Page 70

Thirty-Eight

Sal

“Whose car is this?” She’s wearing a scarf around her head like Sophia goddamned Loren. It’s trailing behind her, and she’s sitting in a sundress covered in lemons. She’s a fucking dream, as is all of this. I opted for slacks and a tight cream knit short-sleeved collared shirt. We look very retro, and I could get used to this. The stylist also provided us with other clothes and suits. The most beautiful suits. I couldn’t use my tailor for obvious reasons. What they provided fit my broad chest when I slipped them on. It felt a little like a costume but still great.

“It’s yours. You got it in the will.”

She grins and tosses her arms up. “I really should read that thing. I own everything. It’s getting to be such a drag.”

“Woman. You’re snapping again.”

She points to buildings we’re passing. “Mine. Boring. Mine. Oh, that’s mine. That one too. Mine.” I lift her skirt and clamp down on her pretty yellow panties.

“Except this. This is mine.” She pulls her skirt down, and I put my hand back on the steering wheel.

“If you say so, it is your will.”

We drive on for an hour or so. She turns toward me, wrapping her arms around my biceps, then puts her head on my shoulder. I lean my head on hers, and we could not be sappier.

I turn and twist on roads that come back to me easily. I used to drive them in my dreams. Or think of them when I couldn’t sleep. Which was fucking often.

The gates are open and that’s unacceptable. I’ll yell at Gia for that after she yells at me for not being dead. We communicate best by screaming at each other. She has her own protection detail of men I put in place and pay handsomely. The will was sealed so no one had any idea where Giancarla ended up. My nephew and niece are protected and always have been. Although, I’m pretty sure my niece could take out anyone if it came down to it. And the nephew, he’s got tools and the knowledge to use them. I breathe easier because who the fuck is looking for a Pietro in Vermont? Enzo didn’t even know where they were although he asked often. I always let it be Gia’s call. The drive is long and winding.

“Holy shit.” I smile at her as she almost jumps out of her seat. “Grapes. You have grapes?” She tilts her head and smirks at me.

I grin at her. “Yes, well…”

She’s clapping like she won a game show. “I have more grapes! My life beyond Sonoma, with all of the fortune I inherited from my dead husband, and I have grapes! Vines really are my destiny.”

“You did put them on your fucking skin forever.”

“I was grieving!” I don’t hate her tattoos. I just hate the reason she got them. But something scrawled in forever that proves her devotion to me doesn’t suck. She turns to me.

“What now, woman?”

“You didn’t tell any of us? We’re five families of multigenerational vintners, growers, and winemakers yet you didn’t tell us you own grapes. Or that I own more grapes, my darling husband.” She pauses and then shuts her eyes. “It was in the will, wasn’t it?” I nod. She exhales.

“I’m not a vintner. I’ve learned more about grapes from your village of winemakers, families, and cousins than I ever did before that. I own them. I don’t do anything with them. Someone harvests them. I don’t know what happens after that.”

“They’re beautiful. How old are they?”

I point to the building ahead of us, and she gasps at the villa. It really is one of those buildings that fits its surroundings. It is a storybook Italian Villa covered in wisteria and surrounded by cypress trees. The stucco is baked in the southern sun, and the olive trees that flank the rows of grapes mock any California version. They’re sumptuous and grand with their distinctive spear shaped leaves. I love them. The smell brings me here every time. Might be why I prefer Tabi’s winery to the others, Stafýlia Cellars. They have a shit ton of olive trees her father brought over from Greece. Of course, I’d never tell the wife that.

Her voice is quiet as she gasps and says, “This is so beautiful. I can’t believe all of this.” She grasps my hand and I love how reverent she feels.

I joke about it but it’s how I feel, “And this is the ugly house.” I always preferred my mom’s family house on the coast. “You know how Josh is so fucking proud of his vineyard that started in like 1800s?”

“Ours aren’t that young either,” she chides me about her own family’s vineyard.

I explain, “These grapes, your grapes, were planted a century and a half before the US was founded. You really should read the fucking will. The last name used to be PapaPietro. Until my great grandfather dropped the Papa when he came to the states. His name was Giovanni, but they all called him Peter because that’s what the last name means. So, if you see a Giovanni Chianti from Cambria, that’s here.”

Her eyes get wide. “And do you have the original rootstock?”

“What the hell kind of question is that? I don’t freaking know. I’m not sure what that means, but I’m pretty sure they’ve been ripped up and replanted a lot. But you’ll have to talk to the vineyard manager.” I point over toward the smaller but still freaking stately house up on a hill. “He’s there.”

“That’s not your house?”

“You mean your house, Mrs. Pietro. But Gia gets it if she stays a year, sorry. That was her codicil. It is my family’s house.” Poppy rolls her eyes.