“No, but he was clear about it when he came to my office.”

Connor shook his head with disbelief. “Was he drunk?”

“No, he was altogether sober and in his right mind, I assure you.”

“How do you know that? Are you a doctor?”

Mr. Wainwright remained stoic. “I would testify in a court of law that he was in full possession of his faculties.”

Connor turned to look at his mother, who sat across from him. “Mom. Do something. This can’t be happening.”

She blinked a few times. “What do you expect me to do? I’m just as shocked as you are. Your father never mentioned anything to me about changing his will, and I certainly didn’t know anything about an illegitimate child he had.” She glared at me accusingly. “How old are you? What year were you born?”

“Nineteen eighty-seven,” I replied.

Mrs. Wilson scoffed heatedly. “We were still married then. We weren’t yet divorced.”

I fumbled for words. “I’m very sorry. I don’t know what happened back then. All I know is that my mother spent a summer here—with my dad, her husband—and I was born in the United States after they went home.”

Mrs. Wilson scoffed. “Unbelievable. Although I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Of course you shouldn’t,” Sloane said. “You knew he was sleeping around when you were still married. It’s why you left him.”

They all looked at me again, as if it were my fault that their father was a depraved philanderer.

“Don’t look at me,” I finally said. “I’m innocent in all this.”

“Are you?” Connor said. “I find that pretty hard to swallow.”

“Why?” I asked. “Your parents divorced decades ago, and there’s a woman upstairs right now who is just one of his recent girlfriends. The only thing that surprises me is that I’m the only illegitimate child sitting at this table this morning.”

Mrs. Wilson stood up. “How dare you. He’s not even cold in his grave.”

I laughed out loud. “Seriously? I’m sorry. This is really weird.”

She sat back down and turned to speak sweetly to the lawyer. “John. Surely you can understand that there’s a problem here. If I had known it was going to turn out like this, I would have brought my own lawyers.”

“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” Mr. Wainwright replied, matter-of-factly. “The will is valid.”

She gave him an almost flirtatious sidelong glance, as if she could charm him into shifting things in her favor. But he remained silent, not swayed in the least.

“Did he tell you why?” she asked, her cheeks flushing red with frustration. “Did he explain why he would disinherit his own children for the sake of a child he never met?”

“He didn’t disinherit them,” John informed her. “He left them three million pounds each and the London house.”

Mrs. Wilson exhaled sharply and laid a hand on her chest, as if she’d been insulted.

“That was pocket change to him,” Connor informed everyone. “This winery is worth way more than that.”

I was more than a little curious to know how much it was worth, exactly, but I didn’t dare ask the question. It would be best, for the time being, to sit quietly and keep my mouth shut.

Connor sat back down. “We’re going to fight this.”

“I suspected as much,” Mr. Wainwright said.

Sloane waved her hand frantically. “Wait a second. I’m sure this can be cleared up quite easily. It’s my understanding that there are laws in Italy about what children must inherit. My husband looked into it before I got on the plane. He said it was called forced heirship, or something like that, and that we have to get at least sixty-six percent of his property in equal shares.” Sloane pointed at me. “She’s not an heir. She’s illegitimate.”

I was beginning to hate the sound of that word.

“That is true,” Mr. Wainwright replied. “The Italian Civil Code protects close family members, but there was an EU law passed in 2015 that allowed your father, as a British national, to state that the laws of his own country would apply to his will. In the UK, a person is allowed testamentary freedom, meaning that he can do whatever he pleases with the assets of his estate. He could have left everything to charity if he wanted to.”

Connor held out a hand, gesturing toward me. “Behold our charity case.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

Maria took hold of my hand under the table and squeezed it. I met her gaze, and she shook her head at me.

“What I don’t understand,” Connor said to me, “is what happened between my father and your mother. Was she blackmailing him? Or were you?” His eyes bored into mine.

“Of course not!” I replied. “I never spoke to him once in my life!”

“Then how are we supposed to accept this?” Connor asked. “We never heard of a woman he knocked up thirty years ago. What was her name?”

“Lillian Bell,” Mr. Wainwright said.

Connor turned to Maria for clarification. “She wasn’t a part of his life, was she?”

Maria shrugged. “Not that I’m aware of.”

The lawyer spoke matter-of-factly. “According to your father, there were letters.”

Connor frowned. “Letters? What are you talking about? Love letters?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say,” Mr. Wainwright replied.

With a sudden burst of anger, Connor flung himself out of his chair, knocking it over, and strode to the window, where he stood with his hands on his hips, looking out. Everyone sat in silence, except for Sloane.

“He didn’t give the letters to you for safekeeping?” she asked. “As evidence or something?”

“Evidence concerning one’s final wishes isn’t required for the writing of a will,” Mr. Wainwright explained, doing his best, I thought, not to sound condescending.

“But he kept everything,” Sloane replied. “Didn’t he, Maria? I don’t want to use the word hoarder, but he had trouble throwing things away. Obviously, these letters must have been important to him. They must be here somewhere.”

Connor turned to face Mr. Wainwright. “What if this woman, Lillian Bell, was blackmailing him? That would be grounds for us to contest the will, wouldn’t it?”

Mr. Wainwright turned in his chair. “Yes, it would be if that were the case. But you would have to prove it.”

Connor strode forward. “If it’s not blackmail, what other grounds would be necessary to overturn it? Undue influence? Duress? Fraud?”

“Yes, to all of those,” Mr. Wainwright replied, “but your father gave no indication that he was being manipulated.”

“Maybe he didn’t realize it. Or if it was blackmail, he would have wanted to keep it under wraps for whatever reason.”

Mr. Wainwright faced him squarely. “Connor, you can’t contest a will with allegations like these simply because you feel it’s unfair. There must be a valid legal reason, and to suggest what you are suggesting . . . you would need evidence to prove it. Compelling evidence.”

“But you just said there were letters,” Connor replied as he turned to everyone at the table. “I can tell all of you right now—I’m going to start asking some tough questions around here. Someone must know something.” He pointed at me. “She probably does.”