in any car.

It came in less than two minutes. This time, she had copied his informal style—no greeting, no send-off.

We can discuss it when I arrive.

When she… arrived ? Diego looked up at the door. Arrive. Amelia Baresi had never once darkened the door of this place. No one had except the occasional messenger or delivery man. All items left at his doorstep, no interaction required.

This was done quite on purpose and for a wide variety of reasons.

Arrive.

He got to his feet and strode over to the lone window.

He looked out over the world outside his cabin.

It wasn’t actively snowing, but the entire yard, such as it was, was covered in the snow that packed down month after month way up at this elevation.

It would be almost impossible for a vehicle to make it up here.

Did she know that? What could she possibly be after? For two years, she’d been exactly what he’d wanted—needed. Hands off and efficient.

What had changed?

It didn’t matter, he decided, moving away from the window. Nothing mattered except his penance. So no matter what she was after, what she thought she was doing, it wouldn’t matter.

Diego Folliero was exactly where he was meant to be, and nothing would change his mind about that.