by Lynne Graham
“They had a roof over their heads, food in their bellies, shelter against storms. I had nothing,” Vincenzo threw at her, his chest rising and falling.
Not even a childhood. That was the price he had paid for her mercilessness.
He had never been allowed to be a child.
Her chin jerked down, and the old woman looked away for long, painful minutes. He ran a shaking hand through his hair. “I will grant you that your grandsons are not the monsters I thought them.”
Alessandra’s faith in Leo and Massimo had not been bought with all this wealth or by favors, Vincenzo was learning with each day.
It was a hard pill to swallow: the genuine affection she shared with both men, being here in the seat of the family’s power for generations, being the outsider.
But worse was the realization—like a shard of glass stuck in his throat—that that affection, that bond with the Brunetti brothers, should have been his too. To see them over the breakfast table, to understand the easy camaraderie between them, to feel like the outsider when he had just as much right to that bond with them… It was a special kind of torment.
Alessandra’s hope that somehow he could cross the divide between them and build that bond with them—now, after everything he’d done to bring them down, after all the bitter hatred he’d nursed for them for over two decades… It was just that—a naive, pathetic hope that he refused to indulge in.
“That was despite my presence in their life,” Greta added softly, and Vincenzo turned to her with a frown. “You are under a grand delusion if you think Leo and Massimo had a nurtured upbringing in this home.
“After dealing with Silvio’s cruel antics and the fallout for so many years, I had nothing left to give them. They grew up to be honorable men, despite their abusive father and me.
“It was only when I married Alessandra’s father, Carlos, that I realized…how many mistakes I had made. How I had let my son and his actions change me into this…bitter woman who had not even a kind word for her grandsons.”
Vincenzo refused to indulge the thin thread of sympathy that reverberated within him at the woman’s words.
Nothing, nothing could forgive what she’d done to his mother and him. This was all Alessandra’s doing. The blasted woman was changing how he saw things, was undoing him at a cellular level.
“Per piacere, Vincenzo, do not…hurt Alessandra.”
“I’m to believe you care for her that much?”
“Si, I do. She gave me a chance to be someone else. To redeem myself. To…find love in my heart again. Please…”
“Promise me you won’t use me in this battle of yours?” Alessandra had asked him just before they’d danced at Antonio’s party.
And he’d given her his word. And yet, if he could end this war he’d waged all the sooner, all the more cleanly, by using her, if he could avoid the total destruction he’d originally planned, wouldn’t she ultimately be grateful to him? Wouldn’t she understand why he’d done it?
His thoughts ran away from him like a runaway freight train before he could hold on to one and process it.
If, once he’d pulled apart BFI, he left this house intact instead of bringing it down—this house that she loved so much, this house that had been her safe harbor… If Alessandra and he could build that family of theirs here, if they could have a fresh start in this place where once his dreams had been crushed… Wasn’t his revenge still complete?
Wasn’t justice served then?
“If she’s that important to you, then prove it to me,” he said, pushing away the quiet voice of conscience that threatened to take over if he let it.
Her skin whitened to such deathly paleness that Vincenzo felt a twinge of remorse. He had hated this woman so much for so long, and yet she looked like nothing but a husk of the person from his memory, who had with one merciless decision, ruined his childhood, his mother’s sanity.
The years in between should have etched that hardness she had showed them that day onto her face and yet, her eyes shone with conviction. With love, he realized, a cold chill taking over his skin.
Love that Alessandra had created in this old woman’s bitter heart.
Love and something like the longing that he had glimpsed in Alessandra’s eyes when she looked at him.
It was the most terrifying thing he’d ever seen. Because he was beginning to realize he didn’t deserve it. It amplified into an urgent drumbeat in his blood—this need to finish what he’d started soon. Before it was too late.
“How?” the old woman asked, pulling him out of his own murky thoughts.
“Ask your grandson to step down as CEO of BFI.”
“Leonardo has worked far too hard for far too many years to just give up now.”
“Then make him.”
“It’s not—”
“Throw your support behind me at the next board meeting.”
The old woman swayed on her feet and reached for the support of the table. “If I back you, Leonardo will lose the controlling majority.”
“It is a far better fate than what I had initially decided for them both.”
Her eyes held his in a defiant challenge, an almost mirror image of the resolve he spied in his own eyes. A resemblance that he wanted to deny at any cost, and yet it was there. “For two centuries, only a Brunetti sat on that chair.” A hint of that Brunetti arrogance crept back into the woman’s words, her spine straightening. “It’s against tradition—”
“The choices you have are very simple,” Vincenzo said with a shrug. Any doubts he might have indulged in washed away at the flash of that Brunetti arrogance in her eyes. “Either keep BFI intact by throwing your support behind me or see all of it torn into pieces like I initially planned.
“With the first choice, you might even save Alessandra some heartache in the process. That’s what you came to ask me for, remember? That I don’t hurt Alessandra in all this.”
“And you would use my affection for her this way?”
