beyond the rise. On the acres bordering the Marcelli lands were the European cuttings. They had grown strong, producing some of the best grapes. Old had been grafted into new, year after year.
“A stolen legacy,” he murmured to himself.
Max trotted over and nosed his hand. Nic patted the dog.
He’d built his dreams of revenge on a lie. Nothing he’d built was his alone. It had been stolen by a man twisted and bent by revenge.
Was Nic so very different?
Nic drove along the coast road for nearly an hour. He’d pulled on his helmet, but forgotten a jacket. The cool air stung his chest and arms, but he didn’t turn back. He couldn’t-not until he’d seen the proof.
The highway turnoff was clearly marked, but after that, he had to rely on memory more than signs. It took him nearly thirty minutes to find the well-cared-for cemetery on the bluff. Once inside the wrought-iron gate, he made his way to the fenced section overlooking the ocean. Large marble statues and benches declared those resting here to be persons of substance with financial means. However ill-gotten those means might be.
Nic turned off the motorcycle and slipped off his helmet. The afternoon was silent except for the wind rustling leaves and stirring the grass.
For once he ignored the giant column over his great-grandfather’s grave and the small stone that marked Sophia’s resting place. His grandmother held a place of honor, but he didn’t stop there. Instead he searched by the back corner for something he’d seen years ago and had not understood.
When he found the simple marker, it contained only a date. No name, no words of comfort or loss. Sophia’s stillborn child. Antonio Marcelli’s son or daughter. Mia hadn’t said which. Maybe Sophia had hurt too much to say in her diary.
He bent down and touched the smooth stone, as if he could somehow reach beyond and connect with the past. Behind him, Salvatore’s grave loomed like a dark shadow. Nic had never thought much about his great-grandfather. He knew now he should have done his best to understand the man so he wouldn’t be doomed to repeat the same mistakes.
He sat on the grass and stared up at the heavens. To have come so far only to find out he’d been wrong from the beginning.
The truth was here, in the quiet, and at last he was forced to acknowledge that which he’d never admitted even in the darkest recesses of his soul.
He’d wanted Marcelli Wines to prove he was good enough.
Wild Sea had been the business success, but Marcelli Wines had the family. How many times as a child had he hovered just out of sight, watching the girls play together? How many nights had he stolen up to the window and pressed his nose against the dining-room glass to see them all sitting around the table? In the summer those big windows had been open, so he had heard their conversation, their laughter, and he’d ached to be a part of that.
For years he’d worked to prove he was good enough. And for whom? His parents, who had never cared? His grandfather, who sent him away? Brenna, who had chosen someone else?
The plan had formed the night he’d been forced to leave home. He’d vowed he would show them all. He would prove he was the best, and he would make them crawl to him.
His grandfather had returned first, begging him to come home and run the winery. The old man had needed him for business, but had never taken Nic back into his heart. When Emilio had died, the two of them had barely been speaking.
Over the next few years he’d expanded, growing in money and power until only Marcelli was left to be conquered.
He’d spent seven years of his life battling ghosts. It was a war he could never win. And if he did, what would he have? A few acres? The right to use a label? He would still be alone. He would still have to look at himself in the mirror. He would still not have Brenna.
He dropped his chin to his chest and closed his eyes. Brenna. She had reappeared without warning, offering what he thought was the perfect way to ensure his plan worked. He’d loaned her money because he thought the callable note gave him leverage, but was that the only reason? Hadn’t he also done it so that she would be nearby?
Of course, he thought, wondering why he hadn’t seen it before. Brenna, whom he’d never been able to forget. She’d exploded into his life like a shooting star, her light reaching all the way into the dark corners of his soul. He’d tried to hate her, but couldn’t. He’d tried to forget her, to love someone else. Anyone else. He’d failed. Brenna, who had told him she loved him.
She wouldn’t now. Not when she learned the truth.
Nic’s eyes opened. Panic seized him. In that moment he knew his only chance was to get to Brenna as quickly as possible and tell her everything. If he was able to explain, to apologize, to take it all back, then maybe she would understand. Maybe she would still love him.
Brenna was not in the mood to face her grandfather again, but she didn’t have a choice. Mia dragged her into the house and found him in the library, sitting at his desk.
“We have to talk,” Mia said. “You’re not going to believe what I found out.”
“I must speak as well,” he said. His gaze settled on Brenna.
She had the thought that he looked old. Concern threaded its way through her until she reminded herself that he was going to sell the winery and destroy her world.
“Grandpa, this is important,” Mia protested.
“So is this. It’s about the sale.”
Mia’s mouth dropped open. “What sale?” She sucked in a breath. “No. You can’t. Brenna’s going to run the winery.”
Brenna appreciated the support. Unfortunately it wouldn’t have any influence on her grandfather. She ached everywhere. As much as she wanted to crawl in bed and pull the covers over her head until this all went away, she refused to show weakness again. She braced herself for the next blow and vowed she would handle it just fine.
“Have you already signed the papers?” she asked, pleased when her voice didn’t shake.
“No. The men who approached me aren’t the ones interested in the winery. They are a front. Very respectable, very generous. A man could go a lifetime without hearing such a fine offer.”
Brenna didn’t know if he was trying to make her feel worse, but if he was, he was succeeding. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “So?”
“So I do not deal with faceless corporations. I made a few phone calls to the bank who would handle the loan. A friend talks to another friend. Eventually I have a name.”
Maybe it was her imagination, but she would have sworn his hard expression softened a little. She didn’t think that was good news.
Brenna clutched the back of the chair in front of her. She repeated to herself that she would handle it. Everything would be fine. There was no name her grandfather could say that would hurt her more than she’d already been hurt.
No name except one.
Her grandfather nodded. “You already know.”
She shook her head. It couldn’t be possible.
“Nicholas Giovanni.”
18
“No!” Mia cried, her voice thick with outrage. “Not Nic. He couldn’t. We were just…” She threw down the diary. “He just can’t be the one.”
