Читать книгу Decadent - Alexx Andria - Страница 11

THE NERVE OF AMERICANS.

Dante Donato reeked of arrogance like a smoking jacket smelled of cigar smoke. Of all the offers thrown our way to purchase the winery and its operations, none had been as condescending as Donato’s.

He thought he could walk into my house, smugly throw down a wad of cash and walk away with my family’s legacy as easily as shipping a case of wine.

I smirked at the raw audacity. He had balls, I would give him that.

Handsome as the devil, too. Hair as dark as sin and eyes that sparkled like the ocean after a hard rain, he was built with all the thick swagger of his Italian ancestors but he carried the height of a Viking. Although I stood only to his chest level, he did not intimidate me. I’d faced off with worse than Donato men and I was still here.

It was too bad Dante was such a prick. I think I would have enjoyed him in my bed. It’d been a while since I’d taken a lover and by the looks of him, Dante could satisfy the appetite growling inside me. I sighed with disappointment and a little frustration as I headed for the business office.

In the past I’d invited Como to my bed but I’d stopped when I realized he had difficulties separating feelings from simply satisfying each other’s needs.

And we worked together, so that further complicated matters that I didn’t need right now. So much was riding on our newest Chianti, Uva Persa, that I didn’t have time to entertain distractions of any kind.

Made from tenerone grapes, a lost variety that had only recently been brought back from oblivion, lovingly and carefully cultivated from ancient vineyards, Uva Persa was my baby, my triumph, and I couldn’t allow anything to stand in the way of my success.

I was funneling every dime I personally had into the launch of this wine but it was much more than simply a new venture. I was taking a huge chance, risking not only my personal finances but also my family’s reputation as classic vintners with a name that went back for generations.

Our wines remained under the Chianti Classico label, adhering to the strict criteria that 80 percent of the blend was from Sangiovese grapes—though I was one of the more vocal advocates for expanding the criteria—but sales were static and barely holding steady.

That would all change as soon as I launched Uva Persa.

But innovation came slowly, particularly with the old guard. When I’d first broached the subject of purchasing land to plant the tenerone grapes, my father, Sergio, had shut the idea down quickly.

“It’s a risk we don’t need to take,” he’d said, rubbing chopped garlic on his bread before dipping it in the fragrant olive oil. “There’s no need. The Classico Riserva remains strong. We should stick to what we know, safer that way. Why take risks when we don’t have to?”

“But, Papa, the future is in the lost grapes. Resurrecting the ancient varietals will give us that edge we need in the coming market,” I’d insisted, frustrated by my father’s lack of vision. “Please, one small investment is all I’m asking for. The Castello di Baroni brand can withstand the hit but we need to make the leap now. I have the opportunity to purchase—”

“No.”

“Papa! You are being stubborn and pigheaded! I’m looking toward the future of Castello di Baroni and you’re content to live day to day. That’s not how to sustain a business in this new market. It’s not like it was when you were young. Please trust me in this and let me make the purchase.”

My father dusted his hands on the linen napkin, shaking his head, not willing to budge.

We argued for hours but he’d only dug his heels in harder. I wasn’t going to convince Sergio Baroni to change his mind, and at the time I couldn’t make the purchase without my father’s approval.

If it hadn’t been for my nonno, I might not have taken the chance.

With my grandfather’s help, I’d made that small investment but it’d taken everything I had. If I failed… I not only risked my father’s respect after going against his wishes and making a decision he’d been dead set against, but I could lose my seat as Castello di Baroni’s CEO.

I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat and smoothed the nervous jitter in my stomach.

Dante had touched on a small truth. Baroni wines hadn’t been selected for any recent dinners with heads of state and country, but these things were fluid and at any given moment we could be back in the most prestigious cellars. I tried not to worry that my predictions for our brand had come to fruition, but my fears added to my heightened anxiety. Donato showing up with his frivolous offer was an irritant to my already raw nerves.

I rounded the corner to find Como scowling behind his desk. “Is he gone?” he asked.

I didn’t pretend ignorance. “I left him in the great hall. I have no idea if he has left the premises. I have work to do. I cannot spend all my time sparring with an arrogant American.”

“Is it true his family built these walls?”

I shrugged. “So he says.”

“And why now? Why is he sniffing around right when we are about to launch our biggest accomplishment? Perhaps he is a spy for another winery.”

I laughed at Como’s suspicion. “He is no spy. He is an entitled American who feels he can throw money at any problem or challenge. I disabused him of this notion.”

“I do not trust him. He has shifty eyes.”

I disagreed. Dante’s eyes were magnificent—they smoldered with cool heat. The stormy blue was mesmerizing but I didn’t share my observation with Como. The last thing I needed was Como getting jealous. “How are we on production?” I asked, going straight to business.

“We are on track,” Como said, but he was still grousing about the American. “You don’t take this threat seriously. I sense he is not one to give up easily. You should’ve thrown him from the property to send a stronger message that he is not welcome.”

