There would come a time, though, when I had to stop reaping the rewards without any of the work. All of this would catch up to me sooner or later.
“Giorgio doesn’t know anything about running a vineyard. And besides, he’s getting old. Besides, he’s going back to Campania for three months to tend his mother.”
I couldn’t hide the way my eyes rolled, as if running the vineyard was what this entire conversation had been about. Like there wasn’t a reason my definitions of right and wrong were all tinged with shades of gray instead of being black and white. Almost everything I knew about being a man I’d learned from my father, for better or for worse.
“Neither do I,” I reminded him.
“All the more reason for you to fall into line. You’re my only son.”
I poured the rest of the wine in my glass down my throat in one long swallow. Making a show of smacking my lips and dropping the empty glass onto the table, I reached for the bottle to refill again, but he stopped me. His hand shot out from the other side of the table, fingers curling around mine and squeezing until I worried he was deliberately going to break my bones.
I clenched my jaw, gritting my teeth, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of hearing the pain he was causing me. When he realized he wasn’t going to get what he wanted, he let go of me and flicked my hand toward my chest, muttering something under his breath in Italian that I couldn’t quite hear.
“When you die, I’m going to burn down all the Chianti grapes,” I told him.
That earned me a slap across the face, his heavy gold signet ring with our family crest tearing a hole across my cheekbone. Blood ran down my cheek in a steady stream, dripping onto the white tablecloth. I didn’t bother to wipe it clean or try to save the linens. I swallowed and held his stare, his anger so visible I steeled myself for another strike. Nothing came, though, and after what felt like an eternity of holding my breath, my father pushed away from the table and stormed out, leaving me alone.
Only when I was certain he wasn’t going to come back did I reach up, hating the way my fingers trembled when I pressed them against the wound. It wasn’t small, and it burned, drawing a wince out of the deepest parts of me. I checked the blood on my hand and wiped it dry on the cloth, my fingerprints smearing beside the pool of blood that had already collected there.
He hadn’t taken the bottle when he’d left. Fucking amateur. I didn’t bother using the glass, instead pouring whatever was left in the bottle right into my mouth and swallowing it with ease.
I might burn the grapesbeforehe died.
I followed the direction my father had gone when he walked away from me, knowing he would already be holed up in his office. I slid open the pocket door that separated the dining room from the kitchen, which was where I found my mother, hands covered in cheese and sauce as she labored over a casserole dish of stuffed shells. She looked up when I walked in; her eyes widened, and then she frowned, looking around her for a towel.
“I’m fine,” I told her preemptively.
“Peppino.” She found her towel and wiped her hands before coming around to fuss at my face.
“Mama.” I gently swatted her hands away and walked her back toward the shells.
“Can’t you stop antagonizing him?” she asked, clearly knowing me better than her husband did.
“I just told him I didn’t like Chianti,” I fibbed.
She leveled a look at me that told me she knew better and I sighed, climbing onto a barstool that overlooked the small cutout into the kitchen where she returned to her preparation.
“It’s not a good wine,” I explained further.
She flicked her stare upward, eyes sparkling, before quietly agreeing with me, “I know.”
“Mama!” I feigned shock.
She shushed me and scooped some more cheese into one of the shells before carefully aligning it in the dish beside the ones she’s already done.
“How many are you making?”
“Twelve,” she answered.
“Who’s coming for dinner?”
“Your father, Marco…” she trailed off and mumbled another name that I couldn’t quite make out.
“Who, Mama?” I asked.
She stuffed another shell.
“The youngest Molinaro boy,” she said.
