Maybe it would make more sense financially to hold on to the winery. It would be more of a long-term plan.

With age comes wisdom, she thought to herself and wondered what ancient philosopher had said that. She would have to google it.

CHAPTER 4

FIONA

By the time Maria returned to the reception room, I was on my feet, looking at a display of black-and-white framed photographs on the table behind one of the sofas. I was quite certain I had identified my half siblings, Sloane and Connor, as children in one of the photos. They were posing in front of a row of grapevines with the sunlight at their backs, smiling. I wondered if Anton had taken the picture. All the other photographs were of people I didn’t know and couldn’t guess at. Many were headshots from the 1970s.

“Fiona, can you come with me now?” Maria was wringing her hands in the doorway.

With unsteady nerves, I followed her through another door that took us across a small outdoor courtyard. We crossed to the other side and reentered the house into a large reception room that overlooked the formal gardens on the east side of the villa. At the far end of the room, people were seated at an oval dining table. Everyone sat in silence.

I halted on the spot when all eyes turned to me and stared.

Unflinching, Maria approached the table and pulled out the last two empty chairs. “Everyone, this is Fiona Bell. Sit down here, Fiona, next to me.”

I remained standing for a few seconds while Maria began introductions. “This is Connor, Anton’s son.”

My half brother.

He was slouched low in the chair with his head tipped back, staring up at the ceiling, looking bored. At the mention of his name, he lifted his head to offer me a salute from across the table, then stared up at the ceiling again.

Maria continued, gesturing to the attractive dark-haired woman sitting next to him. “This is Sloane, Anton’s daughter.”

“Good morning,” Sloane said with a slight lift of her chin. She took in my overall appearance with eagle-eyed scrutiny.

“You’ve met Mrs. Wilson,” Maria said. “And here, we have Anton’s sister, Mabel, who is visiting us from London.” Mabel was an elderly woman in a wheelchair. “Beside her is Ruth, her daughter.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Fiona,” Ruth said warmly.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” I replied.

Ruth leaned close to her mother and shouted in her ear, “She looks just like him, Mummy!”

Mabel frowned. “You don’t need to shout!”

“These are the lawyers,” Maria continued. “John Wainwright and Karen Miller.”

“A pleasure, Fiona,” Mr. Wainwright said. “Please take a seat, and we’ll get started.”

“Thank you.” I sat down next to Maria at the table.

The lawyers arranged their papers in front of them and shut off the ringers on their phones. My heart began to pound as I felt everyone’s eyes on me, staring with venom.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” Mr. Wainwright said. “First of all, please accept our sincere condolences on the loss of a great man. He will be missed by everyone who knew him.”

“What a beautiful sentiment,” Connor said. “Thank you very much. We’re incredibly touched.”

Sloane slapped him on the shoulder, and I sensed an unease from everyone around the table. Even the lawyers seemed caught off guard by the interruption.

Mr. Wainwright cleared his throat and continued. “Mr. Clark’s will is dated December seventh, 2015, and it was completed by me, in the presence of Mr. Clark at our offices on Fenchurch Street in London.” He flipped a page. “So let us begin with the London properties. The house in Chelsea has been left to you, Mabel, along with three million pounds cash.”

Ruth squeezed her mother’s hand. “There, Mummy. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“The house on Eaton Square in Belgravia has been deeded to Connor and Sloane, as equal co-owners.”

“Oh, thank God,” Sloane said, her head falling forward onto the table with a noticeable clunk.

“See?” Connor said. “He knew how much you loved that house.”

“I guess he did,” she replied, sitting up again. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am.” She looked sharply at me.

Mr. Wainwright turned to Maria. “As for the properties here in Tuscany . . . Maria Guardini, you have been bequeathed the house in which you currently reside, along with six hectares of land and two hundred thousand euros.”

Maria stared at him with wide eyes. “Oh, mio Dio!”

“Really? You’re kidding me.” Connor seemed taken aback but also strangely amused. “Way to go, Maria. That’s awesome for you. Congrats.”

Sloane pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “That’s wonderful, Maria. Well deserved.”

Ruth handed Maria a tissue, which she used to dab at her tears.

“Connor and Sloane,” Mr. Wainwright continued. “Out of the UK investment portfolio, your father has left you each three million pounds.”

“Excellent,” Connor said, sitting forward to rest his forearms on the table, his hands folded.

“Mrs. Wilson, he left you the Caravaggio painting that hangs over the fireplace in the main reception room.”

Kate laughed bitterly. “Really. I begged him to give me that in the divorce settlement, but he flat out refused.”

“Don’t complain, Mom,” Connor said. “You got it in the end.”

She sat back and folded her arms. “Well, I’m glad to finally have it. I’m the one who suggested that he bid on it.”

Mr. Wainwright flipped another page. “As for the business of Maurizio Wines, which includes the winery and all its inventory, buildings, and equipment, nine hundred hectares of land in Tuscany, and all its cash holdings—this has been bequeathed to Fiona Bell.”

What did he just say?

The room fell silent, and my mouth went dry.

“What?” Connor shouted.

As if in slow motion, Mr. Wainwright picked up another sheet of paper from his stack of notes and flipped it over. In a bewildered daze, I stared at that sheet, like a leaf floating on air.

Connor stood up and pressed his open hands to the top of his head. “Tell me you didn’t say what I think you said. I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

The lawyer repeated himself, and everyone continued to stare at me.

“That can’t be right,” Sloane said, unconvinced. “Why would he leave everything to her?”

I sat motionless, unable to utter a single word.

Connor glared at me maliciously. “What the hell did you do?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, still not accepting what was happening here. There had to be some mistake. Anton wouldn’t have left me everything.

“You heard me,” Connor replied. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” I blurted out, defensively.

He turned his attention back to the lawyers. “This can’t be right.”

“I’m afraid it is,” Mr. Wainwright replied. “Your father was very clear about his final wishes.”

“With who?” Connor asked. “You? Were you there personally when he arrived at this decision?”