Page 85 of My Fake Italian Marriage

Giovanni waved a hand in the air. “I’m fine. There’s no need to fuss. But I would like another espresso.”

They returned to the dining room where Pierina was cleaning up the remains of breakfast.

“Have you seen Luca this morning?” Letizia asked her as she poured fresh coffee for her husband.

Pierina shook her head. “Non c’è. La sua macchina non è in garage.”

His car was gone. Had he gone to the vineyard to start work early? Cleo doubted it. He was avoiding her. He didn’t want to see her. Well, he needn’t have bothered. At nineteen, she’d learned not to stay where she wasn’t wanted, and there was no reason to unlearn that lesson now.

She remained in the doorway, hovering on the threshold. It was better to get this over with, to pull off the band-aid quickly. She glanced at her watch. Her getaway vehicle would be here any moment.

“Letizia, Giovanni…” They both looked at her, and she faltered. She’d lied so many times these last few weeks, surely by now it should be easier, not harder? She swallowed and started again. “I’m leaving.”

“You’ll need to use our car if Luca has taken his,” Giovanni said.

Cleo shook her head. “I’m going back to London. I’m leaving Luca.”

Letizia sank onto the seat beside her husband. “But why? You are so good together. You belong together.” The stern, elegant woman Cleo had first met and been so awed by was gone. Now Letizia looked just like Cleo’s mother had done the night she’d packed her bags to leave South Africa. Bewildered. Bereft.

“We want different things.” That wasn’t a lie. She wanted them to be a team, to live and work together. He wanted … hell, it didn’t matter what he wanted, if he wasn’t willing to pursue it.

“Luca already knows you are leaving.” It was a statement, not a question. No doubt, Letizia had put two and two together and guessed why Luca wasn’t here this morning. Though she gave him more credit for a broken heart than Cleo did.

Cleo glanced at Giovanni to reassure herself that the news hadn’t precipitated another stroke. His gaze probed hers, though, please God, not deep enough to see the truth: that she was madly, deeply in love with their son, but he didn’t love her back. The story of her life.

“What will happen with the vineyard?”

She focused on him, blocking out Letizia’s stricken expression, and Pierina frozen beside the remains of the breakfast buffet. Talking business was safe; she wouldn’t have to lie, and she wouldn’t have to feel.

And there was one last thing she needed to do before she left. She screwed up her courage. “I’m giving you a choice: if you accept Gio as your new vintner, the bank will maintain its investment. However, if you choose to have an outsider make your wines rather than your own son, then the bank will foreclose in order to recoup its stake.”

Since father and son had achieved a détente last night, that should be an easy decision for Giovanni. But Cleo had no intention of making this easy for any of them. She stood straight, shoulders squared. Even in heels, her stature would never be considered intimidating, but she made herself as tall and regal as she could. “There’s a third choice: if you support Luca to take over, as both vintner and manager, we’ll give you back five percent of the shares we currently hold. Enough to give you back the majority stake in the vineyard.”

“But—”

She shook her head. “I know your objections, and I disagree. Luca is fully capable of running this vineyard and making its wines. I have faith in him. You should too.” She released an unsteady breath. “This offer expires at noon today.”

There. It was done.

The idea had come to her during the night; the deadline was to prevent either of them from thinking too hard or chickening out.

Beyond the open windows came the most welcome sound in the world: the sound of tyres on gravel. Bless Sarah. Her timing couldn’t be more perfect.

Without another word – with her heart in her throat she couldn’t have spoken anyway – Cleo dashed across the marble-floored hall to where she’d left her overnight bag, then out the wide front doors, startling the maid sweeping the steps. She jumped into the Castel Sant’Angelo pick-up, sagging back against the seat as reaction set in.

“You want to talk about it?” Sarah asked.

Cleo shook her head and looked away as Sarah took off down the drive.

She’d done her make-up with extra care to hide her late-night tears, but her eyes were still too puffy for contact lenses. She hoped the glasses were the only clue that she wasn’t as fine as she pretended to be, but if she spoke even one word, her friend would know she was most certainly not fine.

Sarah drove straight into town. As they passed thefortezzaand Luca’s office, Cleo’s breath caught. The Ferrari was parked outside. Surely he must have heard of her offer by now? Letizia would have called him immediately.

“Shouldn’t you talk to him before you leave, at least to say goodbye?” Sarah asked.

Cleo mustered a reassuring smile for her friend. “We said everything we needed to say last night.”

At Luca’s apartment, she threw her belongings into suitcases, half expecting—or perhaps hoping—that at any moment he would come barrelling through the door. He didn’t.

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