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Arthur’s refusal lasts until the first traffic light.

By the time the road begins to climb into the hills, Arthur has told me how ten-year-old Eric stole his car keys and managed to move the car four feet down the driveway. That story leads to the school breaks all three brothers spent working in the hotels. Arthur drove them to and from every shift, so he heard their complaints the whole way home. They still went back the next morning and did whatever work they were given.

After that, the stories keep coming. The more Arthur talks about them, the warmer his voice gets.

“They grew into good men,” he says. “Eric looks after his people.”

He launches into a story from three years ago, when his wife needed surgery. Their insurer refused to cover part of the cost, so Eric paid the difference that same afternoon and gave Arthur six weeks of paid leave.

“The money helped, but the time mattered more,” Arthur says. “Eric told me not to come back until she was well. He called after the operation and even remembered the date of her follow-up appointment.”

The quiet pride in his voice makes me smile.

“Truth is, I could’ve retired years ago. The boys keep trying to talk me into it.”

“And you keep refusing?”

“Of course. I’d be bored.” His eyes meet mine in the mirror. “I like the work. Besides, someone has to keep an eye on them.”

The road climbs, and the houses grow farther apart until Arthur turns between two stone pillars. Iron gates swing open, revealing a private drive that curves through the grounds.

Most of the property is hidden in darkness, but the headlights catch wide lawns, palms, old olive trees, and tall cypress. Then we round the final bend, and Eric’s house appears.

It’s enormous, wrapping around a circular courtyard beneath a red-tile roof. White stucco walls glow under the outside lights. Vines climb around arched windows and dark wooden doors, while narrow iron balconies overlook the gardens. A stone fountain stands in the center of the courtyard, surrounded by clipped hedges.

I stare through the window. “This is his house?”

Arthur glances at me in the mirror. “It is.”

He stops near the front steps, then comes around to open my door. I step onto the gravel and turn back to him.

“Thank you for the ride. And the gossip.”

“I don’t recall sharing any gossip.”

“You told me Eric stole your car.”

“He moved it four feet.”

“That still counts.”

Arthur gives me the patient look of a man who knows there’s no point arguing.

“And thank you for telling me the other things,” I say.

His expression softens. “Enjoy your evening, Rachel.”

I start toward the house. The Bentley remains behind me with its engine running. Arthur doesn’t pull away until the front door opens.

Eric steps outside. His hair looks as though he dried it with a towel and gave up, and dark stubble shadows his jaw. A black T-shirt fits closely across his chest and shoulders, while gray sweatpants sit low on his hips.

He looks nothing like the man who walks into a room in a custom suit and makes everyone stand straighter.

I let my gaze linger on the sweatpants before meeting his eyes. “Is this how you greet all your guests?”

He hooks a thumb beneath the low waistband. “I chose this outfit for you.”

“How thoughtful.”