Afterward, Grandma Opal asked if anyone was up for a game. They taught him how to play gin rummy with a stack of old, weathered playing cards. The competitive spirit possessed them all, and they ended up playing well into the night, all of them laughing despite Dario never winning a single round.
By the time they called it quits, it was late, and Dario was half-asleep, and even the fifteen-minute drive to his hotel felt like too much of a chore.
Halfway through the walk, which runs a little over a mile, Dario turns from a placard at a covered bridge and only Mr. Moore is left standing there. The others have gone on ahead.
“Thank you for being kind to Charlie,” Mr. Moore says, clearly segueing into a larger topic. “He tells us you looked out for him in Italy, and I appreciate that.”
“It was my pleasure,” Dario says. They fall into step with one another.
“I’m sorry if I came across like a hard-ass. This all comes as somewhat of a shock to us. Charlie has only ever lived under our roof and has never really dated anyone. For him to win a contest and suddenly go off to another country, I think we—me most of all—were a bit thrown for a loop,” he says, scratching at his chin. “If my son had to win a contest to meet the bachelor of a chocolate fortune, I suppose I’m glad you were the bachelor.”
“Thank you,” Dario says, taking it as a compliment. Up ahead, Charlie glances over his shoulder. His lips are tipped into the tiniest smile. “I understand where you were coming from. I myself did not want to believe my nonno had set this whole scheme up for me, but I discovered it was his way of pushing me out of my comfort zone and back into the world. I can’t run a company from my bedroom. Charlie has been immensely supportive by helping me find my peace and confidence again.”
“That sounds like our Charlie. Always helping,” Mr. Moore says with a proud grin. Dario registers the paternal resemblance in the set of his eyes.
“In Italian, we say ‘La famiglia è tutto’—family is everything. I believe that. I lost my father as a teenager, my grandmother as a university student, and my grandfather earlier this year. I think this contest was also a way of reminding me that family means more than blood,” Dario says, ruminating on this.
“That’s quite nice,” Mr. Moore says. He exhales loudly. “I just worry—” He scrapes a hand over his face. “Marriage? You barely know each other. I’m sure Charlie never mentioned about his uncle, but a while back—”
Mr. Moore goes on to tell his side of the story. Of the lawsuit and the settlement and the stolen money. Dario takes it in as if this is new information because it feels like Mr. Moore needs to get this out there to someone outside their immediate circle, and Dario senses them connecting on a deeper level as he speaks. It was something he learned early from his grandfather, that listening is one of the greatest gifts you can give another.
“I’m sorry that happened,” Dario says.
“I’m sorry for ever letting that kid anywhere near that bank account. I can usually smell a rancid fish from a mile away. Suddenly, I was nose blind. Do you see what I mean?” Mr. Moore asks.
“You’re afraid Charlie will get cheated,” Dario says. “That is the farthest thing from my intention.”
“And we don’t want Charlie moving a million miles away and never visiting us again. If there’s even a place for him to come back and visit,” he says darkly, glancing out into the trees that are beginning to change.
The yellowing leaves remind him that seasons come and go like people, but Dario intends to stay no matter the weather.
“I would never dream of separating you all from Charlie. We would work that out. All of us, together. I am about to become the head of a worldwide chocolate operation, I know a thing or two about negotiation and compromise,” Dario says, trying to sound assured but not boastful.
“I could use a lesson or two,” Mr. Moore says reflectively.
“Charlie told me all about the bank and the house. I am fully prepared to assist however I can,” Dario says.
Mr. Moore cringes. “Do you really want to take that on?” he asks.
“To me, it is not taking it on. It is sharing the burden. I have the means to help, so I will help. That is what my nonno taught me to do. Business was never about hoarding wealth. It was about making something that brought joy to the world and enriched people’s lives,” he says.
“While I agree that that’s lovely, it’s not a world I know or understand. Here, in my world, when you do something for somebody, that somebody expects something in return. What do you get from this other than inheriting Amorina with a legal marriage license?” he asks.
“I hope that I get more family,” Dario says from the heart.
Mr. Moore stops in his tracks, really inspects Dario’s face. “This isn’t all some big marketing charade to sell chocolate? You’re not going to make Charlie sign some ridiculous prenup and then piss off in six months?”
“I can assure you, sir. There will be no prenups and no pissing off. I love Charlie, and I’d like to make him—and by extension, you all—my family.” Dario stands firm behind this statement. Because love, no matter how it comes about, is a gamble. Dario’s lost it all before and rebuilt himself. He could do it again if he needed to. Even when his head replays memories of Preston as warnings, his heart reminds him that he’s safe with Charlie.
Something breaks—in a good way—inside Mr. Moore. Feelings flood his face until he is crushing Dario in a hug. A dad hug. The kind of hug Dario hasn’t had since he was a child. At that, something good breaks inside him, too. A tiny damn of grief gives way to a rushing river of emotion that he finally has a paddle for.
“Everything okay back here?” It’s Charlie come to check on them.
Dario peels back and looks at the tearstained Mr. Moore. He nods at him. “Va bene,” Dario says. “Lead on.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
DARIO