What Como found most threatening was that where Como was long and lanky in build with a strong hawk nose, Dante was built like a soldier, molded with muscle and brawn. Even that designer suit couldn’t hide that hard form. I smothered a shiver. I was willing to bet that in bed, Dante was an animal. Just the kind of lover I craved. I returned my attention to Como, snapping my fingers with irritation. “Stay on task, Como. Just because we operate out of a castle does not mean we keep medieval ways. We don’t toss the distasteful from the ramparts. We send them on their way with our compliments. Better for business.”

Como nodded, grudgingly admitting I was right. “You do your family proud. You are so smart and wise. And beautiful.” Como’s gaze warmed and I exhaled with a slight shake of my head.

His last comment only cemented my decision to keep things professional between us. Como had been a competent lover but mostly convenient. In spite of ending our sexual relationship more than a year ago, he still held out hope that I would change my mind about wanting more—which I wouldn’t—and he followed me like a puppy.

Bad judgment and sexual frustration make for terrible bedfellows. Como’s endless unrequited-love sorrow was annoying, but out of deference for our long friendship and business relationship, I tolerated his overtures while avoiding any physical contact.

However, my patience was at its end. I turned to face him, my expression stern. “Como, we are no longer lovers,” I reminded him. “We agreed that we were better as friends.”

“No, I never agreed,” he said with a frown. “You made a decision and expected me to simply fall in line. I understood your reasoning, and with the strain of Uva Persa hanging on your shoulders, I realized it was better to go along with your decision. But soon we launch and the stress will no longer weigh you down, freeing you to see that you and I are a perfect team. I am a patient man and you are worth waiting for.”

My stomach knotted, not for the first time, at Como’s self-assuredness of his belief, which was wrong on so many levels. I glared with frustration. “You are not patient. You are stubborn.”

“You will come around,” Como said with a cockiness I found unattractive on him. “No one knows you as I do.”

“You do not know me as well as you think if you believe I enjoy being patronized,” I said coolly, and Como stiffened at the rebuke. “You are a valuable member of my staff and I appreciate your talents on a business level but do not mistake me. If you continue to pursue this dangerous line of thinking it will not only ruin our friendship but our working relationship, as well.”

“You would fire me?” Como asked, surprised.

“If you continued to force my hand.”

Como held my gaze as if trying to ascertain whether I was serious or bluffing. If he knew me as well as he claimed, he would know I didn’t bluff. The fact that we were having this conversation, after I’d already settled the matter, created no small amount of heartburn. He was right in that Uva Persa was weighing on my shoulders with all the unwieldy grace of an elephant, but the day would never come that I invited Como back into my bed. I never made the same mistake twice.

“No one will ever love you the way I do,” Como said, his lips disappearing as his frown deepened into a scowl. “No one will understand your burdens as I do.”

Como truly believed his own conviction and because he was a good man, I softened a little. “Perhaps,” I conceded for the sake of his ego. “But I am not the woman for you. I would only bring you misery. Please, let us put this tiresome argument to rest and return to what we are truly good at together.”

I would never beg but I didn’t want to lose Como as a friend or as a trusted business ally. He’d been my right hand for so many years and I didn’t want to lose him over something as stupid as misplaced affections.

After a long tense moment, Como jerked a short nod to indicate we could move on and I breathed a secret sigh of relief. Hopefully, this conversation was well and truly done. Moving quickly to business, I tapped the desk, saying, “I need to go over the contracts for the campaign. Would you please have them sent to my office?”

“Of course.”

Grateful to be back on course, I left Como and headed for the grounds. I liked to be visible in all areas of production, from the business side to the agricultural. But when I walked the grounds, the fresh air tickling my nose, the cypress trees swaying in the breeze, I felt closest to Enzo.

My twin brother, my touchstone, was the one who’d been enamored with the winemaking business. He’d had so many plans, so many hopes and dreams.

It was Enzo who had first mentioned the legacy of the lost grapes. At the time, I’d listened to him talk about the possibility of resurrecting ancient varietals but it’d seemed a fantasy, something to dream about. Enzo had been sure that it was a possibility and he was going to try to make it happen when he was old enough.

But my brother never got the chance. When he died in an auto accident at sixteen, a part of me died with him. Twins share a bond that is hard to explain.

Enzo would’ve been a premier winemaker—his love for the business had been unparalleled. I was but Enzo’s weak imitation, but I swore to his memory that I would never let Baroni wines fail. They would thrive in his honor.

Uva Persa would be our crowning achievement. Only Nonno knew what I’d been through to cultivate my secret vineyard, and he kept my secret, but the pressure to succeed was nearly crushing me.

Even after carefully selecting the property to grow the tenerone—testing the soil, checking for acidity and appropriate climate, tending to the vineyard as it finally yielded fruit—it’d taken three years for the wine to mature and it was finally ready for its debut.

So when Donato came around making offers, what he didn’t know was that there was no amount I would ever accept. I would never shame Enzo’s dream by selling—much less selling to an American.

Donato would just have to find another winery to purchase for his collection.

Castello di Baroni would never be for sale.