Broken Bride

Dante:

It’s a proper day for a funeral.

Storm clouds gather overhead, dark and looming, but not a single drop of rain dares to fall on the last party that Enzo Bellanti will ever throw. All eyes swivel toward me as I step outside the doors of St. Helena’s, where black-clad mourners crowd the courtyard.

I’m tall, broad in the chest and shoulders, slim in the waist and hips, wearing a perfectly tailored pinstripe Kiton suit. My style and stature is familiar to the guests, the outline of Enzo’s eldest offspring giving them the impression that I’m him…that perhaps my father isn’t really dead after all.

My face is granite as I meet their serious gazes, seeing the calculation there. The big question on everyone’s mind: What’s going to happen to the Bellanti family now?

A heartbeat passes and then the spell breaks, the mourners returning to their hushed conversations. The sea of black—women in midnight dresses and hats with charcoal feathers and netting, the men in proper mourning suits and fedoras—matches the sky. And my mood.

Behind me stand my younger brothers, Armani and Marco, equally turned out and equally imposing.

The wind picks up, and I take a deep breath and gesture the grieving masses inside.

It’s time.

Standing by the door as everyone streams past, I nod my head and utter quiet thanks as people murmur their condolences. Most of them I’ve known since I was a child. Some are new to me, though I know their backgrounds. I’ve read their files. I know what their dealings with my father were. Their faces all wear similar masks of concern, though it doesn’t escape me that each and every one of them wants something from me. A continuation of their business with my father. A resolution. A comforting word. Advice.

Maybe a favor.

Favors are what my father traded in, and half the people here owe the Bellantis money (or more) in return. With him gone, it’s my job to settle the books. Cash in and move the family forward. It’s going to take some effort to sort things out, dig into the nitty gritty of who owes what, but I will. Down to the last detail. And I’ll collect in full. The expressions of everyone brushing by me show that they know it, too.

Once the mourners are all inside, I turn to check on my younger brothers.

Armani is slightly taller than me but more slender, decked out in his own bespoke suit. He’s wearing his neutral face, the one that makes him damn hard to read, but I know he’s doing everything he can to keep it together. Marco, the youngest of us, has on his trademark scowl. His hair is slicked straight back, glossy in the natural light like a television mobster. He cuts me a look, then tosses a nod in the direction of the pews.

I nod back.

Armani waits for me to pass and takes up the rear after closing the doors.

We sit up front, but I can’t tell how much of the service my brothers absorb. I hear the words, the mass, the hymns, the prayers, but it filters right through my mind and straight out. There’s so much to be done now that he’s gone.

Soon the mass is complete, the speeches over, the tears—both real and fake—shed. After pallbearing, we climb into the back of a black armored car with bulletproof glass and lead the procession of vehicles to the cemetery. Once we’re there, my brothers and I all file out into the gloom once again and make our way graveside.

I’m numb. Or, no—I’m somewhere else entirely. Body standing there in the grass, listening to the dirt hit the casket, while my mind is a million miles away.

Burial done, the three of us are left staring at the mound of earth that now covers our once formidable father.

Guests take their leave, some lingering in the background to talk. Marco is about to say something when a tight little blonde weaves her way into our trio with an apologetic smile and rests a hand on his forearm. She’s in a black bodycon dress and heavy makeup that’s more appropriate for a club, but I’m not surprised. It’s how Marco prefers his women: all flash. He’s still working his way through all the pussy in town like it’s his job. Who am I to rein him in…yet?

He moves off with her, leaving me and Armani alone. I’m glad we’ll have the chance to talk privately. I exhale, and it feels like the first time in hours.

My brother sinks his hands into the pockets of his pants and pulls his gaze from the grave to me. “The Bruno family representative was here.”

“I noticed.” I frown. The Brunos are a SoCal crime syndicate who’ve been looking to expand into Northern California. “What’d he say?”

“They’re eager to buy out our notes. Snap up their own slice of the gambling pie before the Chows in San Francisco muscle in.”

“I’m open to that,” I say.

The truth is, I’d be glad to get rid of those notes. I’d already begun scouring through my father’s holdings, weeding out the bad gambling debts we need to collect. My father had no qualms about loaning unlucky gamblers money to feed their habit, but I find it distasteful to prey on addicts.

