Sins of The Vineyard

Chapter 2

Dario D'Amico took a few steps into the cafeteria, still looking at Antonella. Francesca subconsciously pulled her daughter closer.

Suddenly, he turned around and went towards the kitchen without saying anything to them. A collective gasp escaped the lips of all the workers present.

“Do you think he heard us?” Fiona whispered, leaning closer. The others shrugged and they returned to their meals, all talk of complaining gone.

Later that night, in their little room at the workers' quarters, Antonella pulled a drawer to retrieve an old notebook. She abruptly shut it, seeing that it was the wrong one. Then she got the book and tore a sheet from it, and sat with a pen on her narrow mattress.

Francesca sat up in the bed beside hers. “Baby, are you really going to write the letter?”

“Of course I am, mom. We'll soon start spending our savings if we keep going like this. How are we going to make the down payment for the land?”

Francesca hesitated for a moment. “You know it's best we stay out of the D'Amicos’ path. I don't want us to stir up anything again.”

“We're going as a team, not just you and me.”

“Antonella…”

“Mom, please. You know I'll do it anyway. Let me focus.”

Francesca's shoulders slumped. She lay back in bed and pulled the covers over herself as Antonella crouched over her paper, writing by the light of the single bulb in the room.

It was the first thing Fiona spoke of the following morning. They all agreed to deliver the letter after work, since they had little to do at the vineyard. Antonella was chosen to go with Fiona and Valentino.

Stella D'Amico, the boss' wife, was in the office with her eldest children Serena and Dario, when the trio knocked and came in. Their expressions hardened the moment they saw Antonella.

“Hello, ma'am, sir,” Valentino spoke for the group. “We are here to…ahh…” he looked around at his fellow workers “...to deliver a letter.”

Dario raised his brows. “And what would you be writing?” he asked, leaning back in his father's chair to prop his hands under his chin.

“I think it would be best if you read it, sir,” Antonella said, extending the folded piece of paper. Serena took it by the tip and handed it to her younger brother.

The workers turned to leave, but Stella stopped them. “Wait here,” she said. Serena looked at her mother with a tight face. “Do they have to?” she asked, almost grimacing.

It was quiet in the office as Dario read through the letter, his face curving in a wider, more cynical smile with each line. Antonella held her hands clasped behind her back as they waited.

Finally he put it down, delicately, and looked at them. “We've heard your complaints. You will get your money by the weekend.”

They stood looking at each other, unsure of what else to do.

“You heard him. You can go,” Serena said, her voice tart and impatient. Dario spoke as they turned.

“Not you, Antonella.”

She paused and turned around again. They waited until Fiona and Valentino were out of the door.

“You should be careful what you put in writing, Antonella.” He picked up the paper. Stella took it from him and read it. “Why are you looking at me like that? It's your handwriting, and only you could have come up with something like that.”

“After everything my husband has done for you and your mother,” Stella said under her breath, looking up from the paper in her hands.

“Is this to make you feel included? Have you and your mother run out of the things you get from my husband?” She waved the paper before her.

“Mr. Federico does not give anything extra to me or my mother,” Antonella said sharply, looking hard at the woman.

Stella continued as if she hadn't heard her. “You know what you both do to get favours from him. Why don't you just go and do it again, instead of playing exploited staff with the rest of the workers?”

“With all due respect, Mrs. D'Amico,” Antonella said, struggling to keep her voice steady and polite as distant footsteps sounded outside, “you will not speak about me or my mother like that.”

“Be quiet!” Serena snapped. “What wrong thing has my mother said?” She grabbed the letter. “You're exactly like your mother. What was the need to do this? What exactly did you intend to prove?”

Antonella clenched her fists by her sides, her nails digging into her palms. “You’re all mistaken, Ms. Serena. My mother and I work honestly here at Tenuta D'Amico, and we've done nothing wrong by demanding payment of our delayed wages.”

“She's still acting self-righteous,” Dario scoffed, the smirk still plastered on his face.

“So this is what you all get up to when I decide to rest?” a firm voice asked. They all turned to the doorway, and the smirk on Dario's face vanished. Serena immediately rose to her feet and went to the door.

“Dad, what are you doing out here? The doctor instructed that you shouldn't get out of bed,” she said, trying to help the man in. He shrugged her off.

“I'm perfectly fine, Serena. Leave me. So this is what you do when I'm resting, insulting our staff?” Federico D'Amico asked his wife and children as he walked towards an empty chair.

Antonella still stood there quietly, her eyes following the man's movements with concern as he sat down. He looked up at her.

“You can go now, my dear. I apologise for their rudeness.”

She shook her head and smiled tightly. “It's not your fault, sir.”

“He said, go,” Dario grunted.

“Dario!”

Antonella left the room, head held high, blinking fast to stop the tears from spilling as she went to the workers' quarters.

Federico questioned his family in his office.

“What was that about? And what's this I hear about our workers not being paid their wages?” His eyes were fixed on Dario.

“It's nothing serious, dad. Just some minor issues. I'm handling it.”

“No, you are not. I assume she was here to complain?”

“Very unnecessarily,” Serena said. He turned to look at her.

“I wasn't talking to you.” Serena promptly shut her mouth, bending over her phone.

“So, you say you're handling it, yet it has stretched so long that they had to complain. Tell me, how long has it been?”

Dario squinted, shifting around in his chair. “I don't know. I'll have to check the records to be sure.”

Federico leaned forward and held his head in his hands for a moment. Then he looked up.

“You won't do in Italy what you did to Gruppo D'Amico in New York.” He pulled out his phone.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

“Exactly what it looks like. If your brother has to clean up your mistakes all the time, then he will.”

“But Stefano is busy in New York,” Stella protested.

“And now I want him in Italy. Will you decide for me who to keep at the forefront?”