Page 40 of Bound By The Italian’s 'I Do'

‘My father is a monster,’ he said. ‘A true monster. His brother—Alessandro’s father—is the same. I don’t know how they came to be that way, maybe their own father who I never met was the same, but their mother, ournonna, was a great lady. She lived with us and her presence tempered the worst of them. She died when I was eight.’

Gianni swallowed the acrid taste that had built in his mouth.

‘Before she died, I was used to being hit. It was normal. Alessandro suffered the same. After she died the monsters came out. You know we were raised in Umbria?’

There was no answer but something told him she was listening.

He gave a morose laugh through his nose. ‘I assume you know. I assume you know too that our fathers’ business is wine. That’s public knowledge for anyone who searches for it and I think you have searched my name and discovered everything the internet can tell you about me. If I were in your shoes and believed my father to be innocent then I would have done the same with the same intent, and I think that speaks of how different our childhoods were. If you were to tell me my father was innocent of something I would laugh in your face.’

Issy had tried to walk away from the door and out of the living area when Gianni had identified himself as her visitor but her feet had refused to obey. She’d tried to cover her ears when he’d started talking but her hands had refused to obey.

With a choked sigh of defeat, she slid her back down the door until her bottom reached the bamboo floor, then pulled her knees to her chest and hugged herself tightly.

‘The wine they produce used to be great but when their mother died, they started cutting corners wherever they could. When Alessandro and I left, they cut even more corners. I give them two more years before the vineyard stops producing. At the most.’ He laughed. Issy imagined his throat extending. ‘Now, they’re too lazy to even fertilise their land properly and since we left, too mean to pay anyone else to do it for them. Add all the other corners they cut and it’s no surprise their Sangiovese tastes like battery acid.’

A long silence followed before he continued, still speaking in the same even tone as if relating a story he’d heard many times. But this wasn’tastory. This washisstory. All the things she’d longed to know even though it had had no relevance to her quest. Issy had wanted to know for her own sake because as much as Gianni had repelled her, deep down in the place she’d never dared acknowledge to herself lived an aching fascination for him.

‘We were their little slaves,’ he said. ‘I remember crushing grapes with my feet until midnight and going to school the next day with purple feet and ankles. We were forced to work from sunrise until they said stop. If we complained, we were hit. Once Nonna died, we didn’t have to complain to be hit. Her death unleashed them. They were our true slave masters and we their punching bags. Our mothers too. They never needed an excuse to beat them.’

Issy covered her mouth to stop a moan of distress escaping. She thought of the bump in Gianni’s nose and how she’d wanted to shake the hand of the person who’d done it. That person must have been his own father.

‘My mother ran away a year after Nonna died.’ For the first time she heard an inflection of emotion in his voice. ‘I haven’t seen her since. She lives in Milan. I pay money into her account each month, but I never see her. She abandoned me to that bastard. It took months before I accepted that she wasn’t coming back for me.’ The tinge of sadness that laced his next laugh made her insides contract. ‘My mother left me to my fate. Andro and I made a pact when we were twelve that as soon as we’d both turned eighteen we would leave and build new lives for ourselves. We worked even harder, taking jobs outside the vineyard wherever we could and saving every cent our fathers didn’t demand we hand over to them. My father never knew, but I left school at sixteen and got a full-time job at a pizzeria—he’d have only taken my wages from me. The first thing we did when we finally left the vineyard was change our surnames.’

Vizzini, she remembered. That had been his original surname. It had taken her ages to dig that up. She remembered thinking Rossi suited him better and then had chided herself for thinking such a thing. Who cared whether his name suited him?

‘We chose ournonna’s surname,’ he said quietly, and though she had no way of knowing, Issy was certain he knew she was sat on the other side of the door to him. ‘We sorted all the legal side out and then we made an offer on Tuscan land we’d huge plans for. We hadn’t saved enough money to purchase it outright but we were able to borrow the shortfall.’

Dread crept its way up from the pit of her stomach.

‘Only after the land was paid for and transferred into our names did we learn it was unstable. There was no possibility of building a housing development on it. We’d been conned. The seller had seen two fresh-faced eighteen-year-olds and took advantage of our naivety. He bribed the surveyor and everyone else involved in the transaction and left us staring at bankruptcy.’

The seller. The man he claimed was her father.

‘He underestimated us,’ he said simply. ‘We’d worked too hard and overcome too much to accept defeat. We started again. We worked like Trojans to repay the loan and build a new nest. As soon as we had the money we bought our first property and flipped it; gave it a makeover and sold it for a profit. We brought our second property and then our third and then we set our sights further taking on bigger and bigger projects with proportionate profits until we had the money to force the takeover of the business of the man who’d ripped us off. It took us four years. I don’t think either of us slept more than four hours a night in those days. I do not regret what we did to that man. It didn’t take much detective work to discover we weren’t his only victims. I cannot abide corruption, Issy, and I hope that one day soon you will tell me of this proof of corruption Amelia spoke of because I swear on Alessandro’s life that we are not corrupt. Everything we have we’ve built with our own toil using our own blood and sweat.’

Gianni’s backside had become numb. Issy hadn’t made a single sound but he was certain she’d heard every word. He rolled his neck and got to his feet. ‘I’m going for a swim. Dinner will be served in the open dining room of my lodge at seven. All you need do is follow the path facing the beach and it will lead you to it. There is no pressure but know I would be glad to see you. I don’t like to think of you alone with your thoughts...’ He exhaled slowly before admitting, ‘I want to get to know the real Isabelle Seymore because I already miss the Issy I spent that ride wild on thePalazzo delle Festewith. I know she’s not the real you, but something tells me the things I like the most about herarereal.’

Issy tried desperately hard to concentrate on the game of solitaire she was playing but her eyes kept being drawn to her watch. Gianni would be in his dining room, but he wouldn’t be waiting for her. She’d left word for him declining his invitation when she’d requested dinner be brought to her cabin.

She couldn’t face her stomach turning over at the aromas of her own cooking and she couldn’t face him. It was too dangerous. She’d listened to Gianni relay the story of his life and wanted so much to open the door, crawl onto his lap and hold him tight. She’d long suspected his estrangement from his father was rooted in something bad—children rarely cut themselves off from their parents without good reason—but to imagine the suffering he must have gone through...

As hard as she tried to keep her emotions contained, the stone wall she’d built was breaking down, the contents of her heart bleeding out of it.

But there were three villains to his story. His father, his uncle and her father.

She couldn’t accept it. Her bleeding heart wouldn’t accept it. Her father would never treat two young men the way Gianni had described. He just wouldn’t.

Are you sure...?

She slammed a card down then grabbed a chip. They were the most delicious chips she’d ever eaten in her life and she wished she wasn’t feeling so down while eating them. She should be savouring their deliciousness.

Gianni must have been mistaken about her father. Because that was the crux of the problem—she believed him. Believed that he believed it.

And what about her sister? Because if Gianni was speaking the truth then it meant Amelia, the anchor that had kept Issy afloat all these years, had lied to her.

Mid-morning the next day, Gianni knocked on Issy’s door again.

This time there was more hesitancy than guardedness in her voice. ‘Yes?’

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