Artie took a deep breath and blinked to clear her clouded vision. The words in front of her confirmed her worst fears. Her home was mortgaged to the hilt. There was no way a bank would lend her enough funds to get the castello out of Luca Ferrantelli’s hands. The only job she had ever had was as her father’s carer. From fifteen to twenty-five she had taken care of his every need. She had no formal qualifications, no skills other than her embroidery hobby.
She swallowed and pushed the papers back across the desk. ‘What about my mother’s trust fund? Isn’t there enough left for me to pay off the mortgage?’
‘There’s enough for you to live on for the short-term but not enough to cover the money owed.’
Artie’s heart began to beat like a wounded frog. ‘How long have I got?’ It sounded like a terminal diagnosis, which in some ways it was. She couldn’t imagine her life without Castello Mireille. It was her home. Her base. Her anchor.
Her entire world.
Bruno Rossi shuffled the papers back into a neat pile. ‘A year or two. But even if you were by some chance to raise finance to keep the estate, the place needs considerable maintenance. Costly maintenance. The storm damage last year showed how vulnerable the castello is. The north wing’s roof still needs some work, not to mention the conservatory. It will cost millions of euros to—’
‘Yes, yes, I know.’ Artie pushed back her chair and smoothed her damp palms down her thighs. The castello was crumbling around her—she saw evidence of it every single day. But moving out of her home was unthinkable. Impossible.
She literally couldn’t do it.
Panic tiptoed over her skin like thousands of tiny ants wearing stilettoes. Pressure built in her chest—a crushing weight pushing against her lungs so she couldn’t take another breath. She wrapped her arms around her middle, fighting to hold off a full-blown panic attack. She hadn’t had one for a while but the threat was always lurking in the murky shadows of her consciousness. It had followed her like a malevolent ghost ever since she came home from hospital from the accident that killed her mother and left her father in a wheelchair.
An accident that wouldn’t have occurred if it hadn’t been for her.
The lawyer cleared his throat. ‘There’s something else…’ The formal quality of his tone changed and another shiver skittered down Artie’s spine.
She straightened her shoulders and cupped her elbows with her hands, hoping for a cool and dignified stance but falling way too short. ‘W-what?’
‘Signor Ferrantelli has proposed a plan for you to repay him. If you fulfil his terms, you will regain full ownership of the castello within six months.’
Artie’s eyebrows shot up along with her heart rate. And her anxiety grew razorblade wings and flapped frantically against her stomach lining like frenzied bats. How could she ever repay those mortgage payments in such a short space of time? What on earth did he require her to do? ‘A plan? What sort of plan?’ Her voice came out high and strained like an overused squeaky toy.
‘He didn’t authorise me to discuss it with you. He insists on speaking to you in person first.’ Bruno pushed back his chair, further demonstrating his unwillingness to reveal anything else. ‘Signor Ferrantelli has requested a meeting with you in his Milan office nine a.m. sharp, on Monday, to discuss your options.’
Options? What possible options could there be? None she wanted to think about in any detail. Ice-cold dread slithered into her belly. What nefarious motives could Luca Ferrantelli have towards her? A woman he had never met? And what was with his drill sergeant commands?
Nine a.m. Sharp. In his office. In Milan.
Luca Ferrantelli sounded like a man who issued orders and expected them to be obeyed without question. But there was no way she could go to Milan. Not on Monday. Not any day. She couldn’t get as far as the front gate without triggering crippling, stomach-emptying, mind-scattering panic.
Artie released her arms from around her body and gripped the back of the nearest chair. Her heart was racing like it was preparing for the Olympics. ‘Tell him to meet me here. It’s not convenient for me to go to Milan. I don’t drive and, from what you’ve just told me, I can’t afford a taxi or even an Uber.’
‘Signor Ferrantelli is a busy man. He expressly told me to tell you he—’
Artie stiffened her spine and raised her chin and ground her teeth behind her cool smile. ‘Tell him to meet me here, nine a.m. sharp, on Monday. Or not meet with me at all.’
* * *
Luca Ferrantelli drove his Maserati through the rusty entrance gates of Castello Mireille on Monday morning. The castello was like something out of a Grimm brothers’ fairy tale. The centuries-old ivy-clad stone building was surrounded by gardens that looked like they hadn’t been tended for years, with overgrown hedges, unpruned roses, weed-covered pathways and ancient trees that stood like gnarly sentries. The castello had loads of potential—years of running his late father’s property development company had taught him how to spot a diamond in the rough.
And speaking of diamonds…
He glanced at the velvet box on the seat next to him containing his late grandmother’s engagement ring, and inwardly smiled. Artemisia Bellante would make the perfect temporary bride. Her father, Franco, had emailed Luca a photo of his daughter shortly before he died, asking Luca to make sure she was looked after once he was gone. The photo had planted a seed in Luca’s mind—a seed that had taken root and sprouted and blossomed until all he could think about was meeting her—to offer her a way out of her present circumstances. Young, innocent, sheltered—she was exactly the sort of young woman his conservative grandfather would deem suitable as a Ferrantelli bride.
Time was rapidly running out on convincing his grandfather to accept the chemo he so desperately needed. Luca had a small window of opportunity to get
