Chapter 140: When in Tuscany

Giovanni did everything he could to make the most of his month in Italy.

The legal matters came first.

He signed and submitted the documents establishing him as the legitimate heir to the properties his relatives had left behind. No one contested his claim. The lawyers had already spent considerable time searching for other possible heirs and found none, which made the transfer of ownership relatively straightforward.

Once that was settled, Giovanni turned his attention to management and operations.

The vineyard’s financial reports showed a profitable business, and the bank records supported the numbers. Giovanni saw little reason to interfere with an operation that was already functioning well simply because his name now appeared on the ownership documents.

Don’t fix what isn’t broken.

Stefano Moretti led the management team that ran and maintained the vineyard. He was in his early fifties, a Tuscan native, and clearly knew both the land and the people working on it.

More importantly, he knew what he was doing.

During one of their meetings, however, Moretti hesitated before bringing up something that hadn’t appeared in any report.

"The workers have been worried about the change in ownership."

Giovanni looked up from the documents. "Why?"

"You don’t live in Tuscany, Signor Mercer. Most of them didn’t know what you intended to do once the inheritance was settled."

Apparently, some of the same families had worked the vineyard for generations. Alessandro Mercer had known many of them personally, including their parents and, in some cases, their grandparents. He’d paid them fairly, kept people employed through difficult seasons whenever he reasonably could, and understood that the vineyard supported more than the family who owned it.

His death had created uncertainty. The long wait for another Mercer to legally take possession of the estate only made it worse.

"Some feared you might sell," Moretti admitted. "Others worried a new owner would bring in different people or change the way the vineyard operates."

Giovanni leaned back in his chair.

He hadn’t considered that.

To him, the inheritance had been a legal matter to settle. To the people working here, it involved their livelihoods.

Bellini, who had been quietly listening, glanced at Moretti before adding, "Stefano and I had our own concerns."

Moretti gave him a resigned look. "Apparently, we’re being completely honest today."

"We should be."

Bellini turned back to Giovanni.

"We’re not young men anymore, Signor Mercer. If the new owner decided he wanted his own management, finding comparable positions at our age wouldn’t necessarily be easy."

His voice held no accusation. He said it simply because it was true.

Moretti nodded. "So we did what we could. We kept everything operating properly, maintained the records, and made sure the properties remained profitable."

"And perhaps," Bellini added with a faint smile, "we hoped the new owner would look at the results and decide we were still useful."

Giovanni glanced at the reports spread across the table.

Apparently, those numbers represented more than competent management.

They’d also been an argument.

Moretti and Bellini had spent the years of uncertain ownership making sure that whenever Alessandro’s heir finally appeared, there would be very little reason to replace the people already running everything.

It had worked.

"I don’t intend to sell the vineyard," Giovanni said.

Moretti’s expression changed slightly.

"And I’m not replacing either of you. The numbers don’t give me a reason to, and neither does anything I’ve seen since I arrived."

Bellini visibly relaxed.

"As for the workers, I have no intention of replacing people who are doing their jobs simply because I’m the new owner."

Moretti nodded slowly. "They’ll be relieved to hear that."

"Tell them."

"I will."

With that settled, Giovanni updated the existing agreement with Moretti rather than replacing it. They established a regular email reporting system, and Giovanni became a co-signatory on the vineyard’s designated bank account.

The villa received much the same treatment.

Lorenzo Bellini would remain responsible for its operation and maintenance. The property would continue accepting paying guests, allowing the villa to support its own expenses rather than sitting empty whenever Giovanni wasn’t in Italy. Its income would be deposited into a designated account with Giovanni and Bellini as co-signatories.

By the end of the week, Giovanni had signed enough documents to last him another lifetime.

At least the question of who would continue running the properties was settled.

One evening, after another meeting with Bellini and Moretti, Giovanni closed the folder in front of him.

One other thing he’d been working on.

His Italian.

Giovanni could speak a little, although calling himself fluent would’ve been extremely generous. Matteo had spoken Italian to him occasionally while he was growing up, so many basic words and expressions remained familiar even when Giovanni couldn’t immediately form the sentences himself.

He understood considerably more than he could speak.

He’d spent part of the flight to Italy brushing up anyway.

Both Moretti and Bellini spoke English, which made business considerably easier, but Giovanni didn’t want to spend an entire month in Tuscany expecting everyone around him to accommodate him.

This had been his family’s home too.

He could at least make an effort.

Giovanni looked at the two men.

"Signor Moretti, Signor Bellini, potete consigliarmi un buon ristorante per stasera?"

Mr. Moretti, Mr. Bellini, can you recommend a good restaurant for tonight?

Both men paused.

Moretti was the first to smile.

"Certamente. Preferisce qualcosa di elegante o di più tradizionale?"

Of course. Would you prefer something elegant or more traditional?

Giovanni understood most of that.

Thankfully.

"Tradizionale." He paused, then added, "Cibo toscano."

Traditional. Tuscan food.

Bellini’s smile widened slightly.

"Conosco un posto. è piccolo, ma si mangia molto bene."

I know a place. It’s small, but the food is very good.

That took Giovanni another second to process, but he got there.

"Good." He switched to English before his confidence could outrun his vocabulary. "Then I’d like both of you to join me for dinner."

Moretti glanced at Bellini, clearly amused.

Giovanni frowned. "I know how to say that."

That only made Bellini laugh.

Giovanni tried anyway.

"Vorrei invitarvi a cena, se siete liberi."

I’d like to invite you both to dinner, if you’re free.

His pronunciation probably wasn’t perfect, but they understood.

Moretti nodded, looking genuinely pleased.

"Con piacere, Signor Mercer."

With pleasure, Mr. Mercer.

"Molto volentieri," Bellini agreed.

We’d be very happy to.

Giovanni relaxed.

He wasn’t going to become fluent in Italian in a month, and neither man expected him to.

Still, judging by their expressions, the effort mattered.

He’d arrived in Tuscany because legal documents said these properties now belonged to him. But the longer he stayed, the clearer it became that he’d inherited more than ownership.

There were people here who remembered his family, people who had depended on the estate long before Giovanni knew it would someday become his responsibility.

Learning a little of their language seemed like a decent place to start.