by Dana Delamar
No. That was Vince talking, telling her she deserved his lack of control, his anger.
With that slap, he’d just crossed her personal Rubicon. Now it was war. “What kind of limp-dicked loser hits his wife?”
Vince stared at her, his breathing ragged. “Who you calling a limp dick?”
“You, you pathetic, wife-beating, loser.”
She saw him shudder, knew he was furious, knew more slaps were coming. Knew she wouldn’t back down, no matter the consequences. “Ever since we got here, Vince, you’ve changed. You’ve become someone I don’t want to know anymore. You’ve turned into a big bully, just like your damn uncle. That’s why I hate him. That’s why I’m taking the pills.”
He threw his hands up and she flinched. When he saw her recoil, guilt flashed across his face, his features softening. His voice fell to a whisper. “I’m sorry. You know I got a temper.”
That old excuse. Anger roared up, making her stomach roil and her skin go hot, the pain draining away. “Face it. You’re a wife beater. The lowest of the low. The weakest of the weak.” She hissed her accusation, punctuating each word with the punch of her index finger into his bare chest.
“I’m not! Jesus!” He turned away for a second, then took a deep breath. “I won’t ever do it again.”
She narrowed her gaze. “You’re damn right you won’t.”
He met her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Kate put her hands on her hips, her cheek throbbing. “Nobody hits me. Ever.”
“Come on. It was a mistake. I got carried away.” He reached for her arms, trying to pull her close.
She pushed him away. “Leave me alone.”
He looked at her for a moment, his eyes wounded. “I’m sorry. How many times do I got to say it?”
“I can’t forgive this.”
“Damn it, Katie. You’re my wife. We’re married. That means something to me. Don’t it mean anything to you?”
Some part of her wanted to say that it did. But if she gave in now, he’d just do it again. I’m gonna kill you. She’d never forget him saying that. She looked down at the marble tiles on the bathroom floor, her eyes idly tracing the honey-colored veins that ran through the creamy stone. Anything to keep from looking at him. Anything to keep him from seeing the truth in her eyes.
“Let me think about it,” she mumbled. She needed him gone, ASAP, and if she had to lie, she would.
“Okay. But we got to talk about this later.”
She nodded. She’d have to call her parents and ask them for money to get home. She could hear her mother now. “But Katherine, what did you expect? He’s from Jersey.”
“Katie, look at me.” When she met his eyes, he said, “Look, I’m just a dumb fuck. I’m not thinking straight. I love you. I would never hurt you.”
“But you just did.”
He shrugged, his eyes sliding away. “I don’t know what came over me.”
She looked at him for a long time. The words she spoke were thick and shaky, not the cool tone she’d intended. Her marriage was over. And it did mean something to her. “You are not the man I married. That man would never hit me. That man loved me.”
His chin came up and he met her gaze again. “Don’t say that.” His voice held a pleading note she’d heard too much of recently.
“Just leave.”
He took a deep breath and looked like he wanted to say something else, but she pointed to the door. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Anger and sadness warred on his face. He took a step toward her, but when she moved back, his shoulders slumped and he put up his hands in surrender. “You’re pissed. I can see that. You got to cool off, so I’m leaving—for now. But we got to talk this through.”
“We will,” she lied. She waited until he closed the door behind him, then she sagged against the sink, her arms trembling. Tears blurred her vision, and she stifled a sob, her throat aching, her eyes burning. She listened intently to the sounds of him moving around in the other room, waiting for him to leave. Finally she heard the outer door to their apartment close. He was gone.
She was alone. Again.
Kate rubbed her throbbing cheek and let the tears fall. How had their marriage degenerated so quickly? The first three months had been great, but the last six… and now this. She walked into the bedroom, her eyes going to the chair where the jacket had been.
It was gone.
A chill ran through her, instantly stifling her tears. It had been blood on the jacket.
If Vince was in the Mafia, if he’d killed someone, what reason would he have to let her go?
What was to stop him from hunting her down?
What was to stop him from killing her?
Not a damn thing.
