Chapter 6 Cold War and Strong Spirits

Morning arrived with uncomfortable clarity, sunlight streaming through windows I'd forgotten to close. I hadn't slept. My eyes felt gritty, my thoughts razor-sharp after hours of turning possibilities over in my mind. One thought crystallized above all others: I wouldn't be a pawn in Damien Blackwood's revenge game.

I packed quickly—just essentials, enough for a few days. The rest could wait. I scrawled a note on Blackwood Financial Group stationery, a petty choice that gave me a flicker of satisfaction:

Returning to Tuscany. Don't follow. —E.

I left it on his pillow, knowing he'd find it when he returned from his morning run. Then I called a taxi and disappeared before the household staff arrived.

At Heathrow, I purchased a one-way ticket to Florence with the credit card Damien had given me—another small rebellion. Let him track the charge. Let him know exactly where I'd gone and that I'd used his money to flee.

Seven hours later, I stepped onto Tuscan soil, breathing in the familiar scent of home. Matteo was waiting with the estate's battered pickup truck, his weathered face creased with concern.

You look terrible, piccola, he said by way of greeting, taking my bag.

I feel worse, I admitted as we drove through the countryside I loved. Did you find anything?

He nodded gravely. Some. Not all good. We'll talk at the house.

The villa welcomed me like an old friend, its stone walls radiating the day's captured warmth. I dropped my bag in my childhood bedroom—not the master suite I'd shared with Damien during our visit—and went directly to the kitchen, where Matteo was already pouring two glasses of our table red.

Tell me everything, I said, sinking into a chair.

Matteo's discoveries confirmed my worst fears. Lorenzo had indeed targeted Harold Blackwood specifically, selling him counterfeit wine as investment grade bottles. When the fraud was discovered, my father had protected Lorenzo publicly while privately forcing him out of direct estate management.

But why target Blackwood specifically? I asked, puzzled.

Matteo hesitated. That's where it gets complicated. From what I gathered from old Giuseppe—he worked the cellars back then—Harold Blackwood wasn't just any investor. He and your father had history.

What kind of history?

They were at university together in England. Friends, at first. Then rivals for your mother's affection.

The revelation hit me like a physical blow. My mother knew Damien's father?

Loved him, according to Giuseppe. But she chose your father in the end. Blackwood never forgave him. Matteo refilled our glasses. When Blackwood became wealthy in London finance, he started buying up 1946 Rossi vintages—the year your grandfather produced his masterpiece, the wine that put Rossi on the international map.

As some kind of... trophy? I asked.

Or obsession. He had dozens of bottles—most of the surviving vintage. Matteo looked troubled. When Lorenzo needed money and heard about this English collector obsessed with the '46, he saw an opportunity. He sold Blackwood counterfeit bottles at astronomical prices, knowing the man wouldn't resist.

I closed my eyes, the full picture emerging with horrifying clarity. And when the fraud was discovered, Blackwood lost everything. His money. His pride.

His life, Matteo finished quietly. And his son found him.

Damien. Ten years old, discovering his father dead because of a vendetta that began before either of us was born. No wonder he'd engineered our marriage—what better revenge than to take control of the vineyard his father had obsessed over, through the daughter of his rival?

What will you do now, Elena? Matteo asked.

I had no answer. The estate felt both sanctuary and prison—mine, yet entangled in a history I hadn't known existed. I spent the day walking the vineyards, touching the vines that had nourished generations of my family, trying to reconcile the place I loved with the tragedy it had spawned.

By evening, I'd reached no conclusions. I sat on the terrace, watching sunset paint the hills gold, when the distinctive sound of helicopter rotors shattered the peace.

Stubborn bastard, I muttered, standing as the sleek black machine descended on our landing pad. I'd known he would come—Damien never relinquished control easily—but I'd hoped for more time.

I remained on the terrace as he strode across the lawn, his London suit absurdly formal against the rustic backdrop. His expression was thunderous, his movements stiff with barely contained anger.

You left, he said when he reached me, the words clipped.

Very observant.

Without discussion. Without—

Without your permission? I cut in. I wasn't aware I needed it. Our contract specifies appearances, not imprisonment.

His jaw tightened. You know that's not—

Why are you here, Damien? To continue your revenge? To make sure your investment is secure? Or just to control me, like you try to control everything else?

Something flickered in his eyes—frustration, perhaps, or something deeper. We need to talk.

I think we're past talking. I turned away, heading into the house. You lied to me from the beginning. You used me to get to my family.

He followed, his footsteps sharp on the stone floor. It wasn't that simple.

It never is, is it? I whirled to face him in the kitchen. Was any of it real, Damien? Any moment between us? Or was it all just part of your grand plan to avenge your father?

Instead of answering, he reached into his jacket and withdrew a small object, placing it on the kitchen table between us. A lemon, bright yellow against the dark wood.

What is that supposed to be? I asked.

A peace offering.

I laughed bitterly. A lemon? That's your idea of making amends?

No. He looked uncomfortable, an expression so rare on his face that it momentarily silenced me. This arrived at the London house an hour after you left.

