Forcefully, I throw the contract on the table between us.
“What’s that?” my brother asks, eyeing me with trepidation before he settles into an adjacent chair.
I snatch up my glass and gulp down half of the liquid, welcoming the burn down my throat. If I was unhappy about my father’s suggestion, Ant is going to be furious.
“Our father is trying to force me into an arranged marriage. And that is the contract that apparently explains why the fuck I need to do it to save the company.” I stare at the offending document, disdain creasing my brow.
“Marry who?” Ant asks, his voice ominously low, like he already knows who I’m going to say.
Raising my gaze, I hold his stare as I say the one name that I know will land a blow to his heart. “Lucia.”
“There is no fucking way you’re marrying Lucia,” he growls threateningly. I always suspected he saw her as more than a friend; now I know it.
“Ant, I have no intention of marrying her.” I snatch up the contract from the coffee table and start pulling the staple apart with my fingers to separate the pages. “But first we need to understand what this contract is before we can do anything about that.”
He jumps up from his chair and begins pacing like a caged tiger. “Does Lucia know?”
“I don’t know, bro. You can call her as soon as we’ve read through this. Now pour me another glass and sit down.”
We spend the next couple of hours going through the contract page by page. It’s a familiar exercise for us, as this is what we do with business contracts. Like me, Antonio has a corporate-law degree. However, what’s immediately different from the beginning is the stakes are much higher.
As I read each page, I pass it to Ant, and when I’ve finished the last one, I drop forward, elbows on my knees and head in my hands.
“That’s fucking insane,” Ant growls, the page fluttering to the untidy pile on the coffee table. The words hang in the air between us, and I’ve nothing to add.
The contract is dated nearly twenty years ago and appears to be valid, even if fucked up. It’s signed by my father and Franco, with the family firm of solicitors as witnesses. And it’s like my father said: if the head of the Barbieri Corporation doesn’t marry Franco’s daughter, Lucia, then the majority ownership of the company will be passed to the Romano family.
I pick up the last couple of pages, searching for the paragraph that mentioned the trigger for the contract to be executed. That’s it: either party can decide for the contract to be actioned, given the listed provisions have been met. And a quick reread confirms there is nothing in the list that could stop this trainwreck.
“Why now?” I wonder aloud, and Ant raises his gaze to meet mine. His eyes are gray and dull, all fight gone from them. “Do you think it has anything to do with the forensic audit we requested?”
He shakes his head. “Maybe? I just can’t understand why our father would have even signed a contract like this. We know hecan be an asshole, but he would never have done anything to put his precious company in jeopardy.”
I’m trying to recall anything unusual that was happening at the time the contract was signed. It was the summer I turned fourteen; Ant would have been eleven.
“Fuck, this was around the time Dad moved his base to Florence, leaving us in New York. Remember?”
Ant takes the page I’m holding out to him, glances at the date, and then looks back up, his mouth aghast.
“Maybe Lucia knows more. Can you call her?”
“She’s in London doing fashion week, so we won’t be able to meet her unless we go there.” He sighs heavily. “I’ll call her tonight, but I can’t believe she knows anything about this because she’s never mentioned it.”
Standing, I carry my glass into the kitchen and place it on the sink. “I’ll see you in the office early tomorrow morning, and you can update me.” Then, not waiting for his agreement, I leave.
Back in my own suite, I sit in the darkness, staring out through the window, the lit roof of the Duomo just visible in the distance. What sort of a mess has my father put us in?
Whatever it is, there appears to be no quick fix, so there’s no way I can meet Tori in Paris. I pull out my cell to send her a text, canceling the planned visit with some bullshit excuse about a meeting I have to attend.
Then, dragging my body from the chair, I go to bed. And for the first time in weeks, I’m not thinking about Tori.
Chapter sixteen
Tori
Paris, France
Another café but a different view. The Eiffel Tower casts a geometric shadow over the road and the outdoor table I’m sitting at, waiting for Tina to join me. She went off shopping earlier, and we’ve arranged to meet back here for lunch before queueing for probably hours to go up the tower.