Carlo Andretti rooted for Giotto as he tore into his brother Giorgio. The two Rottweilers growled and snapped at each other, their teeth and coal-black coats gleaming in the sun as they fought over the ball Carlo had tossed in their midst. Giorgio lost his hold on the ball, and the dogs raced across the lawn after it, their huge paws ripping the turf. Carlo smiled at their antics. The dogs were the best children he could ever hope for. Smart, loyal, and unquestioning. Vicious when so ordered. And convinced the sun rose and set on Carlo.
He corrected himself. Giotto and Giorgio were the best children he could ever have, aside from his dead Toni, God rest her soul. Her surviving twin, Dario, had all the initiative and thought process of a clam.
Twins. He could have had two clever, cunning children. But God had given him only one. And that one was dead.
Dario would inherit everything Carlo had worked for. Fucking shit-for-brains Dario. He’ll just let everything dribble through his fingers like piss.
Unless of course Vincenzo proved himself. His nephew seemed to have the brains and the balls to be capo. He certainly had the ambition. He’d asked Carlo for the opportunity to take out Enrico Lucchesi, and Carlo had agreed to give him the chance. So far, Vincenzo had planted his pretty wife near Lucchesi, to give himself an excuse to get close to Lucchesi when he was under little guard. It was a decent plan, but it was moving far too slowly. So he’d nudged things along by sending Enrico the box. Vincenzo wouldn’t like it, but he’d have to cope.
Waiting out the entire year of mourning after Toni’s death had been agony enough. When Lucchesi had taken up with Franco Trucco’s red-haired daughter just six months after Toni’s death, Carlo had almost broken his mourning vow and avenged Toni’s honor. But then Lucchesi had crashed his car and the red-haired puttana had died. So Carlo had held back his anger for the moment, even though the affair proved, despite Lucchesi’s protestations of love for Toni, that he’d been a liar all along.
Carlo never should have agreed to the wedding. But Toni had desperately wanted Dario back, worthless shit that he was. And he was Carlo’s only son. Agreeing to the wedding, ending the feud, getting Dario back, had seemed like the right thing to do at the time. But letting Rinaldo and Enrico Lucchesi live had been a mistake.
A mistake he didn’t intend to continue, now that his Toni was dead and her death properly mourned. At least he had the satisfaction of knowing he’d respected his daughter’s memory, even if Lucchesi hadn’t. Toni couldn’t fault him for what came next.
“Don Andretti.” Carlo heard Massimo’s gruff voice behind him. He took his eyes off the tussling dogs and turned to watch his man approach. Massimo was a large man, but well-dressed as always, his dark double-breasted suit hiding some of his bulk. A true Mafioso, Massimo’s fine clothes added to his swagger. The smirk on Massimo’s face only enhanced the impression of a man who thought he owned the world. Carlo forgave him his arrogance; it was well-earned. Massimo never let him down, never failed his assignments. Unlike Dario.
“How did it go?” Carlo asked.
Massimo chuckled. “Lucchesi and his guards about shit their pants. You should have seen it. I thought the young one was going to shoot himself in the balls.”
Carlo laughed. “Bene,
Massimo, molto bene.” He clapped Massimo on the back. He was glad he’d waited for this particular day to send his message, glad he’d let Lucchesi get complacent, comfortable. He’d be easier to kill that way. But first, Carlo wanted to have some fun. Death by a thousand cuts was far preferable to something quick. Lucchesi might disagree, but fuck him. He and his father had thwarted Carlo at every turn; in some ways, the son had been worse than the father.
But now it was Carlo’s turn to make the Lucchesis suffer. To make them feel what they’d done to him, to all of them. To make them see they were leading the ‘Ndrangheta down the path toward oblivion.
And he’d never forgive Enrico for not taking better care of Toni. He hated Rinaldo, but that was business. His hatred of Enrico, that was personal.
It was the dream that had decided him, in the end. The dream where he opened a box and found Toni’s delicate little hand inside, severed neatly at the wrist. He’d had that dream only twice since Dario’s kidnapping. Once the night before Toni’s wedding. And then again early this morning, on the anniversary of her death.
