Sophia stared at her phone. And if I don’t want to be there? In thirty-two years, Marco had never questioned his role. He’d complained, sulked, partied through his frustrations, but he’d never suggested he might want something different.
She set the phone down, tapping a manicured nail against the desk. She needed to call Brioni back, smooth things over, save the campaign. And she needed to update her father, reassure their mother, possibly fly to New York and drag Marco to whatever quiet retreat might actually do him some good.
But first?—
She pulled up her design folder, the one she worked on during stolen moments between crisis management and family obligations. Sketches for a collection that would never bear the Castellano name because it wasn’t what their brand did, wasn’t what their legacy demanded. Something looser, more modern, designed for women who’d rebuilt themselves after disappointment.
Her phone buzzed. Pierpaolo. Again.
Sophia closed the design folder and answered the call.
“Pierpaolo, thank you for your patience. Let me assure you, the situation is completely under control. My brother has agreed to step back from public appearances for the immediate future, and I personally guarantee...”
The words came automatically—the same damage control she’d performed a hundred times before. But her mind stayed with Marco’s tired voice, with the question he’d almost asked.
Pierpaolo was still talking, outlining concerns about timeline and brand association. She made reassuring sounds while pulling up flight options to New York on her laptop.
“Yes, absolutely. I understand completely.” She clicked through departure times. “In fact, I was just about to suggest an in-person meeting. I can be in New York by tomorrow evening.”
She’d find Marco, fix this, and then, once the campaign was saved and her brother was back on track, she’d ask him what he’d really meant.
Pierpaolo agreed to the meeting. She ended the call and began typing an email to her assistant—book the flight, clear her Thursday, arrange the car service.
Somewhere in New York, her brother was hiding from cameras and questions. She’d drag him back to responsibility whether he wanted to come or not.
Her fingers moved across the keyboard, already planning.
CHAPTER 7
RYAN
The parking lot of the Blueberry Hill DMV smelled like hot asphalt and nervous sweat. Ryan gripped the steering wheel of his faded navy Subaru Outback, knuckles white, while the examiner—a woman in her fifties with reading glasses perched on her nose—made notes on her clipboard.
“Parallel parking,” she said. “Between the orange cones.”
He’d practiced this a hundred times in the church parking lot with anybody in the family who’d go with him, but mostly with Will or Evan. Breathe. Check mirrors. Signal. He eased the Outback backward, adjusting the wheel the way Will had drilled into him, feeling the car respond to each small correction.
The examiner made another note.
Twenty minutes later, Ryan pulled back into the parking space where Will waited, leaning against the brick building with his arms crossed and a barely concealed grin on his face.
“How’d it go?” Will asked as Ryan climbed out, though his expression said he already knew.
Ryan held up the temporary license, the paper still warm from the printer. “Passed.”
Will’s grin broke wide open. He pulled Ryan into a brief, back-slapping hug—the kind of hug Ryan had seen other kids get from their dads but had never experienced himself until this family. “Never doubted you for a second. Happy birthday, kid.”
Sixteen. He was sixteen years old, he had his license, and he was about to drive his own car—the car he’d paid for himself with money saved from tutoring and any job he could take one—back home. Well, back to what had become home.
“You want me to drive?” Will offered, already moving toward the passenger side.
“Not a chance.” Ryan slid behind the wheel again, running his hands over the worn steering wheel. The Outback was twelve years old, had a dent in the rear bumper, and made a worrying rattle when he accelerated past sixty. He loved it completely.
The drive back to the house took fifteen minutes on the winding mountain roads. Ryan kept his speed steady, hyperaware of every turn, every approaching car, every rule he’d memorized. Beside him, Will sat relaxed, one arm resting on the window frame, not offering advice or corrections. Just trusting him.
“Tara’s going to cry,” Will said as they turned onto the long driveway.
Ryan laughed, but his chest felt tight in a good way. Three days ago, he’d stood next to Will as his groomsman, watching Tara walk down the aisle in her cream-colored dress. A year ago, he’d runaway from a foster home, wondered if he’d ever have a home again. Now he had a family, a house, a car, and a driver’s license.
