Chapter 12 1946's Answer
Spring arrived in a symphony of green, transforming Rossi Estate from winter dormancy to vibrant life. The vines unfurled tender leaves, wildflowers carpeted the hillsides, and the lemon trees Damien had planted burst into fragrant white blossoms that perfumed the air around the villa.
Our wedding—our real wedding, as I'd come to think of it—was scheduled for tomorrow. Not a legal ceremony, as we were already married on paper, but a renewal of vows that would transform our business arrangement into a true marriage before family and friends. The estate hummed with preparation activity: workers setting up chairs in the olive grove, caterers preparing traditional Tuscan dishes, and Matteo directing everything with the precision of a symphony conductor.
I stood in what had been my mother's sewing room, now temporarily converted to a bridal preparation area. Her wedding dress—simple ivory silk with delicate lace trim—hung by the window, carefully restored for me to wear. Unlike the designer gown I'd worn for our London civil ceremony, this dress carried history and meaning, connecting me to the mother I'd lost too soon.
A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. Elena? Damien's voice called. Are you decent?
Yes, come in, I replied, smiling at his unexpected adherence to the tradition of not seeing the bride before the wedding. The dress is covered.
He entered, looking uncharacteristically casual in linen trousers and a light sweater. Five months of dividing our time between London and Tuscany had softened his perpetually formal appearance, though he still maintained impeccable style even in relaxed clothing.
The florist needs final approval on the table arrangements, he said, then stopped, noticing my expression. What is it?
Nothing, I assured him. Just... taking it all in. How much has changed.
His eyes softened as he crossed the room to me. Having second thoughts?
About you? No. I reached up to smooth an imaginary wrinkle from his sweater. About having sixty people here watching us exchange vows? Perhaps a few nerves.
We could elope, he suggested, only half-joking. Disappear to that little coastal town you love. Get married with only the sea as witness.
I laughed. And face Matteo's wrath? I'd rather confront a board of hostile investors.
Fair point. His hand found mine, fingers intertwining naturally. Speaking of confrontations, I received word from my investigator this morning. About James.
My breath caught. Despite our happiness these past months, the shadow of James Blackwood had lingered. The financial threat he posed had been neutralized through legal action and the Sheikh's investment, but the question of his connection to my parents' accident remained unresolved.
What did they find? I asked, bracing myself.
Enough evidence to bring to the authorities, Damien said carefully. Phone records placing him in the area the night of the accident. Receipts from a mechanic showing brake work on a rental car returned with front-end damage. And most damning—a series of payments to Lorenzo dating back to that time.
Lorenzo? I repeated, stunned. He was involved?
Not in the accident itself. The payments began afterward—hush money, essentially. James needed someone inside the family to ensure certain questions weren't asked.
The revelation hit me like a physical blow. Lorenzo—my father's brother, my own uncle—had taken money to remain silent about circumstances surrounding my parents' deaths. The betrayal felt deeper than his financial mismanagement or even his sale of counterfeit wine.
Does he know? That we've discovered this?
Not yet. Damien's expression was grim. I wanted you to decide how to proceed. The evidence is compelling but not absolute. If we take it to the police, it will mean a very public investigation. Your parents' accident reopened after twenty years. The media attention would be significant.
I moved to the window, looking out over the estate my parents had loved, trying to imagine what they would want. Justice, certainly—but at what cost to the legacy they'd built?
And if we don't go to the police? I asked finally.
We confront James privately. Present the evidence. Make it clear that we know, and that the information is secured with multiple attorneys should anything happen to either of us. Damien joined me at the window. It's your decision, Elena. I'll support whatever you choose.
The weight of choice pressed heavily on me. Twenty years I'd lived believing my parents' death was a tragic accident. Now, on the eve of beginning a new chapter in my life, I faced the possibility of reopening that wound.
Before I could respond, Matteo appeared at the door, his weathered face unusually animated. Elena, Mr. Blackwood—you need to come quickly. To the old cellar. We've found something.
We followed him through the villa and down the worn stone steps to the ancient underground cellar—the heart of Rossi Estate's history. Several workers stood around a section of the far wall, where it appeared stones had been removed to reveal a small cavity.
We were checking the foundation for the expansion, Matteo explained, making sure the old walls could support the new construction. Marco noticed this section sounded hollow when tapped.
As we approached, I could see something nestled in the revealed space—a wooden box, darkened with age but intact.
It was hidden behind the stones, Marco said, stepping aside. Sealed up, like a time capsule.