He’d warned Enrico when he married her. He’d warned him what would happen. And now it was time to make good on that promise.
CHAPTER 2
No one spoke. When Enrico and the guards boarded the private jet, he took a seat at a table by a window, and Antonio and Ruggero sat across the aisle. They’d learned by now it was best to say nothing when he was angry, to not speak until spoken to.
Crossing his arms, Enrico stared out the window as they taxied down the runway. He kicked the table leg in front of him and swore. Of course it didn’t give. The table was bolted down. Curling his toes experimentally, he was fairly certain none were broken.
Antonio looked at him questioningly, maybe hoping to be sent to the galley for some ice. Enrico looked away from him, dismissing his silent entreaty. If he was suffering, so would they.
The plane picked up speed as they lifted off. Soon they were soaring above the chaos that was Rome. The Eternal City teemed with the beautiful and the ugly at the same time. Making a slow circle above the dense jumble of buildings below, the plane eventually headed north, to Milan.
Foolish. So damned foolish. His father would never forgive him for being so reckless. And he couldn’t forgive himself. He was not the sort of man who believed a Mafioso had to prove himself every minute of the day. All he had to do was prove himself prudent. Prudent would keep him safe. Prudent wouldn’t get him or his men killed.
Enrico noticed Antonio peering at something in the back. Following the direction of his gaze, Enrico’s eyes lit upon the pretty flight attendant. Of course it was a woman.
He opened his mouth to chide Antonio, then closed it. The attendant had dyed her hair a deep auburn, and now she reminded him of someone he couldn’t ignore.
Kate Andretti. The married woman he couldn’t get out of his mind. The woman he’d be seeing later today. The woman he could not have, could not allow himself to have, even if she were agreeable. And yet she’d plagued his thoughts since their first meeting.
Enrico had been upset when the director of the Lucchesi Home for Children, Dottor Laurio, had hired an Andretti three months ago. But short of informing the director that he’d inadvertently hired the wife of an enemy, there was nothing Enrico could do. He’d carefully maintained the fiction with Laurio that he was just a businessman, and he wasn’t about to tell the man otherwise.
But once Enrico met Kate, his concerns evaporated. Her exotic looks—auburn hair, striking green eyes, alabaster skin—piqued his interest, but her manner was the thing that bowled him over. Competent, intelligent, kind: all qualities that reminded him very much of Antonella.
He’d spoken to Kate a half-dozen times, making several unscheduled trips to the orphanage to do so. Not that that was far out of the ordinary. Providing handsomely for the children made him feel, at least in some small way, that he was balancing the scales with God, with the universe. Bringing some measure of happiness to the world instead of more misery.
But today’s trip to the orphanage, though regularly scheduled, wasn’t about the children. He hoped to see Kate. And after Carlo’s threat, seeing her seemed more important than ever. He wanted to stop wasting the days of his life. To stop quietly longing after Kate and to do something about it. But it was impossible, this desire. Simply impossible.
He almost hated that she’d invaded his thoughts. He should be focused on Toni, should be mourning her loss, on this day of all days. But he couldn’t. Not without reopening the raw aching hole that had been in his chest since her death. He’d tamped down his grief, but still it lingered, dark and murky, waiting to suck him under. Thinking about Toni was dangerous; he might break down in front of his men.
The time for tears is over. Toni had told him he had to remarry. But how could he just forget twenty-six years with the woman he loved?
He scrubbed his hands over his cheeks and chin and summoned up Kate’s face in his mind, needing the distraction. He had no idea what Kate thought of him. He had to assume she loved her husband and the Andretti family. Just because she was newly arrived from America, just because she seemed to enjoy his company, that didn’t make her any different from the rest of the Andretti clan.
He studied his reflection in the plane window, in the voids between clouds. He looked tired. His hair was tousled, his beard starting to shadow his cheeks and chin already, even though he’d shaved just a few hours ago. He adjusted his tie and smoothed down his dark blue suit jacket, pulling at his white shirt cuffs. In just a few hours, he’d be seeing Kate. He swallowed against the adrenaline that jolted through him. He finger-combed his hair, then stopped. He was a grown man, not a nervous schoolboy. And she couldn’t be his anyway. Or could she? What if she could be?