Beyond that, collecting the note and interest was and always will be a cat and mouse game of how much violence it takes to force a borrower to pay up—and I’m not one for violence. If I have to exert some muscle, I prefer it be against someone who actually deserves it. Not some poor schmuck with an addiction to the ponies.

“Well, it’s off your plate then,” Armani says. “I’ll have the books turned over to the Brunos by the end of the month. Including some of our staff who’ll want to stay on under the new management.”

I raise my chin in acknowledgement, but I can tell my brother isn’t done yet. “What else?”

“We still have a few other loose ends to tie up.” Armani looks away and clears his throat. “Including the Abbotts.”

My shoulders tense. “Leave them to me.”

“But we were gonna write that off with the rest of the—”

“I said I’ll take care of it.” I slice my brother a look, silencing him. “You can handle the rest, but keep the Abbott debt out of the deal with the Brunos. I’m dealing with the Abbotts myself.”

Our father’s gone. I’m in charge now.

This is one account no one else is going to touch.

Frankie:

Napa Valley. Gosh, it’s good to be home.

Gentle hills roll around me as I drink in the sights from the back seat of the town car, the distant rows of grapevines lush and green against a lemon drop and tangerine sky. The three years I’ve been gone have flown by, and now that I’m in the welcoming arms of my hometown, it seems almost impossible to believe I’d ever left. My time in Tuscany had been crucial to the future success of our family winery, and I’m glad that I went—I’d go again in a heartbeat—but now I’m ready to get my fill of my family and my home.

Olivia and Charlotte have been texting nonstop since I landed in Oakland, asking for my ETA and sending endless celebratory and heart-shaped emojis. Though my sisters flew out to Italy to visit me a few years ago, I can’t wait to see them again. Livvie turned eighteen while I was away, and Charlie had run off and eloped. Thank goodness for social media so I could keep up with them. Life really does go on when you’re not around, and I clung to every Insta picture they dropped to help me feel like I was still a part of their journeys.

The landscape changes gently as we take the familiar route to our winery. My face is close to the window, my breath fogging the glass. Napa is amazingly similar to Italy—the ordered rows of vines, the commanding vistas, even the architecture of some of the homes are similar—but there’s something about Napa that’s completely its own. Maybe it’s the unique blend of sprawling estates and down-home mom-and-pop places.

The flash of a red and yellow sign up ahead catches my eye and I ask the driver to slow down. The Alvarez fruit stand has been here as long as I can remember, but as we approach, I find it’s very different from when I left.

“Can you pull over, please? I’ll just be a few minutes. You can keep the meter running.”

“No need,” the driver says with a smile. “I’m happy to take a break and get a bite to eat here. Twenty minutes enough time for you?”

“Yes, thank you!”

The car is barely stopped as I open my door and slip out.

Beneath my feet, the hard packed dirt is familiar, along with the sweet and earthy scent of fresh produce. The stand used to consist of a few tables inside an open-face, three-walled shed. Now, it’s been replaced with a much larger enclosure, a pavilion with pink and orange bougainvillea trellising up the poles. I see heaps of fruits and vegetables on display, a cluster of picnic tables, even a gazebo off to the side. A pebble walkway invites guests to wander as they enjoy their treats, while overflowing pots of geraniums and fuchsia hang from tall shepherd’s hooks around the property.

My chest swells as I spot a familiar figure inside the stand. The woman turns as if she knows I’m here, and calls to me before I can beat her to it.

“Frankie Abbott, back from Italy!”

Delores Alvarez comes toward me with open arms, wrapping me in her comforting embrace and giving me the kind of squeeze that used to crush the wind out of me when I was small. I always loved it, though. I still love it now. She was one of my childhood heroes.

“Hi, Mrs. Alvarez.”

She holds me at arms’ length and gives me a sly smile and a once-over. “Oh, Frankie. Tuscany suited you. Look at that tan skin and that sun-kissed blonde hair. So pretty. Even more than usual.”

Heat flares in my cheeks the way it does whenever someone compliments me. “Thank you. I love what you’ve done with the place! When did all this happen?”

“Come on, I’ll give you the tour.”