With careful hands, Matteo extracted the box and placed it on a nearby table. The wood was old but well-preserved in the cellar's constant temperature and humidity. No lock secured it, only a simple latch dulled with age.
Should we open it? Damien asked, looking to me.
Heart pounding with anticipation, I nodded and lifted the latch. Inside, nestled in faded velvet, lay three objects: a bottle of wine with the distinctive Rossi Estate label marking it as the legendary 1946 vintage, a leather-bound journal, and a sealed envelope yellowed with age.
The envelope bore a single name in faded ink: Harold.
Damien's breath caught audibly. My father.
With trembling fingers, I lifted the envelope, offering it to him. It's addressed to him. It should be yours to read.
He stared at it for a long moment before shaking his head. Together, he said softly. Whatever secrets our families share, we should uncover them together.
I carefully broke the seal, extracting a single sheet of paper covered in my father's distinctive handwriting. The letter was dated just weeks before his death.
Dear Harold, I read aloud, voice steady despite the emotion tightening my throat. If you are reading this, then either we have finally reconciled, or I am gone and someone has discovered this repository. I hope for the former, but prepare for the latter.
Damien moved closer, his shoulder pressing against mine in silent support as I continued.
The enclosed bottle is the last authentic 1946 Rossi Estate Riserva from my grandfather's legendary vintage. I've saved it all these years, hoping someday we might share it as we once shared friendship. The journal contains my grandfather's notes on its creation—the true Rossi method that made it exceptional.
I paused, emotion threatening to overcome me as my father's voice seemed to speak through time.
Harold, I know the pain Lorenzo's actions caused you. By the time I discovered his scheme, the damage was done. Your financial ruin, your withdrawal from our friendship—these have haunted me. I've tried many times to reach out, only to have my letters returned unopened.
Damien's hand found mine, squeezing gently as I read on.
I write now not seeking forgiveness, but to offer truth. The 1946 vintage was never just wine to our families. It represents what was best in both of us—your business acumen that helped my grandfather export to England after the war, my family's traditional methods that created something extraordinary. Together, Blackwood distribution and Rossi craftsmanship made history.
I didn't know, Damien murmured. My father never spoke of a business connection.
I continued reading, my father's words bridging decades of misunderstanding.
Whatever happens between us, I hope someday our children might rebuild what we've broken. Wine, like friendship, improves with age when properly tended. The true Rossi wine can redeem everything—not through its monetary value, but through the legacy of cooperation it represents.
The letter ended with a simple closing: Your friend always, despite everything. Antonio.
Silence fell in the ancient cellar as the final words hung in the air. After a moment, Damien reached for the journal, carefully opening its brittle pages.
It's the complete recipe, he said wonderingly. Every detail of how the 1946 was made. The specific blend, the barrel aging process, even the exact vineyard sections where each grape variety was grown.
My grandfather's secret method, I whispered. The one that died with him.
Matteo stepped forward, examining the bottle with expert eyes. It's authentic, he confirmed. And remarkably well-preserved in this sealed space.
We all stared at the unexpected treasures—physical manifestations of a connection between our families that preceded the bitterness and revenge that had defined Damien's and my early relationship.
They were partners, Damien said, the realization dawning in his voice. Before they were rivals, before my father became obsessed with collecting Rossi wines... they were business partners.
And friends, I added softly. Friends who lost their way.
The parallels to our own journey were unmistakable—what had begun as antagonism transformed into partnership and eventually love. History repeating itself, but with a different ending.
My father never received this, Damien said, carefully refolding the letter. Never knew Antonio wanted reconciliation.
And my father died before he could deliver it in person, I finished. So it waited here, in the heart of the estate, for us to find.
The significance of the timing—discovering this connection on the eve of our wedding—wasn't lost on either of us. What might have been dismissed as coincidence months ago now felt like something more meaningful.
We should go up, Matteo said tactfully. Let you have some privacy with this.
As the workers filed out, leaving us alone in the cellar surrounded by generations of Rossi wines, Damien carefully lifted the 1946 bottle.
What do you think we should do with it? he asked.
I considered the question, thinking of all the bottle represented—lost friendship, missed opportunities for reconciliation, but also the foundation of a legacy that had eventually brought Damien and me together.
I think, I said slowly, we should save it for a special occasion.
More special than our wedding?
Much more. I placed my hand over his where it held the bottle. For when we have news to celebrate. News that would make both our fathers very happy.
Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed by a warmth that still surprised me when it broke through his usually controlled expression. Children? Our own little Blackwood-Rossi merger?
I laughed at his characteristic business terminology. Something like that. Though I hope any children we have inherit more than just our families' business sense.
Your passion, he said immediately. My determination. Your connection to tradition. My eye for innovation. His free arm slipped around my waist. Though perhaps not my oak allergies or your stubborn streak.
My stubborn streak? I raised an eyebrow. That's rich coming from a man who spent twenty years plotting elaborate revenge.
Fair point. He set the bottle carefully back in its velvet nest. Though I'd argue that same determination led me to pursue you with equal vigor once I realized revenge was far less satisfying than loving you.
Even now, months into our transformed relationship, his direct declarations of love still caught me off guard. Damien didn't speak of emotions easily, making such statements all the more powerful when they came.
We should bring these upstairs, I said, gathering the journal and letter. Keep them safe.
And decide what to do about James and Lorenzo, he reminded me gently. That question still needs an answer.
I nodded, the discovery having momentarily pushed aside the darker revelation about my parents' accident. I think I know what to do, I said after a moment. But first, let's secure these treasures.
We carefully repacked the box and carried it upstairs to the study, placing it in the estate's small safe. Tomorrow would be soon enough to make decisions about justice and consequences. Tonight was for honoring connections found and restored.
---
Our wedding day dawned clear and perfect, the Tuscan spring offering its finest weather for the occasion. As tradition dictated, Damien had spent the night in the guest cottage, leaving the main villa to me and the small army of helpers preparing for the ceremony.
I stood before the mirror in my mother's restored wedding dress, my hair adorned with small white flowers from the lemon grove. The simplicity of the gown contrasted sharply with the elaborate designer creation I'd worn for our first, contractual wedding. This dress carried history and heart—like the marriage we were now choosing freely.
A knock at the door revealed Lady Whitmore—Arabella—elegantly dressed and carrying a small box.
May I come in? she asked, her usual imperious manner softened by genuine warmth.
Of course. I welcomed her with a smile, our relationship having evolved considerably since our first frosty meeting. You look beautiful.
As do you, my dear. She approached, studying me with approval. Your mother's dress suits you perfectly. She would be proud today.
Thank you. I touched the delicate lace at the sleeve. I wish she could be here. Both my parents.
They are, in their way. Arabella gestured around the room—my mother's space, filled with objects she had loved. And I bring something that might help you feel that connection even more strongly.
She opened the box she carried, revealing an antique pearl hairpin. This belonged to Damien's grandmother. Harold gave it to his wife on their wedding day. I thought perhaps you might wear it—something old and borrowed, connecting both families.
The gesture—from a woman who had once clearly disapproved of me as not aristocratic enough for her nephew—moved me deeply. I would be honored, I said, blinking back unexpected tears.
As she carefully secured the pearl pin in my hair, Arabella spoke softly. I was wrong about you, you know. When you first married Damien, I thought you were simply another calculated business move on his part.
I was, initially, I admitted.
Perhaps. But you became much more. She stepped back to survey her handiwork. I've known my nephew his entire life. I've seen him build walls around himself since finding Harold that terrible day. You are the only person who has ever truly breached those defenses.
Before I could respond, another knock announced Matteo, come to escort me to the ceremony. It's time, piccola, he said, using the childhood nickname that now carried decades of love and loyalty.
The olive grove had been transformed for our wedding—simple white chairs arranged in rows, an archway of flowering vines marking the spot where we would exchange vows. As I walked down the aisle on Matteo's arm, I saw faces that represented every chapter of my life: vineyard workers who had known me since childhood, London friends we'd made together, Sheikh Abdullah and his family who had flown in specially for the occasion, and at the front, Damien—waiting for me with an expression that made my heart race despite the months we'd now been together.
He wore a beautifully cut suit, but had forgone his usual formal tie in favor of an open collar—a small concession to the rustic setting that somehow made him even more handsome. As I reached him, his eyes moved over me with unmistakable admiration.
You are breathtaking, he murmured as I took my place beside him.
The ceremony was simple and heartfelt, with vows we had written ourselves—promises not of obedience or ownership, but of partnership and respect. When the time came to exchange rings, Damien surprised me by producing a small wooden box carved from an old wine barrel.
From the 1946 cask, he explained softly as he opened it to reveal two simple bands. I had them made from the barrel staves my father collected—one piece of our shared history transformed into something new.
