Page 8 of His Vow
“The driver will wait for you at your father’s, then drive you to the airport for your flight to London.”
“Thank you for always looking after me, big-guy.” The hug she gives me feels good, but her words are what fill my heart.
“Knock ’em out in London, kiddo.”
She pulls back grinning, exactly the response I wanted. “You’re only a year older, so you can quit with the kiddo.”
Instead of responding, I place a kiss on her forehead like I always do when we say goodbye.
“We’ll speak soon,” she says before turning and walking away with the grace of one of the catwalk models who will be wearing her new collection in London. I wish I could be there to see her success in person, but the emails are already piling up in my inbox after only two days away.
I pull out my cell to call Gio. He answers almost instantly, and I can tell by his tone it’s been a shit day. Walking toward my own waiting SUV, I ask, “Have you spoken to our father?”
Gio grunts, and my guess that that’s the reason for his bad mood seems right.
“Not yet, but he’s summoned me to dinner tonight.”
“There must be a lot of that going around.”
“What?” he snaps.
Ah, so he’s reverting to single words—another sure sign that he’s pissed.
“I just arrived back in Florence with Lucia because her father wanted to see her too. She just left, and I’m on my way to the hotel. Knock on my door when you’re back if you need to talk.”
It really is convenient staying across the hall from each other at the Forbes Hotel, and when we’re both in the city, we’ll often share a nightcap while we debrief on our day.
“It won’t be late, as I have no desire to stay longer than necessary.”
“What, no chatting with daddy dearest?”
“Asshole.” It’s all he says before hanging up on me. His relationship with our father isn’t much better than mine, but the childish nickname I occasionally use pisses him off.
The real reason is that referring to the man as Father or Papa has never felt right. Not when he hasn’t earned the title in any meaningful way.
***
Settling onto the sofa, I pick up the thick wad of papers making up last month’s financial report and lay several of the pages out on the coffee table in front of me. My brain turning to the rows of figures. A good distraction to the disappointment that still pinches my brow at having to cut short my break with Lucia.
Two pages in and my cell buzzes on the table beside me. I flip it over and read.
Gio:I need to see you now.
My eyes narrow. This is not going to be good, and I stand to pour a whiskey while I await his arrival.
Bang, bang, bang.My hand jolts, the golden liquid sloshing in the glass I’m holding.
Urgent or not, there’s no need to bang on my door so hard that it rattles on its hinges, and as I pull it open, I’m about to say the same. Except one look at my brother’s pale face, and those words are forgotten.
“What’s our father done this time?” I ask, holding the door wider for him to come in.
Chapter four
Lucia
Summoned. That’s the only way to describe the phone call from my father that had me rushing back to Florence. I know better than to ignore his demands. And thanks to Ant helping me out of a yet another bind, I’ll make it to my father’s house earlier than the time demanded.
Nerves tilt my last meal from side to side in the pit of my stomach as the car eats up the miles to Papa’s villa on the outskirts of the city. Closing my eyes, I try to recapture the peace of waking up in Capri only this morning, but I can’t manage it.
