Chapter Text
“More coffee, sir?” The flight attendant spoke in soft Italian, trying once again in Spanish when the passenger in seat 2B didn’t respond, seemingly lost in his thoughts as he stared out the window. Though handsome, with dark brown hair and matching eyes, well dressed in gray slacks and a blue button-up shirt, the man’s face was marred with a frown.
Tentatively, she reached out a hand to tap him lightly on the shoulder, only to be waved-off by the man without a second thought, or even the turning of his head to acknowledge her presence. Offended, but not terribly surprised after years of dealing with rich, arrogant businessmen who believed themselves to be superior, the young woman spun on her heels and returned to the galley.
Back in 2B, Lovino Vargas knocked his forehead against the tempered glass of the small airplane window, deeply ashamed that he had been unfailingly rude to a pretty woman. And yet he could only spare a moment’s upset before he was once again flooded by the anxious and angry thoughts that had occupied him to the point of dismissive distraction. He watched with troubled eyes as the coastline of Sicily disappeared beneath him, tracking the blue of the Mediterranean Sea as the plane continued on its journey, unmindful of his distress.
Lovino fiddled with the silver watch on his wrist, a gift from his brother, absently noting that it had only been five short hours since he had turned over the keys to the Villa Solare to Veronique, kissing her on each cheek and pushing a stray lock of blond hair behind her ears, attempting to ease her worried look.
Five hours ago ~ Trapani, Sicily
“Lovino, are you sure this is the right thing to do?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets, shrugging his shoulders and trying to keep his angry disappointment at bay, “Fuck, I don’t know, Veronique. But I gotta do something other than sitting here trying to prove myself to that asshole.”
Veronique grabbed his arm, “You don’t have to prove yourself to anyone! You and I and anyone who matters knows what you’ve done here at the Villa Solare. How good you really are. He must know it too, even if he won’t acknowledge it!”
Lovino snorted, scuffing his shoes in the gravel of the driveway, looking long and hard at the crumbling, but lovely, stone façade of the winery that had been his passion for five years, “Che, that motherfucker won’t give me the time of day. But I’m going to make him. Fuck his inheritance and fuck his bullshit opinion. I’ll show him that I’m good enough on my own, that I can make wines so good he’ll shit himself with envy.”
Veronique sighed, releasing her hold, “I don't understand why you can't do that here.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing for the past five years! But even when I do make something of myself that stupid bastard finds fault. Fuck if I know why the hell he ever bought this goddamned placed if nothing that comes of it will ever be worth anything to him. Fuck!” He clenched his fists in rage.
Closing his eyes briefly, Lovino inhaled, trying to regain his sense of calm in the face of Veronique’s nervousness,
“No, it's gotta be this way. There are other places that need me and I’ll show that piece of shit and then he’ll regret losing me.” He paused, slinging his arm around her shoulders, “Besides, I trust you. Who better than my beautiful Belgian apprentice to carry on our legacy?”
Veronique rolled her eyes and blushed a little, pushing him towards the waiting taxi, “Go on then, you idiot. Save that foolishness for the unsuspecting people of Spain.”
Then it was Lovino's turn to blush, as he thought about exactly who was waiting for him in Spain. Within seconds he quashed that thought, angry that he hadn’t even left the country and already his mind was straying from his most important goals. As a reminder of what he was giving up, Lovino took one last look at his home, he steeling his resolve and turning towards the waiting cab.
Just as he was about to close the door, Veronique called out, her hair blowing in the wind, a picture of perfection against the azure Sicilian sky, “Lovino! Don't forget…this is OUR legacy. Not his, not Feliciano's, no one else’s. Remember that!”
Pissed off by his little trip down recent memory lane, Lovino shifted violently in his seat, which caused the man across the aisle in 2A to frown in disapproval. Unimpressed, Lovino shot him a dirty look, muttering insults in Italian under his breath.
“Excuse me?” The irritant spoke in heavily accented English.
‘Great,’ Lovino thought, ‘a fucking German on my fucking plane.’ He considered picking a fight to alleviate his anxiety, but when he caught the overly curious stares of at least three other passengers, he settled for rolling his eyes and twisting his body away to stare out the window again. He heard the other man “hmmph” and flick open his newspaper with dramatic force, an obnoxious reminder of the person he disliked second most in this world.
Ludwig Beilschmidt. Bratwurst-eating and beer drinking business manager extraordinaire for the collected vineyards and estates of the famed Vargas wine empire.
And current object of Feliciano's endless affections.
Humorless and hideously ugly, with his Teutonic features, slicked back blond hair, sneaky blue eyes and all those muscles, Lovino failed to see what Feliciano saw in the bastard. He cracked his knuckles and ground his teeth, just thinking about leaving this German menace alone in Italy with his stupidly trusting and soft-minded brother. He thanked all the gods and goddesses that the potato-eater had spent so many years being stunted by his German-ness that he was unable to pick up on Feliciano's less than subtle intentions. What kind of man would do that? Moron.