My confusion must have shown, because he continued, The first shipment from the grove. I had a team in Sicily planting lemon trees for you. The ones you said reminded you of your mother.

I stared at the lemon, then at him, speechless.

They're being delivered tomorrow, he added. By air. Thirty-six mature trees.

You... bought me a lemon grove?

Not exactly. I bought the land next to the south vineyard. Your favorite spot, according to Matteo. The trees are being transplanted there. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of genuine agitation I'd never seen before. It was supposed to be a surprise.

The gesture was so unexpected, so bizarrely extravagant and yet somehow thoughtful, that I didn't know how to respond. Before I could formulate words, the sound of a truck engine interrupted us. Matteo appeared at the kitchen door.

Your trees are here, he announced, looking between us with undisguised curiosity. The foreman says they need to start planting immediately to minimize shock.

That's not possible, Damien said. They weren't scheduled until tomorrow.

Matteo shrugged. Apparently someone paid extra for overnight shipping.

As Damien went to deal with the unexpected delivery, I remained in the kitchen, staring at the single lemon. A peace offering, he'd called it. But what kind of peace was possible between us now?

From the window, I watched as workers began unloading the first of what appeared to be dozens of mature lemon trees, their glossy leaves catching the last light of day. Damien stood supervising, jacket removed, sleeves rolled up—looking strangely at home in this rustic setting despite his expensive watch and polished shoes.

He'd remembered. Something I'd mentioned once, casually, about my mother's love of lemons—how the smell always reminded me of her. He'd not only remembered but acted on it, creating an entire grove as a gift.

What kind of revenge included such gestures?

Later that evening, after the first trees had been planted and the workers had departed, I found Damien in the wine cellar. He stood before the library collection, studying the empty space where the 1946 bottle should have been.

I saw you, I said from the doorway. At the cemetery.

He didn't turn. I wondered if that was you.

The bottle you left—it was from our collection.

No. Now he faced me. It was one of my father's. One of the few genuine bottles in his collection. I've had it for twenty years.

Why leave it at his grave?

He was silent for a long moment. To show him it was over. That I was letting it go.

Letting what go?

The hatred. His voice was low. The obsession that consumed him and then consumed me after his death.

I moved closer, studying his face in the dim cellar light. Are you? Letting it go?

Instead of answering, he reached for a nearby bottle—one of our newest vintages, still unlabeled, meant for tasting rather than serving. He opened it with practiced efficiency.

I married you for revenge, he admitted, pouring two glasses. I wanted to control Rossi Estate, to dismantle it piece by piece, to make your family feel what mine felt.

What changed? I asked, not touching the offered glass.

You. The word hung between us. You weren't what I expected.

And what did you expect?

Someone spoiled. Entitled. Someone who deserved punishment for their family's sins. His eyes met mine. Instead, I found someone who works harder than anyone on her estate. Who knows every vine, every worker. Who cares about legacy and tradition but isn't trapped by them.

I took the glass now, needing something to hold. Pretty words, Damien. But they don't change what you did.

No, he agreed. They don't.

We stood in silence, the ancient cellar around us a reminder of how small our individual grievances were against the sweep of time.

I'm staying here, I finally said. In Tuscany. Our arrangement can continue—public appearances when necessary for your business. But I won't live in London anymore, pretending this is something it's not.

He nodded slowly. And the Sheikh's contract?

I'll honor my part. I'm not breaking our agreement. I'm just... renegotiating the terms.

Something that might have been respect flickered in his eyes. Then, with deliberate care, he lifted his wine glass and hurled it against the stone wall. The crystal shattered, red liquid spattering like blood.

What are you doing? I gasped.

He didn't answer, simply watching as the wine dripped down the ancient stones. Then he reached for another bottle—this one bearing the label of an expensive Bordeaux he'd brought as a gift during our previous visit. He uncorked it and drank directly from the bottle, his eyes never leaving mine.

If we're renegotiating, he said after a long swallow, then I have terms of my own.

Such as?

Honesty. Complete honesty, from now on. No more secrets. No more hidden agendas.

I considered this, then set down my untouched glass and reached instead for a bottle of our cheapest table wine—the kind we sold to local restaurants for house pours. I opened it and took a deliberate drink.

Honesty, I agreed. Starting now.

We stood in the cellar, drinking from bottles like rebellious teenagers, the broken glass at our feet a fitting metaphor for the shattered pretenses between us.

I've hated your family for twenty years, Damien said after a while, his voice slightly roughened by the wine. And now I find myself... not hating you. It's inconvenient.

Despite everything, I felt a smile tug at my lips. Inconvenient?

Extremely. He took another drink. I had a very clear plan. You've ruined it.

Good.

As the night deepened around us, we remained in the cellar, talking more honestly than we ever had before. The wine loosened Damien's rigid control, revealing glimpses of the man beneath the carefully constructed facade. And somewhere between his third drink and his quiet admission—I've hated you for ten years... yet it took only ten days to start falling for you—I realized that whatever lay between us now was more complex and perhaps more genuine than anything our contract had anticipated.

When he finally fell asleep, his head resting against a wine rack, I covered him with my cardigan and left him there among the bottles that had both destroyed and, perhaps, might yet save us.