RICO MONTERO ARRIVED at his brother’s villa, two hours up the coast from Valencia, in seventy-three minutes. He’d been feeling cooped up in his penthouse, hungry for air. He had pulled his GTA Spano out of storage and tried to escape his own dark mood, not realizing the direction he took until he was pulled over for speeding.
Recognizing where he was, he told the officer he was on his way to see his brother—a means of name-dropping the entire family. The ploy had gotten him out of having his license suspended, but he still had to pay a fine.
Since he was literally in the neighborhood, he decided not to compound his crimes by lying. He rolled his way through Cesar’s vineyard to the modern home sprawled against a hillside.
He told himself he didn’t miss the vineyard he had owned with pride for nearly a decade—long before his brother had decided he had an interest in grapes and winemaking. Rico’s fascination with the process had dried up along with his interest in life in general. Selling that property had been a clean break from a time he loathed to dwell upon.
It’s been eighteen months, his mother had said over lunch yesterday. Time to turn our attention to the future.
She had said something similar three months ago and he had dodged it. This time, he sat there and took the bullet. Of course. Who did you have in mind?
He had left thinking, Go ahead and find me another scheming, adulterous bride. But he hadn’t said it aloud. He had promised to carry that secret to his grave.
For what?
He swore and jammed the car into Park, then threw himself out of it, grimly aware he had completely failed to escape his dour mood.
“Rico!” His sister-in-law Sorcha opened the door before he had climbed the wide steps. She smiled with what looked like genuine pleasure and maybe a hint of relief.
“Mateo, look. Tío Rico has come to see you.” She spoke to the bawling toddler on her hip. “That’s a nice surprise, isn’t it?”
She wasn’t the flawlessly elegant beauty he was used to seeing on Cesar’s arm, more of a welcoming homemaker. Her jeans and peasant-style top were designer brands, but she wore minimal makeup and her blond hair was tied into a simple ponytail. Her frown at her unhappy son was tender and empathetic, not the least frazzled by his tantrum.
The deeply unhappy Mateo pointed toward the back of the house. “Ve, Papi.”
“He’s overdue for his nap.” Sorcha waved Rico in. “But he knows someone took someone else into the V-I-N-E-Y-A-R-D.”
“You’re speaking English and you still have to spell it out?” Rico experienced a glimmer of amusement.
“He’s picking it up so fast. Oh!” She caught Mateo as he reached out to Rico, nearly launching himself from her arms.
Rico caught him easily while Sorcha stammered, “I’m sorry.”
If Rico briefly winced in dismay, it was because of the look in Sorcha’s eyes. Far too close to pity, it contained sincere regret that her son was prevailing on him for something she thought too big and painful to ask.
It wasn’t. The favor he was doing for his former in-laws was a greater imposition, spiking far more deeply into a more complex knot of nerves. What Sorcha thought she knew about his marriage was the furthest thing from reality.
And what she read as pain and anger at fate was contempt and fury with himself for being a fool. He was steeped in bitterness, playing a role that was barely a version of the truth. A version that made a sensitive soul like Sorcha wear a poignant smile as she gazed on him holding his young nephew.
Mateo stopped crying, tears still on his cheeks.
“Ve, Papi?” he tried.
The tyke had been born mere weeks before Rico’s ill-fated marriage. Mateo was sturdy and stubborn and full of the drive that all the Montero males possessed. This was why he was giving his mother such a hard time. He knew what he wanted and a nap wouldn’t mollify him.
“We’ll discuss it,” he told the boy and glanced at Sorcha. “You should change,” he advised, unable to bear much more of that agonized happiness in her eyes.
“Why—? Ugh.” She noticed the spot where Mateo had rubbed his streaming face against her shoulder. “You’re okay?” she asked with concern.
“For God’s sake, Sorcha,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
He regretted his short temper immediately and quickly reined in his patience. His secret sat in him like a cancer, but he couldn’t let it provoke him into lashing out, certainly not at the nicest person in his family.
“I didn’t mean to speak so sharply,” he managed to say, gathering his composure as he brought his nephew to his shoulder. “We’re fine.”
“It’s okay, Rico.” She squeezed his arm. “I understand.”
No. She didn’t. But thankfully she disappeared, leaving him to have a man-to-man chat with Mateo, who hadn’t forgotten a damned thing. He gave it one more try, pointing and asking for Cesar, who had taken his older brother Enrique to speak to winemakers and pet cellar cats and generally have a barrel of a good time by anyone’s standards.
Mateo’s eyes were droopy, his cheeks red, very much worn out from his tantrum.
“I know what you’re going through,” he told the boy. “Better than you can imagine.”
Like Mateo, Rico was the younger brother to the future duque. He, too, occupied the unlit space beneath the long shadow of greatness cast by the heir. He, too, was expected to live an unblemished life so as not to tarnish the title he would never hold. Then there was the simple, fraternal rivalry of a brother being that few years older and moving into the next life stage. Envy was natural, not that Monteros were allowed to feel such things. Emotions were too much like pets, requiring regular feeding and liable to leave a mess on the floor.
Rico climbed the grand staircase to the bedroom that had been converted to a playroom for the boys, not dwelling on Cesar’s stellar fulfillment of his duty with two bright and healthy children, a beautiful home and a stunning, warmhearted wife.
“There are some realities that are not worth crying about,” he informed Mateo as they entered the room. “Your father told me that.” It was one of Rico’s earliest memories.
Cry all you want. They won’t care. Cesar had spoken with the voice of experience after Rico had been denied something he’d desperately wanted that he could no longer recollect.
Cesar had come to reason with him, perhaps because he was tired of having his playmate sent into solitary confinement. Reason was a family skill valued far more highly than passion. Reason was keeping him silent and carrying on today, maintaining order rather than allowing the chaos that would reign if the truth came out.
Doesn’t it make you mad that they won’t even listen? Rico had asked Cesar that long-ago day.
Yes. Cesar had been very mature for a boy of six or seven. But getting mad won’t change anything. You might as well accept it and think about something