She shows me the pavilion and the gazebo, and then we wander through the fruit stand to the back room. Nostalgia hits me as I enter. The building may have been expanded, but this room is exactly the same. Shelves piled high with carefully labeled boxes. Produce crates stacked in the corner. Signs on silver metal stakes set against the wall. The air is heavy with the scents of cinnamon horchata, fresh strawberries, and citrus.

“Sit, Frankie, sit.” Mrs. Alvarez waves to the same café table and set of chairs I sat at as a child. I spent many happy afternoon hours in this back room, assembling boxes of produce, making fruit cups with chili pepper, lime juice, and sea salt, and learning the ins and outs of running a thriving business.

As a longtime family friend, Delores always had time for me when my father didn’t, and never once complained when he’d drop me off while he went to run errands. I loved the hustle and bustle of customers lining up to buy groceries or grab a homemade treat. I learned how to interact with customers, how to be charming and unafraid to interact with the public. The hard work and tight margins of running a family business didn’t get past me, either. I took it all to heart and I have Delores to thank for the businesswoman I am today.

One who hopes it’s not too late to turn my family’s winery around.

“How about a snack?”

“I’d love one,” I say. “My driver’s waiting for me though, so it has to be a quick one.”

Delores moves to the worktable and quickly scoops slices of cantaloupe, jicama, papaya, mango, and watermelon into plastic cups before spicing them with a generous dash of classic chili-lime salt. Then she pours a steaming cup of dark roast for us both and joins me across the intimate, round table.

“Cheers!” She clinks her cup of fruit against mine.

I pop a piece of cantaloupe into my mouth and moan at the blend of sweet and spicy. Talk about childhood memories. I have a mild out of body experience with the first few bites, then realize Delores is rapidly catching me up on all the local news and gossip that I’ve missed.

She’s an expert summarizer, and quickly rattles off three years’ worth of happenings. I try to keep up as she explains in her signature animated hand gestures and whispered, “who done it” tone about the new babies, the hookups, the breakups, whose kids went off to college. Divorces. Marriages.

“How’s Mama Alvarez?” I ask. She’s the matriarch of their family.

Mrs. Alvarez grins. “Retired, and still kicking. She had a hip replacement last year but she’s as spry as ever.”

“Glad to hear it,” I say.

“Oooh, and you heard, I’m sure, that Enzo Bellanti died.”

My sister texted me about it shortly after the news went public. I nod. “I heard.”

Mrs. Alvarez makes an exasperated sound and shakes her head. “You know, he was the one who loaned us the money to build the pavilion. At a reasonable rate, too. He knew we’d repay him someday.”

A chill whispers over my skin, as if a cool breeze suddenly touched me.

“A lotta folks in Napa owe the Bellantis favors like that,” she goes on. “Just like—”

Her voice trails off and the chill washes over me again. “Just like what?”

Delores sets her cup down, looking guilty. “I don’t want to gossip about your family, Frankie. But it’s no secret that your father owes a lot of people. Both local and out-of-town. You haven’t been home in so long, but…do you know what’s happening over there? Your father’s missed deliveries around town, and the place is rarely open to visitors or tour groups anymore. The Abbott Winery’s doors are all but closed.”

The papaya in my mouth might as well be a cold chunk of coal. I set down my fruit, take a careful swig of coffee, and paint on a smile. I know all about my father’s financial shortcomings, thanks to my sisters and their frantic, sometimes daily messages over what’s been going on. The Recession hit us hard back in ‘08, when us kids were too little to understand what was going on, and my family has been struggling to get out of the red ever since.

Now, it seems that our father has given up.

As for me, I think the Abbott Winery is simply going through a rebuilding stage. Going to Italy to learn how to grow and evolve a winery was just one tool in my repair kit to bail out the family business. I’d hoped to get a jump on things before gossip about our debts leaked, but it seems like I’m too late.

Who else knows?

Forcing another smile, I rise and smooth my hands down my thighs. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Alvarez. I really need to get going, though. I can’t wait to see my sisters.”

She envelops me in another generous hug, and I depart with the promise to be back soon. Once I’m back in the car, I instruct my dad’s driver to continue on to the winery.