And to think at this moment he was indebted to this barbarian invader from the north. It made his stomach churn.
Two weeks earlier ~ Montalcino, Tuscany
Feliciano was in fine form, bouncing across the room, clinging first to Lovino, then to Ludwig, and then finally latching on to the man that controlled them all, the bane of Lovino’s existence.
“Grandpa Roma!” Feliciano was breathless with excitement, “Did you hear! Robert Parker gave our 2002 Brunello di Montalcino 98 points!”
Grandpa Rome, a handsome man in his late fifties, a man with wealth and property, who dominated a wine empire that stretched from the Mediterranean, across the rolling vineyards of France, and even into the Mosel region of Germany, was Feliciano and Lovino’s only living relative. He’d raised both of them from a very young age, grooming each to be an heir to his mighty empire.
Feliciano had been a sweet, loving child, coddled at Rome’s knee, allowed to spend hours learning how to paint or sing songs, instead of the long, hard hours that Lovino spent slaving over oenology textbooks and out in the fields of his grandfather’s many estates, learning terroir along with technology. When they had come of age at 21, Grandpa Rome proudly presented Feliciano with the deed to his most prized possession, the 400 acres of priceless vines in the heart of Montalcino, “Tenuta di Vargas”, the source of the Vargas family’s most famous wine.
Lovino had been banished to Sicily, to work in the crumbling Villa Solare, attempting to coax wonder out of grapes that no one had heard of, forced out of his lazy complacency by a drive to prove his grandfather wrong about him, about this place. His diamond in the rough.
Grandpa Rome smiled indulgently at Feliciano, the nominal wine maker of the Brunello, though Lovino knew that the most that Feliciano was responsible for in regards to that bottle of wine was the beautifully painted label and its poetic name, “Seduzione.”
“Of course it did, my boy!” Rome boomed, clapping Feliciano on the shoulder, “It is from our winery after all!”
Feliciano smiled, patting Rome’s leg, “There’s even more great news! Tell him, Ludwig, tell him what you told me that made me so happy the other night.”
Lovino bristled, wondering exactly what it was that this suspicious motherfucker was telling his idiot brother at night. That made him happy.
Ludwig stood, ramrod straight as if preparing to give a formal lecture, “Sir,”
Grandpa Rome cut him off with a wave of his hand, laughing, “Don’t call me sir, Ludwig! You’re practically family to my little Feliciano. Call me Rome.”
Ludwig twitched and Lovino enjoyed his discomfort, finding it paired very well with the glass of Seduzione.
He cleared his throat, “I would rather not, sir. Anyways, as I was saying, I was looking over the sales figures from the past three quarters, and it turns out that another wine has surpassed the previous top seller from Tenuta di Vargas.”
Lovino’s interest was piqued. He wondered who had managed to topple the old bastard from his long held throne.
“What?!” Rome exclaimed, sitting forward in his chair,“Tell me, what arrogant little shit winemaker is trying to usurp me?”
Normally, Lovino would have been delighted by Ludwig’s pained look, but at this moment his mind was racing too far ahead, trying to remember what Veronique had told him about their record year.
“Well, sir, it’s the Villa Solare. Their 2006 Nero d’Avola vintage has been the highest selling wine this year.”
Feliciano clapped gleefully, running over to fling his arms around Lovino’s neck in a hug. Stunned, Lovino allowed the affection for a moment, absorbing his brother’s happy praise along with the news.
“Villa Solare? Oh, you mean that Sicilian dump I won off a mob boss? Not possible,” Rome scoffed.
Lovino shoved Feliciano away, cheeks flushing with anger, “Don’t talk about the Villa that way you senile son of a bitch.”
Rome’s face shuttered closed, “I forgot, that’s your little place isn’t it, Lovino? Now I know the numbers are lying.”
“You’re goddamned right it is!” Lovino yelled.
Ludwig stepped forward into the line of fire, placing his body in front of a visibly upset Feliciano, speaking directly to Rome, “The numbers don’t lie, sir. They are numbers. And I checked the figures three times. There’s no question that Villa Solare is your most profitable and popular winery at the moment.”
Rome shrugged, “Feh. An aberration caused by the Americans and their terrible taste for big, fruity, wines. New world flavored bullshit sells well these days.”
Lovino was ready to spit nails, disappointment and rage boiling in his stomach, when once again Ludwig spoke up, his voice still calm and collected, even as Feliciano cried behind him, “No, sir. The shipments of the wine break down evenly across the Americas and Europe. In fact, the highest percentage of purchases of the Nero d’Avola are Italian.”
Lovino watched as his grandfather shook his head in disbelief, unwilling to believe what he was hearing, “Well, it must be because of my name on the bottle. Brand loyalty.”
And that was just it. He was sick of this shit.
“Fuck you, you son of a bitch. I don’t give a fuck what you believe. I made the Villa Solare what it is today and I’ll be damned before I let a piece of shit like you take the credit,” Lovino raged, voice deadly serious as he crossed the floor to face his grandfather.
