Page 5 of Wicked (Wicked Billionaires #2)

DANTE

I knock on the Tuscan villa’s oak door, and my body tightens. The large two-story home is far more than my parents need, but things change slowly in old Europe.

I’m back to do one thing. Help do up the home, for them, and sell it.

As the door opens, I find my father. “Ahh, come in, come in,” he says in English.

We shake hands, and I smile politely as my mother trots up. She is perfectly dressed and, as always, immaculate. Her and I hug, and it feels good.

She steps back and takes me in. “You look wonderful, Dante. Please, please come in.” As I enter the home I ran from, I look around at the wall-to-wall traditions.

Light from the fire flickers, and photos of family cover the room. Old guns, paintings, and swords hang on walls, and the place is full of timeless quality.

It is warm and welcoming, but the pressure to conform is embedded. Much of Europe is tradition bound. I like traditions as much as the next retired sex brute, but they can be like a sword: two sided and dangerous.

Traditions are great for stability and culture, but on the other hand, they can hold down change and hinder growth.

Traditions like marrying into similar families has always bugged me, and the class system is a key reason why I left Europe when I was eighteen.

I basically ran halfway around the world to make my own mark on the world and live freely.

As we drink fireside, we engage in awkward small talk. I ask my parents about their recent lives. They then ask me about mine. We are not close; back-to-back boarding schools will do that to people.

They, for whatever reason, wanted me out of their home from the age of thirteen, and that was that. Their decision.

I do not want them knowing about my companies, nor my focus in life. We are different people, and most would call them snobs. They think I’m a spoilt, lazy, trust-fund kid.

That is far from accurate, and I’ve worked like a son of a bitch to make my mark on the world. Billions of dollars later, and a fashion empire in the US is my proof.

My hidden legacy.

My old-fashioned parents don’t read English language news online, but I also have a PR specialist, keeping my personal profile low.

To my parents, I’m a nobody.

I ask about the wider family, and they update me on cousins, aunts, and uncles. I want to see my sister and grandmother more than anyone, but that will have to wait.

The small talk comes to an end, and it starts to get awkward.

“Look, Dante,” my father says. Here we go. “There’s still time to turn your life around. Perhaps join some of the boys from school? Antonio is a stockbroker in Rome, and Gio is in banking in Milano. Good careers.”

I tell myself to play nice and hold my tongue. If only they knew the real me.

My long sleeves cover the expensive tattoos I’ve got from around the globe. I only hire the world’s best artists, and I favor immaculate rare styles. Ornate wings. Spiritual symbols. They complement my chiseled body, of which I am proud.

When not trying to dominate the world of fashion, I climb, I sail, and I surf in some of the world’s most remote locations.

I also workout for two hours every day. I am cut from stone, and I cannot use public gyms. It gets messy, and I hate being the center of attention.

“It’s not me, Papa, and you know that,” I say, starting to pace.

“But you can’t live on your trust fund all of your life. It's unhealthy,” my mother says, fingering her expensive pearls.

“Indeed,” my father adds arrogantly. “A man must work in this world.”

“I agree,” I say.

Since turning twenty-one, I’ve received money from a trust. It’s from my dead grandfather. As I stare at my father, I force myself to calm down. I’m used to board level confrontations, and my father is hardly a handful.

“I’ll only say this once,” I say lowly. “As you know, we have different outlooks on life.” My father’s eyes squint, and I watch my mother sit on the leather couch. “I’ve been investing it, every cent. It’s all there.”

“Well, good, that’s a start, Dante,” my mother says.

“I don’t touch the funds,” I say. “It is all invested. Every dollar.”

My parents exchange a glance.

“Good to hear,” my mother says. My father nods, likely realizing I’m not a complete screw-up.

Being expelled from the top private schools in Italy bruised our relationship. I, however, detest bullying and spoiled brats. I also dislike conforming when there is no logical reason to do so.

Once I found a suitable industry to harness my excess energy, creativity, and passion, I exploded. And in NYC, I found and worked with young fashion designers to create fresh clothing with edge.

We produced edgy garments that created record sales in most English-speaking nations. So many, in fact, that in fashion circles, I was called the Lion of the Catwalk.

“One other thing, son,” my father says before clearing his throat. “We think it’s time you come home… And grow up!”

I do not answer.

Grow up?

We are in dangerous territory. I’m thirty-three, fiercely independent, and not about to change. Being pushed out of home young and forced to live with strangers forces you to be.

My mother senses a storm brewing, and that it is about to get ugly. “Anyway dear, there are several upcoming weddings.”

I look down at my polished leather boots, and I feel like I’m ten again. Screw it. I lift my head and force a smile. “Are you really going to try to marry me off to some other family with a similar position in society?”

I try to avoid the heated discussion and minefield. They have been trying to see me marry like we’re back in medieval Europe for a decade.

I pace and try to remain civil as we debate.

I do not tell them the two Italian divorcees they are trying to push on me both tried to blow me as a teen. One tried to take me against her parents’ fireplace, as they argued in a bedroom upstairs.

The other wanted it rough in their stables.

As she pleaded and whimpered, I stopped fingering her. I told her enough was enough and that I would not screw her in front of her sister. Especially not a teen.

“Just think about it,” my father says, snapping me out of the memory. “No pressure, but good families. Good bloodlines. A man could do worse, and if a man does not have a high position in society, then what does he have?”

