30. Antonio

The closer we get to the harvest, the fuller my schedule is and the more irritable I become. I’m being pulled in a hundred different directions all at once, with not nearly enough time to enjoy my beautiful wife.

Daniela’s fully immersed in the harvest, too, and with the final preparations for the “little school” we created. That’s what Valentina christened it, because there are only five students—all girls. She’s ecstatic about meeting some kids her own age.

I’m happy for her, and for her mother who’s excited about Valentina’s life becoming more normal. They both deserve some normalcy, and I know I could use some, but I’m not holding my breath.

No matter how busy I am, my attention never wavers far from that bastard Nikitin, who wants to shorten the time I have left on earth.

Lucas turned up several good leads, and Mikhail and his men have gotten close, but the disgraced oligarch has managed to stay out of our clutches. I’m not so concerned with my personal safety, but Nikitin’s not a soldier who understands the importance of patience. The longer he’s out there, the more desperate he’ll become. This puts everyone I care about at substantial risk.

Which is why I have to make an unpleasant call to my mother. I’ve put it off too long as it is.

“Hello,” Lydia Huntsman Taft says in a voice that resounds with happiness—happiness that I’m about to put a damper on.

“Good morning. How are you?”

“Any day that begins with a phone call from my son is a good day.”

I call often enough, usually on my way to work in the morning, that she’s not suspicious.

“And you, querido?”

My mother is the only human being on earth who refers to me as dear. It makes me smile every time she says it.

“Busy.”

“Busy is good. It will keep you out of trouble.”

Hope springs eternal.

“How are my girls?”

“You see more of Valentina these days than I do. From what I understand, you’ve been making yourself at home at Samantha’s.”

She chuckles.

“And Daniela—” I start to say she’s busy with the harvest, but that would be unwise given what I’m about to say to my mother. “It’s nice to have her to myself.” And it is. More than nice. Much more.

“That’s what a mother wants most for her children. That they’re healthy, and happy, and loved, and they have someone to love them back.” She sighs. “You make your mother so proud when you speak lovingly of your wife. Because what a mother doesn’t want is for her daughters to be forced into a loveless marriage, or for her sons to be so callous they don’t care.”

I don’t reply because I’m tired of the discussion. She’s made it abundantly clear how she feels about arranged marriages. Given her own, and her baby sister’s, she has every right to be wary. But my marriage is not her concern.

“Do you know anything about Dimitri Fedorov?” I begin with the subject that will give her the least amount of heartburn.

“The Russian gangster?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s the head of the European Bratva, although I heard he recently died in a car accident. Are you having some issues with the Bratva? You don’t want to get involved with them, Antonio,” she warns, like I’m a boy who’s thinking about hanging out with the rough kids down the street.

“No issues. Tell me what else you know about Fedorov.”

“Do you have a list of people that you’re going to ask me about? Because I don’t have all day. As a matter of fact, I have an appointment to get a pedicure. And then I’m spending the afternoon at the pool with my granddaughters. I’d like to take them to a show or shopping, and then to lunch, but their fathers are such spoilsports.”

Their fathers. I adore Valentina, but I never think of her as my child. Not exactly. Although, I would be honored if one day she decided I was a good enough man to be her father.

I’ve just fallen into my mother’s trap. She’s doing what she always does when she doesn’t want to discuss something—obfuscating.

“I’m not a five-year-old you can distract with a lollipop.” Although for a moment, you did.

“You were never a child to be distracted with a lollipop. You were stubborn and persistent. And you haven’t changed.”

“Did you know him? Or better yet, did Maria Rosa know him?”

“Mind your business, Antonio.” She uses an acerbic tone to shut down the line of questioning.

I’m sure it works with some people, but it only makes me more determined.

“From your tenor, I assume they were well acquainted.”

“What’s this all about?”

“Daniela and I had dinner with Fedorov the night of his accident. He told a story about how Maria Rosa helped get his daughter back. He said she had a good friend who could corroborate—and suggested I ask my mother about it.”

