Page 57 of The Road to You
I watch it get closer—this home he gave his parents with the initial money he earned playing the game he loved—the house he donated with gratitude. And I realize I’m not just about to meet his family.
I’m about to meet the people who madehim.
As we drive closerto the house, I realize it’s not justahouse. It’s massive.
Not in a flashy, Beverly Hills kind of way, but sprawling and warm, with white stone walls that seem to glow under the sunand dark wooden beams that peek out from the arched doors and windows. Olive trees frame it like a painting, and prickly pear cacti cluster along the stone paths that curve between the buildings.
“Michele,” I say slowly, staring out the window. “You told me your parents had a house. You didn’t mention acompound.”
He chuckles, eyes on the long gravel drive. “Technically, it’s amasseria.”
“A what?”
“A fortified farmhouse, from the 1700s. We renovated it years ago when I bought it for them. There are a lot of these in Puglia. Most are hotels now.”
I blink. “You told me your parents had a house. Not that they live in a historical landmark.” I gape at the building coming closer and closer.
“They needed the space,” he says with a shrug, like that explains everything.“With all the siblings and grandkids, it gets chaotic, especially on weekends.” He is way too nonchalant not to suspect he is hiding something important.
“Today is Wednesday,” I state, already hearing the note of suspicion creeping into my voice. I hope he’ll say something, but he doesn’t speak, raising all the alarms in my head.
He doesn’t even look at me. Instead, he pulls the car into a turn that leads toward the courtyard in front of the main house.
And that’s when I see the kids.
There must be five or six of them, running around barefoot on the terracotta tiles, shrieking and chasing each other like mini whirlwinds. One of them spots our car and lets out a high-pitched squeal, waving wildly.
“Zio Michele! Zio Michele è arrivato!”
The others echo the call and take off like a stampede toward the house. A moment later, more figures begin pouring out—adults, teens, toddlers. A whole wave of people filters throughthe arched stone entrance like they’ve been waiting their whole lives for this exact moment.
I count quickly, then stop because I lose track of the numbers. At least thirty people are now standing in front of the car. Smiling, chatting, waving, clapping, even.
I whip my head toward Michele.
“Youliar!You said your parents might be home. Maybe some grandparents.This is a wedding reception.”
He grimaces but doesn’t look even a little bit sorry. “It’s Wednesday. My siblings should be at work.”
“Then why are therethirty peoplewaiting to mob us?”
He shrugs. “They probably heard I was coming and came for lunch.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper under my breath while my gaze rolls over the people still pouring out of the door.
Before I can say anything else, he kills the engine, and then we are surrounded. The moment the doors open, it’s afull assault.
I barely have time to plant one foot on the ground before a petite woman with thick curls and sparkling eyes rushes toward Michele and crushes him into a hug, murmuring in rapid-fire Italian. A second later, she pulls back, eyes shining, and throws her arms around me.
I freeze.
She kisses one cheek, then the other, then cups my face in her warm hands and smiles like she’s been waiting to meet me since I was born. Before I can even recover, someone else—an older man with wild salt-and-pepper hair—grabs me in a bear hug and lifts me clean off the ground. Another woman presses a kiss to my temple and mutters something in Italian too fast for me to even try to understand. A teenager with braces hugs me like we’re old friends. A tiny child clings to my leg like a koala.
I look over at Michele, who’s trapped in his own cyclone of greetings, shaking hands, and getting his hair ruffled like he’s still twelve.
“Michele,” I hiss through my smile as another set of lips lands on my cheek. “Do something.”
He glances over at me and bursts out laughing.
