Page 32 of The Vineyard Crush

Fourteen

Emma

Ethan returned two days later, face etched with the telltale weariness of cross-country flights and too little sleep. As soon as he stepped through the front door, I pounced.

“Well? What did he say?” I demanded, breathless with anticipation.

Ethan merely shook his head, scrubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. “I tried, Em, I really did. But you know how damn stubborn Leone can be.”

Disappointment slammed into me like a punch to the gut. We’d been counting on our eldest brother - arrogant blowhard that he could be - to agree to take the reins as CEO of our fledgling resort venture. Without his business acumen and bottomless capital reserves, our dreams could easily crumble before they’d truly begun.

“So that’s it then?” I heard the tremor of dismay laced through my own voice. “He’s not going to do it?”

Again, Ethan could only sigh and offer an apologetic shrug. “Look, he didn’t outright refuse. He just…he wants some time to mull it over, work through whatever hangups he’s got about upending his entire life here.”

It was my turn to huff out a derisive snort. Of course. Ever since Father’s passing two years ago, Leone had hunkered down like a tortoise in its shell, refusing to so much as consider rejoining the family business back home. His cushy high-rise corporate enclave towering over Manhattan was his armored sanctuary. Dragging him away from that safety net would be akin to pulling teeth.

But we didn’t have unlimited time to dawdle around waiting for him to find his elusive personal epiphany. Momentum and opportunity were fickle lovers - seize them swiftly or risk watching them slip through your fingers forever.

“Ethan…” I drew in a fortifying breath, squaring my shoulders with renewed resolution. “I think I need to go to New York.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but I barreled on before he could voice whatever objection sprang to mind.

“Just hear me out. You know how he is - he’ll dig his heels in until the literal last second out of sheer stubbornness. But there’s no way he’ll be able to fend me off as easily.”

The faintest spark of amusement crinkled the corners of Ethan’s eyes at that, no doubt remembering countless tussles from our youth where my tenacious zeal had run roughshod over Leone’s pompous bravado. For all his worldly bluster, our eldest brother had always been a sucker for my persistence.

“You really think you can get through that mile-thick skull of his this time?”

Arching a brow, I braced my hands on my hips in a mirror of our mother’s signature no-nonsense stance. “You got a better idea, big brother?”

The corner of Ethan’s mouth kicked up in a crooked grin, admitting silent defeat. With a shake of his head, he closed the distance between us and pulled me into a fierce bear hug, rocking me from side to side.

“Give ‘em hell, kiddo,” he murmured against my hair. “You’re our last shot.”

Two days later, I was soaring eastward toward the towering concrete canyons of Manhattan, determination thrumming through my veins with each passing mile. If anyone could blast through Leone’s obdurate resistance, it was me.

Whether he was willing or not, our eldest brother was coming home. One way or another.

The familiar skyline of steel and glass soon rose into view, the crowded cityscape a jarring transition from the languid vistas of the valley. I could almost feel the nervous energy and frenetic pace thrumming like a mobile’s oscillation all around me as our shuttle angled toward the runway.

Threading through the airport’s obligatory gauntlet, I finally burst outside and hailed a taxi with new efficiency born from four years as a local.

“West 63rd and Central Park,” I tossed at the disinterested cabbie, who responded with a curt nod before whipping out into the snarling traffic.

Leaning back against the cracked vinyl upholstery, I watched the kaleidoscope of storefronts and pedestrians whip by, equal parts nostalgic and repulsed by the concrete warts and bustling cacophony. Living here - thriving here, even - had been a whirlwind chapter of my life, but also an achingly lonely one.

Leone’s leonine penthouse loomed ahead, gleaming in the dwindling evening light. As the cab rolled to a stop, I hastily shoved a crumpled wad of bills through the partition and stepped out onto the sidewalk, craning my neck back to squint up at the imposing monolithic tower rising overhead.

Steeling my nerves one final time, I deftly dodged through the sluggish knot of tourists logjamming the lobby’s revolving doors and strode to the far bank of elevators. If my recall of his penthouse unit was accurate, and of course it was, Leone’s private lift access code would be…

A discreet ping acknowledged my entry. Of course. The pompous code-monkey was nothing if not painfully predictable in his creature comforts. Rolling my eyes, I stepped aboard and jabbed the button for the uppermost penthouse level.

No pomp, no preamble. Time to beard the lion in his den.

The elevator seemed to take an eternity inching upwards, my pulse jittering higher with each ascending floor. What in tarnation was I going to say to him? ‘Pretty please play make-believe as our CEO, oh wise and venerated big brother?’ Like hell that would work.

This was Leone I would be dealing with - pig-stubborn, eternally-complacent Leone who arose each morning solely to count his precious millions as the world marched relentlessly on without him. After Mis— ahem, after two years mourning loss in his typical maudlin fashion, surely even HE had to be champing at the bit to break out of his self-pitying cycle, right?

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