With a sigh, Emiliano slapped his laptop onto the desk too. He smelled of outdoors, of the vines and perspiration. It reminded Piero how hard his brother worked and how much a part of this place he was – whereas the best thing about Thursday, to Piero, was that tomorrow was Friday. He wouldn’t be here. He’d be finishing the elderly Englishwoman’s summer house. The base for it was already laid in her garden and soon she’d have her shady spot for summer. He hadn’t prioritised the glazed panels for winter because if she had them fitted now she’d curl up and expire like one of the flies on the office windowsill.

The outer door rattled and Graziella stalked in, Salvatore behind her with his moustache neatly trimmed and hair cut. ‘Ciao, Papà,’ Piero murmured, then tacked on a greeting for Graziella, too.

Replying genially, Salvatore positioned himself behind the desk and took the chair. Graziella poured coffee for herself and Salvatore then made as if to roll one of the office chairs to join him behind the desk. Salvatore waved her back to sit with his sons. After an exaggerated pause and look of wounded reproach, Graziella sank gracefully into the chair.

Salvatore folded his hands on the desk and lost no time in small talk. ‘I have discovered that, against my instructions, Tenuta Domenicali was marketed to no one but the Binotto Group.’

Piero almost dropped his coffee cup.

Emiliano’s head swivelled accusingly in the direction of Graziella and Graziella jumped. ‘Salvatore—!’

‘Don’t,’ he said flatly, without looking at her. ‘It was easy to make a few calls and check whether you had ever sent the emails we composed together.’ His brows drew down over his eyes, making him look fierce as his gaze moved between his sons. It settled on Emiliano, whose mouth was hanging open. ‘I believe we owe it to Piero to properly market the estate and see whether other buyers come forward.’

After a hesitation, Emiliano agreed. ‘That’s fair.’

Piero’s agile mind was already looking at the other side of the story. ‘If we sell to someone other than Binotto’s, Emiliano might not keep his job as Tenuta Domenicali’s winemaker.’

Salvatore gave a single nod.

Emiliano grimaced. ‘That’s a generous thought, Piero, considering I was prepared to let you sacrifice your home.’

For several seconds the only noise came from the whirring of the fan behind Salvatore and the rumble of the tractor on the slopes of the vineyard. Then Salvatore prompted, ‘Are we agreed to market it properly?’ He added, deliberately, ‘The three of us?’

Piero nodded. ‘The right deal might be out there.’

Emiliano nodded too, but more slowly. ‘I agree,’ he said on a sigh, the knowledge that he might be voting himself out of a job obviously on his mind.

Salvatore sat back. ‘My vote is also yes. Graziella, would you leave us, please?’