Page 74 of My Fake Italian Marriage

She absorbed the information, no longer feeling like an impostor as she had when she’d first arrived in Tuscany. “Which grapes do you use for your wine?”

“Clones of the Sangiovese. More than ten different Sangiovese varietals go into the three wines we produce: the rosato and two reds.”

“The same grapes we grow?”

Gio nodded. “The same grapes, but ours taste different because of the different climate and soil. Sangiovese is a site-sensitive grape; the altitude of the vines, the different soils and temperatures, all create very different wine profiles.”

He parked in front of the winery buildings, made of the usual traditional grey stone and looking like a thousand other wineries dotted across Tuscany, then he turned to Cleo, eyes twinkling with the same excitement Luca’s did when he spoke about his beloved vineyard. “We have something very unique here.”

The “something unique” was a series of underground tunnels where the wines were stored and aged. They were dark, a blessedly cool refuge from the day’s heat.

“This cave has been in use since Etruscan times,” Gio explained, “since even before the Romans. Over the years, more tunnels have been added. Storing the barrels underground keeps the temperatures consistent as the wines mature.”

Cleo pressed her hand to the cool, damp brick arch of the tunnel walls. Growing up in South Africa, in so many ways still a very young country, she’d never considered how far back the tradition of winemaking went. But when Gio spoke about how little the process had changed since pre-Roman times, she shivered. The Fioravantis really did have centuries of winemaking in their blood.

Back in the public tasting room, where a number of tourists were sampling wines under the aegis of a stylishly dressed saleswoman, Cleo wandered over to a wall cabinet displaying a number of trophies and certificates. It wasn’t just the vineyard that had won awards, but Gio specifically.

When Luca came to stand beside her, she cast a sideways glance at him. “It looks as if your brother benefitted from being disinherited. Instead of working with your father to produce the kind of wines the Fioravanti vineyard makes, he has become a very respected winemaker.”

He nodded. “Gio has a talent for winemaking. Always had, even when we were young.”

She remembered the story of his first attempt to make wine, able now to fill in some of the gaps he’d left out. He’d spoken about living in a long shadow. She’d thought he meant “sainted cousin Camillo”, but she realised now whose shadow he’d been raised in, who it was he’d always tried to live up to.

She’d seen it with her own brothers. Mitchell, the youngest, had always pushed hard to keep up with their older brothers, but unlike Luca, he’d never been made to feel lesser for being smaller or less able, and in the end, he’d had the last laugh; from the “runt of the litter”, he’d grown into the tallest and strongest of her brothers.

“Gio was your father’s favourite, wasn’t he?” she asked softly. It was so alien to her that a parent would choose one child over another, but she’d learned enough about Giovanni to know he was capable of it.

Luca shrugged. “Gio was the firstborn and his namesake. He was always the golden boy in our parents’ eyes. A hard worker, he was always the best in his class academically, and he had a cabinet full of sports trophies and medals long before this.” He waved his hand at the awards on display. “Everyone knew he would have a great future.” He said it without rancour, perhaps even with a touch of pride. He admired his big brother.

She slid her hand into his, and he smiled. “Like with Camillo, it is impossible to hate Gio, or to envy his success. He has always been my biggest supporter and best friend.” He squeezed her fingers. “Until now.”

Her breath caught in her throat. His best friend. But to be friends, they needed to trust each other, not keep secrets, and he’d kept a pretty damn big secret from her.

When she glanced at Luca again, he wasn’t looking at her but at the trophy cabinet.

“I sometimes wonder if it was really Gio’s marriage that Babbo objected to.” He dropped his voice. “They disagreed about how to make wine, too, which was perhaps the greater offence.”

Was that why Giovanni had tried so hard to dissuade Luca from becoming a winemaker—so he wouldn’t risk losing another son over wine? And was that why Luca had not yet said yes to her job offer, to avoid driving another wedge into the family?

* * *

When they returned to Gio’s house, the sun was still high, the air heavy with the afternoon heat. The teenagers were splashing around in the swimming pool, and Stefania’s mother had retired to her room for an afternoon nap, so Gio led them to a quiet corner of the terrace, beneath a jasmine-covered trellis, where he served another of his wines, this time a rich red.

“Now,” Gio said, settling into a wicker armchair and turning his direct gaze to his brother, “are you ready to tell me why you are really here?”

Luca took a long sip of the wine, that familiar mischievous look sparking in his eyes. “I told you. We came on the steam train with the football club. I would hardly come to Chiusi andnotvisit you.”

Gio narrowed his eyes. “As much as I love your visits, there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Luca leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, as if bracing himself. “I told you that the bank insisted that Babbo must have help to manage the vineyard.”

Gio nodded.

“Well, it’s more than that. The bank insists on replacing him.”

Gio whistled. “There’s no way he’ll accept that! When will you tell him?”

A ghost of a smile flitted across Luca’s mouth. “We already did, and he has agreed. Cleo persuaded him to retire willingly.”

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