Before he closed the door, the driver spoke—in Italian, of course. I doubted I would speak a word of English from that day on. “Duchessa Acardi, I have been instructed by the prince to take you to the Bella Collina estate.”
My eyebrows knitted together. “In Umbria? I am to go to Umbria?”
The driver nodded. “The prince wants you to stay at his most impressive estate. He will meet you there. He has arranged dinner for your arrival.” He pointed at the limo’s lit-up bar. “The prince has organized refreshments for your journey. At this time of night, we should make it to the estate within a couple of hours. But he wanted you to relax and get comfortable. He anticipated that you would be tired from the journey.”
I forced a smile and thanked him. He closed the door, got into the car and pulled away.
Bella Collina? I had assumed I would spend all of my time in the Tuscan palazzo. I’d imagined my days to be filled with nothing but lunches, charitable dinners and meeting the crème de la crème of Italian high society.
I shook my head and pushed my confusion aside. I made myself comfortable on the long black seat and rubbed my fingers along my forehead. I was still feeling the effects of last night. Marietta had made sure that I was sent off with a bang.
I smiled to myself, remembering her passed out in the backseat of the car after our spontaneous tour of Manhattan. I had let her be, relishing my last few moments amongst the hustle and bustle of New York alone.
I thought of Bella Collina. I knew that in Umbria there would be absolutely no hustle and bustle. Florence was a busy city; I had been there many times. But Umbria? It was sleepy and calm, completely serene—but no less stunning than its wealthier, more popular Tuscan cousin.
A true flash of excitement washed through me when I thought of the very exclusive estate in which I would reside. It was home to the famous Bella Collina Reserve. A red merlot wine so rare that the waiting list just to acquire a single bottle was years long, even despite its eye-watering cost. The process of making this wine was never spoken of in the tight-knit wine world. The entire enterprise was shrouded in secrecy. Most sommeliers in the world would sacrifice a limb just to be a witness to Bella Collina’s production.
I wondered if I would be so fortunate as to see it.
All Savona wines were good, of course, but they were also mass-produced. The merlot was the shining jewel in their crown.
The more I thought of where I would be staying for the coming weeks, the more my suspicions grew as to why—I was pretty sure it was because the prince didn’t want his betrothed “ball and chain” cramping his style on the Florence nightclub scene. He wouldn’t be able to bring his nightly conquests to the Palazzo Savona with his fidanzata stalking the halls.
I sucked in my breath as I realized that I didn’t even care. I didn’t care about my future husband at all.
Thirty minutes passed, and I grew thirsty. I retrieved a bottle of acqua frizzante from the bar. I had just taken a couple of mouthfuls when I noticed a bottle of red wine that had been left to breathe on the shelf next to the cooler. A single crystal wine glass sat beside it. Then a flash of a familiar—but very rare—label grabbed my attention.
“No,” I whispered, lifting the bottle of red into the beam of the limo’s ceiling light. A smile tugged on my lips as I read the beautiful calligraphic font spread across the center. I noted the pencil drawing of an idyllic sprawling vineyard in the background.
“Bella Collina Reserve,” I murmured quietly and brought the bottle to my nose. I closed my eyes. I inhaled slowly, savoring the unique notes of this exclusive merlot. Blackberries. Dark cherry. Vanilla. Black pepper. A gentle, subtle hint of tobacco.
Warmth filled my chest at the beautiful aromas, and I opened my eyes. I reached for the glass and poured out a small amount of the deep-red liquid. Just as I was about to lower the bottle, I caught sight of the vintage: 2008. Thought by many to be the most important year of this reserve. No one knew why this year changed the wine so much, but experts agreed that from 2008, Bella Collina Reserve went from being a fine wine to one of the world’s greatest.
With this vintage as a gift, Prince Zeno was bringing out the big guns.
I sat back and took a tentative sip. The minute it hit my tongue, I immediately felt at home.
My family knew wine; it was our business. And I knew this reserve; it was my dream flavor. My favorite. A wonder to me. Over the years my palate for wine had grown strong. I had visited hundreds of vineyards, some of the best in the world, yet nothing could compare to this. As far as wines went, it was perfect.
By the time we had turned off the main thoroughfares and traveled along a winding road that led to an impressive stone entrance, I had managed to drink two glasses. The speaker linking me with the driver sprang to life. “Duchessa, we have arrived.”
I opened the window beside me and stared at the illuminated entrance. I swallowed hard and placed my empty glass on the bar. Metal groaned, breaking through the twilight, as the massive black wrought-iron gates began to open. The limo slowly pulled onto the property’s lane, and I drank in the thick forest that shielded the estate. I inhaled the freshness of the lush green trees. The unpolluted sky was thick with stars—not a single cloud in sight.
A few minutes later, the thick woods cleared, and I gasped. Acres and acres of gold and green vineyards covered the landscape. The scents of plump grapes and damp soil permeated the warm air. I closed my eyes. It reminded me of being a child. It brought me back to the days before I was taken to New York. I could still feel the heat of the Emilia-Romagna sun on my face, the deep smell of olives, grapes and flowers drifting in the breeze as I ran around our Parma estate.
I smiled a nostalgic smile and allowed my eyes to drift open again. I rested my arms on the window and leaned my chin on them as the limo drove on. There were several small villas peppered over the landscape, their lights twinkling in the distance. They must have been the winemakers’ residences. It was not only the Bella Collina merlot that was made on this land; other reds were too—particularly the Chianti from the region’s finest Sangiovese grapes. The Bella Collina olive oil was also up there with the best. But nothing compared to the famed merlot.
The limo turned right, and my breath caught in my throat. I lifted my head and stared disbelievingly at the property ahead. Bella Collina was a veritable Palace of Versailles tucked away in the Umbrian wilderness.
“Mio Dio,” I whispered as I took in the imposing stone structure, the sweeping steps and the vast number of windows set in the building’s walls. Large pillars of red-veined marble flanked the entrance. Cypress trees framed the estate as if it were the shining star of a fine Renaissance painting. Sculptures of famed Savona monarchs of old stood proudly on the manicured lawns, and strategically placed lighting illuminated the sheer perfection of every piece of topiary.
As a child, I had been to the Palazzo Savona in Florence. It was widely regarded to be one of the finest estates in all of Italy, if not western Europe. But this . . . this . . . there were no words. It was perfectly placed, as if it had always been there. As if it had grown naturally from the Umbrian earth just as sure as the vines and woods that kept this architectural treasure hidden from view.
The limo rounded the corner and glided to a halt. I took a deep breath as I looked up at the house that sat high above, made only grander by the many levels of stairs leading to its front door.
The driver appeared at my window and opened the door. He held out his hand, and I forced myself to abandon the safety of the car. The soothing sound of rushing water hit me first. A huge, ornate water fountain occupied a central position in the wide driveway. I had not seen it from my side of the limo. I walked toward it. The crest of Savona assumed pride of place, towering like a spear thrust from the center, spotlights adorning the intricately carved marble shield with layers of soft light.
Lost in its ornate design, I turned only when I heard the sound of footsteps descending the main stairs. A man dressed in a dark suit slowly approached. The driver immediately stood to the side of me, dutifully, waiting for the gentleman.
“Is that . . . ?” I trailed off. The driver’s reaction betrayed it was someone of importance.
“Prince Zeno,” the driver finished for me. “Yes, Duchessa.”