“Your words, your actions created the man I am today. You only have yourself to blame.”
“This will break her heart. You’re truly—”
“My father’s son, si? So I have been told. You’d better not tell her then.” He refused to think of what would happen if Alessandra found out. He refused to let it sway him when he was so close to being done. Cristo, he so badly wanted to be done. He wanted that future life with Alessandra to begin right now. “Alessandra has already chosen me. Chosen a future with me,” he said, letting the old woman see his victory. “If I take over BFI, this can all be over for her too. She won’t feel so caught up between her past and her future.”
He left the room without looking back, a sort of desperation filling him to see Alessandra in that bed. To hold her. To reassure himself that she…
He felt dirty. As if he completely deserved the loathing he’d seen in the old woman’s eyes.
He reached the bedroom, and only then did air fill his lungs. He stripped fast and got back into the bed. Like clockwork, Alessandra reached for him and burrowed into him. Only then did his heart slow its savage race.
“Did we make a mistake, V?”
Had she asked him that only a few nights ago?
And he realized with a sinking dread that the answer was yes. He had made a mistake. He had involved a woman who deserved far better than him in his life. He had tangled with a woman who deserved to be loved, to be worshipped. Who didn’t deserve to be used as currency against the woman she loved.
But as Alex wrapped her long limbs around him, as she pulled him over her sweet temptation of a body, as she took his mouth in a warm kiss, as he lazily thrust into her and built them both up into that delicious frenzy again, Vincenzo didn’t even consider for one second if he could give her up to fix the mistake. Release her from his life.
He couldn’t. He wouldn�
�t.
Because she was his. Not the prize he’d once so foolishly thought her. But so much more.
His salvation and his sanctuary.
* * *
Alessandra was still riding the high of the evening as she walked into the New York penthouse, put away her portfolio, stripped and went into the shower in quick succession. Her skin tingled as she thought of seeing Vincenzo again after four long days apart, of returning the favor he had done her in the one way she knew he would appreciate.
The warm spray from the powerful jet invigorated her as she smiled, anticipation building like a current inside her.
Thank God he’d had Anna tell her, even if it had been a bit dicey, at the last moment to bring her design portfolio with her. That the surprise he’d arranged for her was a dinner meeting with the talented CEO of an up-and-coming couture house with its base in New York City—a meeting Alessandra had been pursuing for more than a month now with no success.
One of the numerous things that Vincenzo arranged in her life, with an incredible arrogance that sometimes stole her breath.
But for all the initial protest that rose up inside her at his high-handedness, Alessandra could never fail to see the intentions—usually good intentions, behind his presumptuous actions. Like this meeting with the trendsetting CEO.
She had only just admitted to herself, and whispered to him that night in her design studio a few weeks ago, that she wanted to launch herself as a designer. That she wanted to launch her own label as Alessandra & Alyssa—a label that would commemorate her mother’s artistic vision and the peace that Alex had finally found after all these years.
It had been a painful internal journey but she knew it was the right thing to do—to acknowledge that her mother had loved her, in her own way, to use the talent and vision for design she’d inherited from Alyssa to build her own company.
Neither could she lie to herself anymore. Vincenzo had helped her achieve that peace. For a man who was so ruthless about so many things, he had been insightful and kind when it was her grief they were dealing with.
As soon as he’d understood what she’d wanted, he had set in motion so many meetings for her all across the globe. Using his connections.
Not that Alessandra lacked a network. But his was just bigger and better, she reluctantly admitted to herself.
For example this particular CEO—his couture house had been in the news of late for its ethical practices, for designing couture using recycled vintage wear, and for its fair trading policies with so many third world countries where it sourced the vintage fabrics. It would be the dream of a couture house to launch her first line with. But even with her connections and her agent’s clout, Alessandra hadn’t been able to acquire a meeting with the man.
No sooner had she revealed her frustration to Vincenzo, there it was in her calendar, a meeting with that CEO.
And it had gone tremendously well, she and the man instantly hitting it off.
At least the nausea that had threatened her all day—she frowned…no, all week, actually—hadn’t ruined the evening. Victor Emmanuel had been both excited and amazed by her portfolio, and Alessandra couldn’t wait to begin working with such a brilliant visionary. Couldn’t wait to see her label launched—a future woven from the threads of the past.
When she had laughingly mentioned Vincenzo twisting his arm to get her the appointment, he had, with a sudden seriousness, admitted that he was the one who owed Vincenzo a favor. Because her husband had been the very man who had helped him raise seed capital in what was a cutthroat industry all those years ago.
Every time Alex thought she knew Vincenzo, that she understood him, he threw a monkey wrench into it.
She toweled her damp hair and pulled a robe on, a strange lethargy gripping her. Barefoot, she walked into the bedroom of the penthouse that challenged the New York City skyline with its magnificence.
They had been here for three weeks now, and Alessandra had discovered she didn’t want to return home. God, she wanted to stay here forever, away from Italy and the myriad demands it placed on her husband’s time, energy and even loyalty.
