The Italian Billionaire's New Year Bride

There was silence for a few seconds. He waited for the tirade of abuse from his sister for momentarily teasing her but it didn’t come.

“Matteo, who is she?”

There was something about his sister’s tone. Her curiosity. He instantly felt a prickle down his spine. Brianna was nosey. Brianna was beyond nosey. He probably shouldn’t have said anything at all.

He kept his voice brisk. “She’s Phoebe Gates. Remember Rudy’s apartment at Central Park? She did that one. She’ll do a good job for us.”

He could almost hear the cogs and whirrs of Brianna’s brain. “Yeah, I remember the apartment at Central Park. It ended up as part of a bidding war, didn’t it?”

“Well, if that’s what you heard, it must be true.”

“So, we know Ms. Gates can dress an apartment—but can she dress a Hampton house?”

She hadn’t said the words out loud but the implication was clear. An apartment at Central Park was big. A house in the Hamptons was in a whole other league.

“Have a little faith in your brother, Brianna.”

There was a loud sigh at the end of the phone. “I have a lot of faith in my brother. Both my brothers.” There was a pause for a second. Matteo had kept walking. The fresh air was calling to him, along with the spectacularly white snow. The tone of her voice softened. “How are you?”

He didn’t answer. Cold air was filling his lungs, letting his heart race a little quicker and letting him shake off the cobwebs.

It was hard to explain. The only other people to have walked in his shoes were Vittore and Brianna. No one else would ever understand. He wouldn’t expect them to. He wouldn’t want them to. And the truth was, Vittore and Brianna didn’t understand entirely either—because he didn’t want them to. He was oldest. It was his job to guard his younger brother and sister.

“Matteo?” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.

Matteo closed his eyes. “I’m fine, Brianna. Of course, I’m fine. It’s just this place. You know that. I’m going to leave everything in Phoebe’s hands. She doesn’t see this place the way we do. She loves it. She thinks it’s great. She...she has the ability to dress it and make it sell. That’s all that we need.”

He could almost hear the shake in her voice. “Is it?”

It was as if the cold air penetrated every part of him. He wouldn’t go there. He wouldn’t have the conversation that his sister sometimes pushed him toward. He’d learned how to deal with it over the years. It was as if he owned his own set of black shutters. Push him so far and he would just slam them shut. “Goodbye, Brianna,” he said smartly as he finished the call.

* * *

Phoebe was sitting on the curved staircase. Her feet had actually started to follow him out of the kitchen, then her instincts had kicked in and told her not to. Told her to give him a little space.

Mr. Bianchi was more than a little temperamental. Was this an Italian trait?

She sighed and closed her eyes, trying to breathe in the essence of this beautiful home. Her brain instantly took her to the place she wanted to be. Right now she was recreating her own favorite musical and was tap dancing up and down these stairs in a bouffant yellow dress. She just hadn’t decided who her imaginary leading man was yet. A twinge of guilt set in.

For the first year after Jason’s death he’d been the main feature of every dream she’d had. But for the last year, several movie stars had started to creep in and take over. In a way, it had been a relief to stop waking up with her heart in her throat. That horrible little millisecond of time—the briefest of moments—where she thought everything was just the same, Jason was still here, her mom wasn’t sick yet and then, she remembered.

And that overwhelming colossal black wave swamped back on top of her, every morning, making her relive every moment and making her want to be sick all over her bed. It took months for that to fade. Months to wake up to the reality that was her life.

But every time she felt relief that didn’t happen anymore, guilt pricked at her conscience.

She took a deep breath and pressed her hands on the cool marble stairs, letting her eyes flicker open. She could imagine the beautiful women and men who’d walked these steps. The hopes, dreams and fantasy lifestyles. Things that were all so far out of her reach.

She shook her head and smiled. Jealousy had never been a Phoebe trait. She loved that this place had history. She loved that it had been captured in time. She would probably never get a chance like this again. She just had to know what to keep to help capture the story, and know what to replace to make this home still seem appealing to a modern-day buyer.