The crotch of his trousers tightened in a most embarrassing way. He shifted in his seat. Cristo, he was a pig. He was still Antonella’s husband. Hers. Even though their vows had ended with her death, he still felt the weight of her presence, still wore his wedding ring.
“Signore?” Enrico turned toward Antonio. Seeing that he had his boss’s attention, Antonio continued. “Shall I call Don Domenico?”
Enrico shook his head. “I’ll call him myself.” Antonio looked like he had something more to say. He’d punished them enough with silence. “What is it?”
Antonio colored and hung his head. “I beg your forgiveness, Don Lucchesi, for not seeing Veltroni in the lobby. I was closest. I should’ve spotted him.” He looked up at Enrico, meeting his gaze. “If you wish to demote me, I won’t argue.”
Ruggero cut in. “If anyone should be punished, it should be me.”
“Perhaps both of you are right. But it was my decision to leave without backup. It was my foolishness that nearly got us killed. Not your inattentiveness.”
“But—” Ruggero started.
Enrico cut him off with an angry wave of his hand. “Enough. Just do your jobs. And I’ll do mine.”
“I have failed you, signore.”
He met Ruggero’s intense gaze. “Agreed.” When the guard didn’t flinch, Enrico continued. “We’ll discuss this when we return home.”
Ruggero nodded, saying nothing.
“I’ve failed you too,” Antonio said.
“You’re learning. Ruggero is responsible for you.”
Antonio reddened again, his fair cheeks becoming mottled. “He can’t take the blame for my mistakes.”
“He can and he will.” Enrico studied Antonio for a moment. “You will not make this mistake again, yes?”
“Of course, Don Lucchesi.”
“Then you have learned an important lesson at no cost to you.” When Antonio opened his mouth again, Enrico waved him off. “Ruggero will take your punishment. Think on that.”
Silence descended on the cabin. A silence big enough to think in. But a silence that gave him no peace. He had to call Dom. And he had to figure out some solution to this mess with Andretti. But there was no dissuading a man of
honor bent on a faida—a blood feud.
Enrico picked up the satellite phone kept on board and punched in Dom’s number. He answered on the second ring. “Ciao, Rico, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Enrico took a deep breath before answering. “Carlo sent me a present today. A dead falcon.”
“At your hotel room?” Dom’s voice was tinged with alarm. “How did he know where you were?”
“Either he has someone watching me, or there’s a traitor in our midst.”
Dom said nothing for a moment, then he ventured, “If there’s a traitor, it’s the boy.”
Enrico snorted. “You’re not serious.”
“Aside from Ruggero and me, he’s the only one who knows where you are at all times.” Dom let that sink in, then he added, “And he is an outsider. I told you not to take him into the family.”
“I remember.” Enrico risked a glance at Antonio, the boy’s straight blond hair, blue eyes, and pale skin clearly marking him as other. Not one of them, not Calabrian. But he just couldn’t picture it. Of all his people, Antonio was the one whose loyalty he was most sure of. The boy loved him. He would stake his life on it. He was staking his life on it. He’d sooner suspect Ruggero, but he had no reason to doubt him either; the Velas had long been tied to the Lucchesis. And when it came to Dom, there was no question. Dom was his first cousin and his best friend. He took a breath. “It’s someone else.”
“I’d still keep an eye on him. He came to you looking for a job, remember?”
They’d had this argument before. Such caution was a good quality in a capo di società, a second in command, but it was wearing at times. And unwarranted in this case. “Let it go.” Dom sighed, but said nothing. “There’s something else,” Enrico said. “I’ve been thinking.”
“That’s never good,” Dom teased.
Enrico smiled, then sobered. Dom wasn’t going to like what he had to say. “We have to stop doing business with the Andrettis. And the other families who don’t abide by the code.”