I think of a dozen things, starting with freedom— the other great F word.

Dignity also comes to mind, as does integrity.

As my father puts a log on the fire, he clears his throat.

“Meanwhile, I’ll come straight out with it, but it’s pretty much as discussed in the email.

The family wealth is not what it once was, and we are in somewhat of a corner.

” My father straightens his old-fashioned jacket and gets ready to drop it.

“Well, as you know, we need your help. It’s time to dig in, son. We need to tidy up the old home.”

Something doesn’t seem right. The walls are the same as they’ve been for twenty years.

“When are you hoping to sell?” I ask.

“No, Dante. Not this place. The castle!”

“You want to sell the family castle?” I ask, stomach tightening.

My father sits and sighs. “Indeed, though it’s the last thing I want to do.”

My heart races.

I grew up in the castle when not at boarding schools or here. My mind processes fast. We have to keep the castle at all costs.

Selling it is unacceptable. I will simply buy it! It is a simple decision, but I suddenly freeze.

I remember back like it was only yesterday. The last time I was with my grandfather, he could somehow tell I’d done well. I had to come out with it, and I wanted to be honest. I explained I’d made a small fortune.

He is the only person in the family I’ve ever told; not even my sister knows. My grandfather told me he’d seen families ripped apart because of high levels of wealth, and he said he didn’t want wealth to damage our own family.

There and then, he made me promise to keep my money far from the family.

To ensure money was never used to splash around, spoil family members and rot the clan like a disease.

The idea of losing the family castle where I’d grown up with my grandfather, and where he’d educated me, was making my stomach turn. I must save the castle another way.

“There’s no other way?” I ask.

“I’m afraid not. Times are changing, and the taxes and rates from Rome are through the roof. The upkeep is horrific. Your aunt, uncle, and grandmother have sadly also agreed. We all have equal shares; it has to be done.”

I nod, expecting as much. I feel sick, and my fists ball as my jaw clenches.

“I’ll load up and drive up the coast,” I say, knowing I have to tidy up the castle and buy time to plan. “I may stay at the hotel. The villa.”

“Wonderful. We’re only an hour away, but it’s best to be close for on-site time. Much is already done, but we need the castle prepared for sale.”

“And you might enjoy being oceanside,” my mother says, chipping in.

It’s best we’re not under the same roof. We had explosive arguments as I aged and got thrown out of the elite boarding schools for standing up to bullies and questioning the rigid system designed to crush individuals.

“It will likely take a month,” my father says, giving me the eye.

My personal radar, activated flying into Rome, just turned up a notch, with his words. Stay-in-Italy traps will not work.

Meanwhile, it’s time for rugged outdoor clothing, and no doubt time to carry paintings, swords, shields, and relocate statues, all whilst trying to find a way to stop the sale.

After trying on the old-fashioned, old money-styled conservative clothes my parents have secured, I walk downstairs. I likely look like just another drone in the old Italian money rural system, or a gamekeeper trying to fit in.

In saying that, I am not driving to Florence, Rome, or Milan to buy modern thermals. The other thing is who the hell is going to see me in Italy over the next two weeks?

The last thing I want is to be dressed up in stuffy old-fashioned clothes of the privileged, predictable, and produced, but I’m in a corner.

I walk downstairs with the other clothes over my shoulder, and I feel like the rest of the old money formal community. The uniform of the wealthy. The fucking aristocrats.

The front door is open, and my father is loading things into his old black Range Rover.

“Thanks,” I say gruffly, half-meaning it. I place my things in the Range Rover as he adds more tools to a pile in the back.

I check the tools as my mother walks out and hands me a set of old-fashioned keys on a brass antler ring.

She then points out my old black suit in the Range Rover and reminds me of the upcoming local weddings.

I dislike weddings like no one else, but I mumble a thanks.

They explain they booked me into the local villa near the castle, and I try to get on the road. After an awkward farewell and hug with my mother, I drive down the lane. It is hard leaving the rented Ferrari, but it won’t do the job. It will be picked up tomorrow and returned to the airport.

I drive around the coast and get a feel for the large, old vehicle. I have mixed emotions, even if the Tuscan coast is glorious. The sun is out, and the light glints off old statues, villas, and vineyards. There really is nowhere more beautiful in the world.

An hour later, I enter the small seaside village. It is gorgeous and half a mile from the large castle on the clifftop that overlooks the village and cove.

I’ve not been back for years, and it oddly feels good. It’s also where my mother’s side of the family have lived and farmed for generations.

As I slow and pass the few shops, I head for the old-fashioned villa ahead. It has arched windows and steeples, and it is stunning.

Pulling over, I look at the nearby sea and dunes that run down the coast into the distance. Here is the only place I feel at home in Italy.

Again, there is the strong connection to my Nonno, or grandfather, who I stayed with as a teen. When not being thrown out of Italy’s top private schools, I spent a lot of time with him here.

He and his wife, my Nonna, or grandmother, plus my sister are the people I call close family.

I think about my grandfather, and his funeral. I then remember the family cemetery behind our castle.

I make a mental note to visit it and have a few words with him.

Meanwhile, I have to get to the villa, and I have a bottle of Campari in the back. Campari is one of the many things I still love about Italy.

They are spectacular iced with a sunset.

As I pull onto the small coastal road to drive to the villa, my eyes pop. A red sports car is in front of me, and it’s on the wrong side of the darned road!

I slam the breaks, but it’s too late.