He placed the half-finished glass of Seduzione next to his grandfather’s chair, hissing, “In fact, fuck your empire, fuck your inheritance, and fuck you. I’m done.”
Rome’s eyebrows lifted slightly, “Oh? And where are you going to go?”
Lovino turned away, picking up his coat and heading for the door, “Not that its any of your goddamned business, but I’ve had repeated offers from a very reputable estate in Spain.”
Just as he was turning the knob, Rome called out to him one last time, “Where?”
“The Bodega Carriedo,” Lovino said as he walked out the door, pulse still racing, anger and fear warring for dominance.
‘What the hell had he done? Disinherited himself? Said he had a job working for a man that he’d told, in no uncertain terms, to go fuck himself?’
“SHIT!” Lovino yelled, repeatedly kicking the tires of his Maserati until he felt a tentative hand grasping his shoulder.
“Fuck off!” He shouted, ready to strike until he turned to find Feliciano’s tear-streaked face.
Hurriedly, he moved to wrap an arm around his shoulders, unable to handle his brother’s tears, “Shit, shit, stop crying, alright. It’s not a big deal.”
Feliciano gulped, swallowing his cries, “Brother! It is a big deal! Are you really going to leave us?”
Lovino scowled, dragging his brother in closer, “Fuck that. I’m leaving HIM. Not you, stupid.”
“Will you be okay?”
Lovino closed his eyes, praying to the Virgin Mary for help, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine. I’m going to go to Antonio’s.”
Feliciano sucked in a quick breath, “Really!?”
Lovino shoved him off, fumbling for his keys and hiding his blush, “Yes, now shut the fuck up and go back inside before our shit of a grandfather comes out here.”
The tears started up again as Feliciano sighed, “But I am going to miss you so much.”
Grumbling, Lovino pulled Feliciano into a tight hug, “They invented these things called the phone and the internet, you idiot,” he paused, sniffling a little, “so go back into the house.”
Feliciano nodded and kissed him farewell.
Lovino’s eyes flew open as did his mouth, “Fuck that shit!” falling from his tongue before he had a chance to stop himself as the daydream ended.
“I’m sorry, sir, can I help you?” Chimed a polite voice. Lovino raised his head from its uncomfortable resting place against the wall of the plane to find himself the object of a flight attendant’s obvious scrutiny. He also noticed that the man’s eyes were taking more than a cursory look, raking over his face and body with some interest. He shifted a little in his seat, discomfited by the man’s appreciation and his lingering negative thoughts.
He frowned, seeking a distraction, “Yeah, gimme a glass of wine.”
The attendant smiled, almost purring, “Red or white, sir?”
“Red.”
“Right away!” The flight attendant scurried off before returning what seemed like only seconds later, bearing a very familiar bottle, flowing script over an artist’s rendering of a Sicilian sunrise:.
Villa Solare
2006 Nero d’Avola
Lovino laughed bitterly, prompting the attendant to ask, “Something wrong, sir? I assure you this wine is very good.”
“Yeah, no shit.”
The flight attendant looked confused, “Then what seems to be the problem?”
Lovino paused, looking up at the man holding what was to this date his finest creation, the proud product years of effort, now abandoned in a fit of pride, “Nothing. Fate’s just a bitch sometimes, you know?”
The attendant poured him a glass, smiling slyly, leaning in closer than was necessary, “I don’t know. Sometimes fate can work out really well.”
Lovino snorted, “Like when?”
“Like right now.” The attendant paused to flutter his dark lashes over his brown eyes as he ran a hand up Lovino’s arm, “So, tell me, can I get you anything else today? Anything at all, its my pleasure.”
Oh.
OH! Lovino’s mind finally caught up to the game, realizing that this man was hitting on him. He took a moment to consider looking over the man’s features...dark hair, brown eyes, attractive enough. And it had been a long time since someone had paid him such overt attention, since everyone in Trapani thought he was married to Veronique.
It was tempting. Very tempting.
But he’d made a promise on the day that he’d emailed Antonio, stating his intentions to come to the Bodega Carriedo, that he wouldn’t be distracted. That no matter how good looking or charming or infuriating or whatever feelings he may or may not have harbored in the past...Lovino would not deviate from his goal of making a world-class wine that had fuck all to with any Vargas but himself. He wouldn’t be swayed by flirtation or flattery (not that they ever really meant it anyways). Not sex, not romance, not love...only the vine and vengeance.
He turned his attention back to the SkyMall that had been sitting open on his lap for hours, stating flatly, “No. I don’t need anything else.”
His pursuer slunk away in obvious disappointment as Lovino celebrated his victory, feeling confident that he could now march forward into his new life with iron-clad resolve.
One hour later, Lovino walked through the arrivals gate in Spain, peering through his sunglasses to find the source of the voice excitedly calling his name over and over.
And there he was, smiling like an idiot and waving like a fool. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo.
Distraction.