It had been a glorious few weeks’ respite, and she was loath to see it come to an end.
Since she had made her choice, since she had decided that she couldn’t let his war with Leonardo and Massimo break her apart into so many pieces, just as she’d guessed, Vincenzo, in return for that surrender, had been busy placing the world at her feet in return.
And it hadn’t been just his support, his encouragement, and the use of his extensive network when it came to launching her new career. He had barely returned from a weeklong conference in Beijing when she had been ready to leave for New York to see Charlie again.
A few hours with him at the most had been what she’d been hoping for. Because, once she had stopped lying to herself, once she’d stopped fighting herself, she had admitted how much she missed him.
How much she missed their talks about their careers, about their futures, their long, lazy nights, where she kept thinking that one more night, one more time would calm the fire that raged between them. But it did not. It was as if a different Vincenzo—charming, contented, that Vincenzo she had first met in Bali—had emerged again since she had thrown her lot in with him.
The only blip, the only thing that marred her near-perfect happiness was his past. He refused to even talk about his mother or his ongoing battle to gain the controlling stock of BFI. As long as Alessandra didn’t broach either of those subjects—and she made a conscious effort not to—he was everything she could have ever asked for.
No, he was more than she’d ever expected to have in her life.
A week ago, he had surprised her by joining her on the flight to New York, even though she knew he’d been busy with his own global interests.
He’d been incredibly patient when Charlie had refused to even meet his gaze, reassuring Alex that he knew how to handle the little boy.
He had also made time to spend an entire day with Charlie and her, arranging an impromptu picnic at Central Park, playing the tourist with them. At the end of the day, Charlie had asked Vincenzo when he’d visit again.
“What’s important to you is important to me,” he’d said simply when she had inquired.
Except the Brunettis.
Even a single mention of either Greta, or Leo or Massimo, and instantly, he transformed into a man Alex didn’t understand. A man that she was increasingly afraid for. How long could a person sustain such hatred, such anger and not be changed by it? When it was finally over, what would be left for her?
Alex sighed and poured out a glass of water when the private elevator pinged behind her. Like a teenage girl, her heart beat faster, her skin prickled with anticipation as footsteps echoed down the sitting room and then into the bedroom where she stood by the French doors.
She hadn’t seen him in four days. A meager four days, and yet it felt like a lifetime. “Hey,” she said, leaning her wobbling knees against the cold glass, her throat already parched again.
He stood still, framed by the rounded archway and suddenly the distance between them felt like a chasm. A chasm he was creating between them.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, knowing that she was overreacting and yet unable to stop the thread of fear unspooling in her belly.
“You said you wouldn’t interfere in this anymore. You said you’d chosen your path, that you chose me.”
“I did.”
“Then what do you call all the maneuverings you’ve set into motion behind my back? I can’t leave you alone for a few days? Cristo, no wonder Antonio thinks I’m whipped.”
“What maneuverings? What are you talking about?” She had never seen him so angry and his anger brought out hers. Suddenly, the magic she’d found in the city with him seemed to evaporate right in front of her eyes. “Also, I’d appreciate it if you didn�
�t discuss our marriage with that bitter old man.”
His eyes narrowed. “That bitter old man is the only father figure I’ve ever had. That bitter old man is the only reason I stand before you as a successful businessman instead of a criminal languishing behind bars.”
As quickly as it came, her anger got swept away. She reached him and clasped his jaw in her hands. He hadn’t shaved in a while, and the stubble was a raspy purr against her palm. Dark smudges cradled his eyes. And all she wanted was to kiss away the bitterness from those proud features. “I forget how hard you’ve worked to get to this place.”
He stiffened. “Do not pity me, Alessandra.”
She smiled, her chest swimming with a most peculiar cocktail of emotions. “Antonio deserves my respect if nothing else. I’m sorry for speaking of him in such a manner. But—” she chose her words carefully “—he’s determined to tether you to the past so tightly, V…” She pressed her mouth against his, desperate for a taste of him. Every word Antonio said to him, every meeting pulled Vincenzo away from the possibility of the future they could share. From finally releasing all the bitterness and anger he’d nursed for so long. From her. “And it terrifies the hell out of me.”
That he didn’t offer her words of reassurance made her belly swoop. Fear coated her skin with a cold chill and she started shivering.
There was change on the horizon—good and bad—so many chances that she could be split open and everything in her urged to run away again.
Instead, she embraced the fear and ache. She tightened her arms around him and let the vulnerability wash over her. Drown her. The lazy flick of his tongue against hers, the solid feel of him in her arms, the scent of him in her blood anchored her amidst her own fears. Rooted her.
Could the very man who might break her also give her strength to stay strong?
She’d have laughed at the question if it wasn’t her heart in the balance.
His hands untangled hers from him. “You told Leonardo and Massimo about Antonio, about all the others.”
“I didn’t think it was a secret.”
