Page 38 of Sins of the Son

Oh right, I forgot about that. Probably wouldn’t strike the right professional tone I was going for, to roll up to work with "fuck you" and a cock drawing keyed in my car.

Before I could apologize, he waved his hand at me. “And you can forget about winking your eyelashes and giving me those sweet looks. I’m far too old to fall for such pretty girl tricks.”

I sized him up. Afonso wasn’t that old. I’d peg him to be about sixty-five years. And there was no denying he was a handsome man in that hello daddy, I’ve been a bad girl sort of way. Especially if you liked the whole man who works with his hands, rough mechanic aesthetic. I averted my gaze, letting out a dramatic sigh. “That’s a shame. I was just telling Gabriella how you’ve been an absolute sweetheart to me, trying to fix up my beloved car, and always being so helpful.”

I glanced up from under my eyelashes to see if I had hit my mark. A possible romance between Alfonso and Gabriella was one of Amara's and my favorite topics. We had spent many nights at the cottage speculating over a bottle of wine whether there had been an illicit affair in the past that had gone wrong, or if they were star-crossed lovers who had been kept apart by fate. It was obvious by Alfonso’s protective looks and Gabriella’s blushes that there was something between them. Just as it was equally obvious that neither was acting on it.

In fact, it almost seemed like Gabriella was going out of her way to flaunt her young lovers in front of him, just to piss him off. That’s why I was convinced they'd had an affair that had gone wrong, and she was getting back at him. Amara was convinced Alfonso’s pride and standing as a staff member would never have allowed for it. She was certain the two had never even kissed. Either way, getting them together had become a bit of a pet project.

Alfonso snapped his head forward and gripped the steering wheel. “Nice try, Signorina Milana, now get in this car before I get out and strap you into your seat myself.”

I raised my hands in surrender. With a huff, I yanked on the car door handle and got into the passenger seat. “Boy, I see the bossiness isn’t reserved for just the Cavalieri men. It extends to their staff, too.”

Alfonso cast me a quick, sidelong glare as he rolled up the window before throwing the car into gear. We raced along the country lane that would bring us down the mountain and into the village. As soon as we neared the outer lanes to the main piazza, I asked Alfonso to pull over.

At his concerned look, I patted his upper arm. “It will take you forever to turn around in the narrow one-way streets and get back to the winery. I’m perfectly capable of walking to work from here.”

At his continued stoic look, I leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You worry too much.”

I then got out of the car.

Before I could step away, he rolled down the passenger window again. “Have Cesare call me if you need a ride home.”

My chest tightened. Cavalieri Winery was not my home. It would never be my home.

I pasted on a forced smile and waved, showing that I heard him. He waved back and drove away.

Carefully navigating the uneven, gray cobblestone pathway in my high heels, I made my way down the narrow street toward the open piazza. It was still early, but signs of life were stirring. This was my favorite time of day, when the tourists were still in bed, and it was just the shopkeepers and residents out, heading to work.

I passed the pizzelle bakery and inhaled the warm, buttery-sweet scent of fresh pizzelles being taken off the waffle irons.

Two elderly women dressed in out-of-fashion dresses faded from repeated washings, white aprons, and clunky but serviceable black shoes, swept their front steps as they complained about their husbands. The sun was already shining off a display of gleaming jars of regional acacia, chestnut, and wildflower honey from one shop and the shelves of confetti almonds, torrone nougat, and ventricina salami stacked between racks of Italian postcards in another.

I only just managed to get out of the way in time before two heavy shutter doors swung open with a bang. The insides of the doors were laden with plate racks displaying the traditional Abruzzese ceramic centrotavolas, bread plates, with their distinctive circular cutouts. Each was hand-painted with the Fioraccio abruzzese floral design. A bright and cheery display of the wildflowers and herbs of the region resulting in a burst of yellows, pinks, blues, and greens depicting poppies, cornflowers, daisies, wild roses, rosemary, and thyme. Upon seeing me, the male shop owner apologized profusely and tried to get me to come inside for a coffee and a brioche with jam, but I waved him off.

After a few more steps, the space opened onto the main piazza, which was already a hive of activity. The old men with their fedoras and canes were already taking up residence among the benches that lined the square as they engaged in animated conversation over the latest political scandal or football match. They nodded appreciatively and called out compliments as I passed. It was typical Italian male behavior, to be expected. I would have been disappointed and second-guessed my outfit if I hadn’t gotten a reaction.

Since a few tourists from the wine harvest had stayed on to enjoy the village's ambiance and shops, there were the typical souvenir scam vendors setting up their stalls. One had watercolors of the Abruzzo region displayed on easels with used brushes set nearby for effect, as the man who claimed to be the starving artist played on the sentiments of the visitors to charge exorbitant amounts for mass-produced art he bought on the internet. Another featured a small table of knockoff honey that was priced significantly below the legitimate regional product for sale in the nearby stores. Not to mention the reject Fioraccio abruzzese centrotavolas that were not good enough to sell for top price.

As I neared the offices, I was delighted to see the red, green, and gold metal cart of the roasted chestnut vendor setting up. It was a sign the end of autumn and the coming winter season was upon us. I loved the slightly charred, sweet caramel scent of the chestnuts and the cute little red and white striped bags they sold them in.

I looked wistfully down the lane that led to Sal’s leather shop. Like the other shopkeepers, right about now, he would be opening the doors and dragging out various displays to capture the attention of the last of the tourists for the season. I hadn’t been back since Cesare had dragged me out and given me the job at Cavalieri Property Management. Cesare had assured me he had loaned one of the winery staff, at his expense, to help Sal through the rest of the tourist season in my absence. I hated to admit that was a gracious gesture on his part. At the same time, it was the very least he could do, given the fact he'd basically forced Sal to evict me!

I blinked back the sentimental tears that threatened to ruin my makeup. Maybe after work, I would grab a few bags of roasted chestnuts and swing by the shop for old time’s sake and visit with Sal and his family. I knew he would be proud to learn of how well I was doing at my new job. He had always said I was meant for better things than his little souvenir shop.

I took a deep breath and raised my gaze up to the Cavalieri building. Walking through the piazza was the reminder of my old life that I'd needed. I could do this. One week. I had a plan. I had a future career ahead of me.

And I would be damned if I let Cesare Cavalieri deter me from it.

CHAPTER 14

MILANA

The Cavalieri Property Management offices were in a sixteenth century building off the main piazza in the village, between the courthouse and the church. The lower portion of the building was reserved for retail shops and restaurants for the tourists. The second floor had various lofts and apartments. Our offices were located on the third floor, while Cesare's office took up the entire fourth floor. They also had offices in Rome and Milan. However, since the village was the Cavalieri family seat, this was the primary headquarters.

I loved working here. As much as I adored Sal and would be forever grateful to him for giving me a job and an affordable place to live, there was no future in working as a shopgirl.

I had ambition. I wanted to make something of my life. I wanted to have a purpose, and it wasn’t to be someone’s wife and mother right away. I wanted a career first. I wanted to erase the stain my mother had left on my name. For years, I had dreamed of the moment I would come back to this village triumphant. A successful businesswoman from Rome, with money and designer clothes. I would breeze into the piazza and the old biddies would ask, "Who is that?" and someone would say, "That is Milana Carbone, she is a big deal now. She’s someone." I would have so much money and success, they would no longer dare say, "That's Milana Carbone, that slut’s bastard daughter."

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