Some of my joy at being home has diminished with the thought that my family’s business has deteriorated to the point that it’s becoming the whisper of the town. We finally turn onto the gravel road that cuts through the vineyards and leads to the house, and our property is both familiar and foreign to me. The vines are vibrant in their full summer growth, but they hang in overgrown clumps along their supports. Untrimmed, untended. My heart sinks as I spy bunches of grapes touching the ground here and there, left to lay and rot.

My throat goes tight as we reach the main winery compound. It’s the epicenter of our winery and should be bustling with visitors tasting our wines and socializing while tipsily nibbling from charcuterie boards and tapas plates.

But it’s empty. Completely empty.

Mrs. Alvarez warned me, but it’s still a shock.

I’d been so excited to see my sisters, but I push that aside now as desperation and disbelief pressurize inside my gut. I pay the driver, grab my bags, and rush up the stone path to the house. Some of the anxiety lessens as I notice how well the exterior of the house and grounds have been maintained. The lawn is tidy, flowers in full bloom.

But when I swing open the door and step inside, I notice immediately that the tulip-laden Dutch Golden Age painting that my family cherished for generations isn’t hanging in its coveted spot just inside the entry where guests couldn’t help but notice it.

Now, an off-color square covers the wall where the framed artwork protected the paint from sunlight and aging over so many years.

“Dad?” I call out, dropping my bags in the entry as I make my way through the house.

The formal dining room to the left yawns emptily as I pass. The French dining room set that was gifted to my grandfather from a winemaker friend in Beaujolais, who beautifully colored the wood with stain made from his own grapes, is gone. I skid to a stop and do a double take. My heart stutters as I rush to the living room. There, a cheap coffee table and chairs replace the rich leather ensemble that once comfortably filled the room. The Turkish hallway runner leading to the staircase is missing, too.

Evidence of my father’s debts.

I run to his den, not bothering to knock as I yell, “Dad!” and throw open the door.

He’s stretched out on the sofa, his feet propped up on the armrest. There’s a beer in one hand, and the other is pumping the air as he yells at a baseball game on the small flatscreen in the corner.

“Dad.” I hurry to him, my heart pounding. He shakes his head at the TV and takes a swig of his beer, not bothering to look at me. My brow furrows. “What is going on around here?”

“The A’s are screwing the whole season, that’s what’s going on,” he says, not even bothering to stand up and greet the daughter he hasn’t seen in three years.

Anger surges through me. This isn’t exactly the welcome I expected. My father isn’t a warm, loving man by any stretch, but this cold brushoff is stringent, even for him.

“Excuse me,” I say, crossing the room to stand in front of the TV. “But where is the furniture? And where are all the guests? The winery looks like it’s closed—”

“It is closed.” He takes another swig of beer as my stomach twists in knots.

“W-why?”

“It’s temporary, girl. Settle down. And please don’t block the tube. It’s the last inning.”

Stepping aside, I run a hand through my hair and grapple to get my emotions under control. My sisters had hinted that things were falling apart around here, but I’d thought they were being a little dramatic. This vineyard is our legacy. Dad wouldn’t let it just fall apart.

“Dad, please. The vines are a mess. How can you close the doors on the one thing that makes us money?”

That at least gets him sitting up and looking my way. “You watch yourself, Frankie.”

“This is our legacy,” I protest. “Don’t you care even a little bit what happens to this place?”

The corner of his hard mouth pulls up and I can’t tell if it’s a smile or a smirk. “Of course I care. But I got it all figured out. So quit your worrying.”

He turns his attention back to the game, and suddenly I feel a chill.

“What do you mean you got it all figured out?” I ask.

Without even glancing over, he says, “I sold the vineyard to the Bellantis.”

He says it so casually that I fear I’m hallucinating it, but as I process his words, my heart drops. My lips part, but I struggle to speak. I can’t comprehend this.

“You can’t do that to us. Why did I even go to Italy to learn if you’re just going to sell the winery out from under us?”

“Like I said, you can quit your worrying.” He turns the volume up higher. “All that hard learning you did will be put to good use after all. You’re part of the package.”

I’m struggling to keep up. “What does that mean?”

“Contract’s already signed. You’re gonna marry the heir.”