My parents exchange a glance.
“Good to hear,” my mother says. My father nods, likely realizing I’m not a complete screw-up.
Being expelled from the top private schools in Italy bruised our relationship. I, however, detest bullying and spoiled brats. I also dislike conforming when there is no logical reason to do so.
Once I found a suitable industry to harness my excess energy, creativity, and passion, I exploded. And in NYC, I found and worked with young fashion designers to create fresh clothing with edge.
We produced edgy garments that created record sales in most English-speaking nations. So many, in fact, that in fashion circles, I was called the Lion of the Catwalk.
“One other thing, son,” my father says before clearing his throat. “We think it’s time you come home… And grow up!”
I do not answer.
Grow up?
We are in dangerous territory. I’m thirty-three, fiercely independent, and not about to change. Being pushed out of home young and forced to live with strangers forces you to be.
My mother senses a storm brewing, and that it is about to get ugly. “Anyway dear, there are several upcoming weddings.”
I look down at my polished leather boots, and I feel like I’m ten again.Screw it.I lift my head and force a smile. “Are you really going to try to marry me off to some other family with a similar position in society?”
I try to avoid the heated discussion and minefield. They have been trying to see me marry like we’re back in medieval Europe for a decade.
I pace and try to remain civil as we debate.
I do not tell them the two Italian divorcees they are trying to push on me both tried to blow me as a teen. One tried to take me against her parents’ fireplace, as they argued in a bedroom upstairs.
The other wanted it rough in their stables.
As she pleaded and whimpered, I stopped fingering her. I told her enough was enough and that I would not screw her in front of her sister. Especially not a teen.
“Just think about it,” my father says, snapping me out of the memory. “No pressure, but good families. Good bloodlines. A man could do worse, and if a man does not have a high position in society, then what does he have?”
I think of a dozen things, starting with freedom—the other great F word.
Dignity also comes to mind, as does integrity.
As my father puts a log on the fire, he clears his throat. “Meanwhile, I’ll come straight out with it, but it’s pretty much as discussed in the email. The family wealth is not what it once was, and we are in somewhat of a corner.” My father straightens his old-fashioned jacket and gets ready to drop it. “Well, as you know, we need your help. It’s time to dig in, son. We need to tidy up the old home.”
Something doesn’t seem right. The walls are the same as they’ve been for twenty years.
“When are you hoping to sell?” I ask.
“No, Dante. Not this place. The castle!”
“You want to sell the family castle?” I ask, stomach tightening.
My father sits and sighs. “Indeed, though it’s the last thing I want to do.”
My heart races.
I grew up in the castle when not at boarding schools or here. My mind processes fast. We have to keep the castleat all costs.
Selling it is unacceptable. I will simply buy it! It is a simple decision, but I suddenly freeze.
I remember back like it was only yesterday. The last time I was with my grandfather, he could somehow tell I’d done well. Ihad to come out with it, and I wanted to be honest. I explained I’d made a small fortune.
He is the only person in the family I’ve ever told; not even my sister knows. My grandfather told me he’d seen families ripped apart because of high levels of wealth, and he said he didn’t want wealth to damage our own family.
