CHAPTER ONE
Monk stood in front of the familiar custom-made wrought iron gates and stared down the long driveway. Dormant vines and rosebushes lined the road, their twisting, gnarled branches and thorns urging him to turn back. Instead, he lifted his gaze to the towers of his father’s home, the four structures peaking over the horizon. The castle, shipped stone by stone from Italy to the Napa Valley decades ago, a testament to Roger Wilde’s ego.
Monk tipped his head as a red-tailed hawk soared overhead, hunting the tiny prey that called the two hundred acres of vineyard home.
He winced. What the hell was he going to do with two hundred acres of prime vines? Not to mention an actual fucking castle? Or the four hundred acres his father owned in two of California’s other prestigious wine regions?
Hadowned, he corrected himself.
Satan had finally sent the reaper to bring Roger Wilde home. Monk hoped he had a long, hot, and bumpy ride.
A car drove by heading north on the iconic Silverado Trail. He glanced over his shoulder as a black livery vehicle rounded a bend in the road. He never understood why so many peopletraveled to the valley to wine taste. As wine regions went, it wasn’t a huge one, not like the sprawling hills and estates of France or Italy. And the traffic, tourists, and expensive lodgings overshadowed any enjoyment. Or he imagined they would if he ever did any real tastings. He’d left home at eighteen and hadn’t once come back.
Until now.
The crunch of tires on the berm had him turning once again. Despite the chilly December temperatures, the top was down on the vintage hunter-green MG.
“Is it open today?” the driver asked. The older white man looked as if he’d be better served keeping the top of the convertible sealed. Even from thirty feet away the red of his scalp shone through his thinning gray hair.
“We heard the owner died,” his companion, a woman with large sunglasses and a sun hat, said. “But you’d think the business would stay open, wouldn’t you?”
Monk hadn’t spoken to his father for seventeen years. He had no idea how Roger ran his empire, and the woman raised a good question. Surely Bacco employed enough people to keep the tasting room open.
“Still closed,” he said, gesturing to the locked gates.
“We were so looking forward to visiting,” she said. “It’s been on our list forever. We even had a reservation.” She paused, then shrugged. “But life throws us curveballs…”
The couple gave a jaunty wave before pulling back onto the road. His gaze lingered until they disappeared around the bend. In the silence that followed, his thoughts turned to his truck. He’d left it several miles away on the edge of town and, hoping it would burn off his restless anxiety, walked to Bacco. It wouldn’t be hard to turn around and walk right back, to climb in and drive home to his family, to the safety of Mystery Lake.
His body swayed, and he lifted a foot. Only the step led him toward the side gate. Not toward his escape. Another step took him closer and before he could stop himself, he typed in the security code his father hadn’t changed in decades and walked through.
His feet fell nearly silent on the well-tended drive as he traveled the half mile to the castle. The vines appeared sturdier and the rosebushes larger, but not much else had changed.
As he drew closer to the castle, memories of what went on inside when the doors closed at night dripped through his mind like acid. The violence and depravity of the dark, taunting thoughts rendering the serene beauty of his surroundings absurd.
That had been his life, though. On the surface—glamorous, wealthy,perfect. In reality—ugly, sick, and twisted.
Until he left.
Until he joined the army and met his family—his real family. Fourteen men he served with. Fourteen men who’d grown up similarly enough to understand one another in a way that both anchored and freed them all.
Thinking of his brothers brought a swift punch of confidence, and he straightened his back and lengthened his stride. He’d chosen to make this trip alone. But he wasn’t truly alone. He’d never be alone again.
The castle came into sight as he followed the gentle curve of the drive. Two towers anchored the north and south ends of the building and two more flanked an arched entrance to a charming inner courtyard. For years, people had sat and laughed and enjoyed one of the valley’s most prestigious wine labels in that courtyard. He wondered what they’d think if they knew what went on in the rooms buried deep below their feet.
A pair of crows cawed to each other as they swooped over the south tower, drawing his attention away from the clean-cut lawnand potted roses. The top two floors of the south tower had been his room. As far away from Roger and the “parties” he threw as Monk could get. Not that it always helped.
For the hundredth time, he wondered why the hell he’d come. He knew the details of his inheritance—millions he wouldn’t keep, land he didn’t want, and a castle he’d raze to the ground if given the chance. He wanted nothing from the house, and the lawyer could handle any paperwork required by the estate.
So why had he come back?
He paused as the question percolated, only one answer bubbling to the surface. Ego. Only this time, it was his, not Roger’s.
Everythinghis vile, hateful father had owned was nowhis. His to do with what he wanted. And while he didn’t have any fixed plans, the options he’d contemplated on his three-hour drive to the valley would leave Roger rolling in his grave if he hadn’t been cremated.
His lips twitched with a smile he wasn’t proud of as he continued toward the employee entrance. Considering all the ways the castle, grounds, and money could be used that would piss Roger off wasn’t healthy. But Monk was also practical enough to know it would get him through the next thirty minutes, so he let the ideas flow.
Maybe a retirement home. Or an art gallery. A private library, open to the public, was an option, too. As incongruous as it was, Roger had been an avid reader and collector of books. Monk didn’t know if any of the rare books he’d managed to get his hands on were still in the castle library, but it was a thought.