As we exchanged these meaningful rings—so different from the showy diamond that had symbolized our business arrangement—I felt the circle of our journey completing itself. What had begun in revenge and necessity had transformed, against all odds, into something genuine and precious.
The celebration that followed was everything a Tuscan wedding should be—long tables under the trees laden with local delicacies, wine flowing freely from Rossi Estate bottles, music and laughter continuing well into the evening. Damien and I moved among our guests hand in hand, no longer performing the role of happy couple but truly embodying it.
As sunset painted the vineyard gold, we slipped away from the festivities to share a private moment. Walking together to the newly planted section where our winter cutting had taken root, we stood in comfortable silence watching the fading light transform the landscape.
Happy? Damien asked, his arm around my waist.
Completely, I assured him, leaning into his embrace. Though there's still one piece of unfinished business.
He nodded, understanding immediately. James and Lorenzo.
I've made my decision, I said, turning to face him. I don't want to pursue criminal charges. Not because they don't deserve punishment, but because dragging this into the public eye would taint my parents' memory with scandal and bitterness.
I understand, he said, though I could see the struggle in his eyes—his innate sense of justice warring with respect for my choice.
Instead, I continued, I want to meet with them. Both of them. Present what we know, and offer terms.
What terms could possibly be appropriate for what they've done?
For James, permanent separation from both our families and businesses. Legal documentation of his actions placed with attorneys, to be filed if he ever attempts contact again. I'd thought this through carefully. For Lorenzo, the same professional separation, plus a requirement to make full financial restitution to the estate for his years of mismanagement.
Damien considered this, his expression thoughtful. Not punishment, but protection. Ensuring they can never harm what we're building together.
Exactly. My parents wouldn't want their deaths to cast a shadow over our new beginning. They would want us to secure the future, not avenge the past. I reached up to touch his face gently. I think you understand that better than anyone.
He turned to press a kiss into my palm. I spent twenty years letting revenge consume me, only to discover it offered no peace. You taught me that moving forward requires letting go.
Not forgetting, I clarified. Just not being defined by what happened before.
The sound of music and laughter from our wedding celebration drifted across the vineyard—a reminder of the joy waiting for us, if we chose to embrace it. Damien took my hand, leading me back toward the lights and community that represented our shared future.
Speaking of the future, he said as we walked, I've been thinking about that special occasion we're saving the 1946 bottle for.
Have you? I smiled up at him, noting the uncharacteristic hint of nervousness in his expression.
I think we might need it sooner than we planned. His eyes met mine, a question in them. The guest room next to our bedroom—I was thinking it might make an excellent nursery. The morning light is perfect, and we could extend the garden view with a small balcony.
My heart stuttered at his careful, indirect way of approaching the subject. Are you suggesting we start working on a reason to open that bottle?
His smile—the genuine one that transformed his entire face and still appeared far too rarely—was answer enough. I've already sketched some preliminary designs. The walls would be perfect for a mural of grape vines and lemon trees.
The image was so unexpected—Damien Blackwood, financial titan and former revenge-seeker, designing nursery murals—that I couldn't help laughing with pure joy. I never thought I'd hear you planning nursery decorations.
I contain multitudes, he deadpanned, then grew serious again. Is it too soon? To think about expanding our family?
I stopped walking, turning to face him fully. It's perfect timing, I assured him. Though I should warn you—Rossi women are notoriously fertile. That 1946 bottle might be opened sooner than you think.
His eyes darkened with emotion and something more primal. Perhaps we should make our excuses and retire early. To... discuss nursery designs in greater detail.
What about our guests?
They're Italian. They understand the importance of newlyweds seeking privacy. He pulled me closer. Besides, we have important family planning to attend to.
As we rejoined the celebration briefly to bid goodnight to our closest friends, I caught sight of the old cellar entrance where my father's hidden treasures had been discovered. The 1946 bottle waited in our safe, a tangible link between past and future—between the complicated history that had brought us together and the legacy we would now create together.
Whatever children might come from our union would inherit not just the blended surnames of Blackwood and Rossi, but a story of redemption—of how hatred had transformed to love, how business had yielded to passion, how two people bound initially by contract had discovered something far more valuable in the vineyard rows and lemon groves of Tuscany.
And someday, when the time was right, we would open that bottle—the wine my grandfather had crafted and my father had preserved—and toast to the truth of Antonio Rossi's final message: that the true Rossi wine, like true love, could indeed redeem everything.
