Did Anton own all this?

“We are here.” Marco shut off the engine and unbuckled his seat belt, then hurried around the car and opened my door for me.

As I stepped out, a fresh scent of damp earth and the chill of the thick, briny fog sneaked through the fabric of my jean jacket. Marco carried my suitcase, and I followed him into what appeared to be the reception area of a B and B type of establishment. A young Italian woman greeted us at the desk.

“Ms. Bell?” she asked.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“I’m Anna. It’s nice to meet you.” She bent to retrieve a key card from under the counter. When I whipped out my credit card, Anna held up a hand. “No need for that. It’s all taken care of. You’re in room number seven, on the top floor. Up those stairs, to the left. Breakfast is in the dining room just through there from eight thirty to ten thirty. And you’ll find the Wi-Fi password on a card in a basket in your room.”

“Thank you very much, Anna.” I took the key card and was surprised to see Marco already carrying my suitcase up the worn black marble steps.

The building seemed ancient, with thick plastered walls and heavy exposed beams on the ceilings. I paused to inspect framed photographs on the staircase walls with celebrity guests. George Bush had visited the inn, as well as Tom Hanks and Audrey Hepburn. I felt a little like Alice going down the rabbit hole.

Marco led me to a dark mahogany door on the fourth floor. I inserted the card into the key reader, pushed the door open, and found a light switch that lit up a massive hotel suite with antique furniture, velvet drapes on the windows, and a king-size bed with luxurious white linens. I could have wept with joy at the sight of it.

Marco set my suitcase down inside the door and moved to switch on the light in the bathroom. “You should be comfortable here. It’s the best room we have.”

“It looks wonderful.” I peered in at a gigantic bathroom with black and white tiles, a deep soaker tub, a stand-up tiled shower with glass doors, and a bidet, which I studied curiously for a moment.

Marco moved to the door and pulled a business card from his shirt pocket. “Here is my cell number in case you want to be driven anywhere. You’ll definitely want to visit Montepulciano. Cars aren’t permitted in the town, but I can drop you off at Piazza Grande, and you can walk everywhere from there. There are lots of good shops with leather goods. I can recommend some restaurants. Tomorrow you’ll meet the family.”

His mention of the family caused a sudden nervous tremor in me because I had no idea what to expect. Visions of The Godfather sprang to mind.

Marco turned to leave, but I stopped him with a question. “Wait. Do you mind if I ask . . . ? Is my presence here going to be awkward? I mean, Anton had a wife and children. Do they know who I am? Have they always known?”

Marco regarded me steadily for a moment, and I sensed a measure of sympathy in his expression, which I wasn’t sure how to interpret.

“It was a shock to them,” he finally admitted.

“They didn’t know?”

“Not until the other day.”

I let out a breath. “I see. Were they very upset? Because I’ve been worried that I might be walking into a hornet’s nest.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck and chewed on his lower lip. “I can’t guarantee that you won’t be. It depends what the will says.”

“The will . . .” I paused. “Do you know anything about that?”

He shook his head. “No one does, but there’s been plenty of talk around here the past few days. Anton was a wealthy man, so there are many expectations.”

My poor brain needed sleep, and I couldn’t seem to form a response. It had been less than forty-eight hours since I learned that Anton owned a winery and the inn I was staying in. Exactly how wealthy was he?

Marco tried to leave again.

“Wait.” I grabbed hold of his sleeve. “Do you know who will be there when the lawyers read the will? I’m assuming his other children. What are their names?”

“Connor and Sloane,” Marco replied. “Connor is the younger one. He’s here on his own. Sloane is here with her two children, but her husband stayed behind in America.”

I tried to process this. Connor and Sloane would be my half brother and sister. The children would be my half nieces and nephews. As I’d grown up as an only child, it was a strange thing to conceive of.

“There is also Mr. Clark’s ex-wife,” Marco added. “Mrs. Wilson. She came for the funeral as well.”

“They’re divorced?” I asked. “Since when?”

He shrugged. “Not sure, exactly. They separated before I started work here, when the children were very small. I met Mrs. Wilson for the first time at the funeral today. Maria would know more about all that.”

“Who’s Maria?”

“The housekeeper at the villa. Her father-in-law, Domenico Guardini, was the vineyard keeper when Mr. Clark bought the winery years ago. Now her husband, Vincent, takes care of the vines.”

“I see. And where is the villa? Will Maria be there in the morning when the lawyers come?”

“Sì, she will be there. It’s at the top of the hill, end of Cypress Row, easy walk from here. But you should sleep now, Ms. Bell. You had a long journey. No need to worry.”

“Thank you. But please call me Fiona.”

He nodded and was quick to leave, as if he had a dozen other things to attend to. I sensed he was an efficient person.

Closing the door behind him, I turned to look at the gigantic bed and sighed with exhaustion. After that, I must have set a record opening my suitcase and changing into my pajamas.

I groaned at the sound of my cell phone alarm. Reaching across the soft pillow, I hit snooze and wondered what fresh new hell this was. My body felt like a block of lead. I tried to calculate what time it was back home in Tallahassee. Two in the morning?

Almost instantly, I fell back into a deep, dense slumber.

The shriek of my phone woke me again nine minutes later. Knowing that more sleep was out of the question, I rolled onto my back and forced myself to rise because I didn’t want to miss breakfast. More importantly, I wanted to find my way to the villa early to get the lay of the land before the lawyers arrived.

Groggily, I shuffled across the wide-plank floor to the window, where I pulled the heavy velvet drapes aside. Expecting sunlight beyond panes of glass, I was instead presented with oak shutters that blocked out the light completely. I jimmied the latch and pulled one shutter open, then let out a gasp of shock. The view . . . was this even real?

Before my sleepy, squinting eyes, a medieval castle town stood high on a lush green mountaintop. The stone buildings and towers were framed by blue sky. Low to the ground, a misty white ribbon of fog crept across olive groves and grape vineyards. Bells began to chime from a cathedral somewhere on the hilltop, and a flock of swallows fluttered out of the tall cypress tree near the swimming pool below my window.

I was awestruck and couldn’t speak for a few seconds. No wonder famous people had stayed here. This was a million-dollar view. It was like waking up in the middle of a live-action Cinderella movie.

Letting my eyes fall closed, I breathed in the fresh scent of the September air, the grass and dew, and urged myself to appreciate this week of total freedom. I would not let myself worry about Dad back home. Dottie had everything under control. I needed to remember what she had said—that I deserved a week off.