“Pfft. It’s not your business.”

“Daniela is my business. That makes her mother my business. And I don’t think anyone would argue that you’re my business, too.”

She huffs. “It’s true. But don’t ask for the details, because you won’t like what you hear.”

I know enough about the escapades of the three amigas to know that what I hear will give me nightmares.

“Was he in love with her?” I ask, probing to see how much of his story was true.

“I don’t know anything about that. But if you’re insinuating—don’t you dare sully her memory. Not to me, and not to Daniela.”

“I don’t intend to sully anyone. Fedorov actually said that she wasn’t aware of his feelings.”

“That, I believe. Everyone loved her. Rosa was beautiful and good. She was special. Her daughter and her granddaughter inherited those qualities.”

I won’t argue with that.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me about him? Let me rephrase. Is there anything else I should know about him?”

“Is that why you called this morning, right before the harvest, when there isn’t enough time in a day to eat, let alone chat about dead Russians?”

If only it were that simple.

“I called to say hello, as always, and to tell you that I don’t want you in Porto for the harvest.”

She doesn’t utter a single word for what seems like an eternity. But I sense her fury. The seas from here to London are tumultuous with angry swells. I wish it could be different. Not this year.

I don’t want to have to worry about her and my wife all week with Nikitin still walking the earth. It’s bad enough Daniela will be at risk, but at least she occasionally listens to reason. My mother, however, doesn’t give a shit what I say. She does as she damn well pleases.

“It seems you have your wires crossed, meu amor. It doesn’t matter how old you are, I’m still the parent. I don’t take orders from you.”

No, she doesn’t take orders from anyone. Not anymore. Most days that pleases me to no end. But not today. I should have been smarter about how I broached the subject.

“I didn’t mean to issue an order.” I don’t want to worry her unnecessarily, but I need her to listen, and do as I ask. “Things are unsettled here. I know you’re looking forward to the harvest activities, and I was looking forward to having you here, but the heightened security is going to have us stretched thinner than usual. It would be better if you didn’t come this year.”

“Better for whom? For you? Because it certainly wouldn’t be better for me. Why don’t we cut right to the chase, Antonio? I’m going to the harvest. I went from my father’s house to my husband’s. Your grandfather wasn’t the tyrant your father was, but neither Vera nor I did a thing that wasn’t sanctioned by him. In these last twelve years, for the first time in my life, I’ve made my own decisions. I live my life on my own terms. It’s been more freeing than I ever imagined. And no man, not even my son who I love dearly, will order me about again.”

She pauses for a breath. “You lay out the terms that you would prefer for the visit—details that will make you more comfortable about my safety—and I’ll tell you which ones I can accept.”

My blood pressure is through the roof, but I won’t argue with her, because it’s futile. I could make her stay in London, but I don’t spend more than a second entertaining the idea. For decades, she lived under the thumb of a monster, and my grandfather was no picnic, either. I won’t become another bastard who sucks the joy out of her life.

It’s not a sound decision on my part—no decision borne of weakness ever is. I won’t kid myself. That’s what this is—me being soft.

“We don’t need to stay at my house in the valley,” she adds, to sweeten the pot. “We can stay at your house, if you prefer.”

I don’t prefer. But it will make protecting her easier, and it’ll save us some manpower.

“Staying with us is a good idea. We’ll have more time to spend together.” I pause for a beat, trying to decide how to phrase my request.

“I’ll respect your right to self-determination, and you’ll respect my authority while you’re in Porto. I can’t have you questioning me at every turn. Especially publicly. It diminishes my power in the region.”

“You don’t need to worry in that regard. I’ve been playing the game my entire life. I defer to your authority more often than you know, Antonio. Why do you think I’ve never asked you about Tomas’s disappearance?”

I assumed you were saving that for the face-to-face conversation I won’t be having.