by Dana Delamar
Enrico snorted with laughter. His father grinned, then started to laugh. For a moment, he looked like the man Enrico remembered. For a moment, he looked happy. Enrico gave Kate a grateful smile, his heart full of love for her. If only she could wait, he’d make everything right.
Enrico surprised Kate again by still wanting to drive back to the lake. She’d thought he’d want to return by plane, so he wouldn’t have to spend so much time with her. But he’d seemed oddly cheerful when they returned to their room. When she asked him why, he said she would eventually understand.
Neither of them slept much that night. Enrico took the sofa, and Kate found herself feeling alone even though he was in the same room. Several times she stopped herself on the verge of asking him to join her. She’d already led him on once. She couldn’t do it again. And he wasn’t the only one she’d hurt. She hadn’t ever ached like this over a man. Not even Vince.
Enrico only made the ache worse in the morning. He woke her early. She looked up to see him standing next to the bed, his hand still on her shoulder. There was a look on his face she couldn’t read. “What is it?”
He sat down on the bed beside her and took her hand. “I want you to know,” he started, then stopped. “Thank you,” he said. “I did not thank you for last night, with my father.”
“Rico, I didn’t do anything—”
“Yes, you did.”
She started to object again, then stopped. “I’m glad I could help.”
“I love you, Kate. Even if you do leave me, I love you.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead.
Kate caught herself before she said the words that rose up in her heart: I love you too. Instead she squeezed his hand. It was best to say nothing.
After breakfast, Enrico took her on a quick spree through several shops in Capri so she’d have enough clothes for the trip up the coast. Kate took little pleasure in the shopping, even though Enrico urged her to get whatever she liked. In the last two stores, Enrico was the one who picked out most of what she bought. When she remarked on it, saying, “I’m surprised you care about this,” he smiled at her for the first time since their fight.
“It is genetic, I suppose. All Italians have it, the idea of la bella figura—always presenting your best face to the world. Looking the best you can afford, preferably better.” He gave her a meaningful look. “But it is more than that. I want you to have the best. I want to give you that. Always.”
She looked down at her feet, now clad in the softest, most buttery heels she’d ever worn. Heels that cost a fortune. “Bribing me won’t change my mind.”
His face darkened. “I speak from the heart, and you accuse me of bribing you.” He took a deep breath, his hands on his hips. “I’m trying to love you, Kate, but you make it damn hard.”
And I’m trying not to love you, she almost said. But you make it damn hard. She swallowed down the words. “I’m sorry. Thanks for everything. You’re very generous.”
“That is not the point. That is not why I am upset.”
She looked up at him. “I can’t give you what you want.”
He shook his head, then waved a hand around them, taking in the whole store. “Are we done? Ready to go?”
She nodded, wishing that she could take it all back, that she could make him smile again. But she couldn’t string either of them along any further. Getting through the next two days was already going to be murder.
Enrico clearly enjoyed driving the silver Maserati convertible. He zoomed along the narrow switchbacks of the highway that wound along the Amalfi coast, a smile touching his lips, and seemed to have forgotten about her sitting next to him. Antonio and Ruggero followed in a black Mercedes.
They spoke little the first day of the trip, though after a time Enrico pointed out various spots and told her some of the history of the region. Kate could see why he’d wanted to make the drive. The rugged coastline and the towns they passed were all quite picturesque. The throaty purr of the car, the wind in her hair, and the salty tang of the Mediterranean almost made her forget why they were hardly speaking.
Still she wondered at his persistence in taking her with him. He could have sent her back on the jet or had her ride with Antonio and Ruggero. But, other than the extended silences between them, he seemed to be acting as if everything were normal.
When they stopped in Spoleto for the night, he’d even insisted on one room for the two of them, but he’d caved at her look and had gotten a suite instead. After dinner, Kate waited for him to knock on the door adjoining their rooms, but he never did until morning, and then it was only to make sure she was ready to leave.
His behavior unsettled her. She’d expected more anger, or more sadness. Not this curious cheerfulness among the silences. Twice she nearly demanded an explanation, but she didn’t want to fight with him. She found herself missing his touch, missing his attentiveness. Missing him. Even though he was right beside her.
The second day, they left the coast in the early afternoon. Enrico soon fell silent, and she sensed a tension in him that grew as they climbed into the foothills of the Alps, drawing closer to the lake. Finally, he turned to her.
“There is something we need to discuss.”
Here it comes. Something she was sure she wasn’t going to want to hear. “Enrico, there’s nothing to discuss. I’ll go to Florence and wait until Fuente gives my passport back. Then I’ll go somewhere else Carlo won’t expect. My parents have money. I can lay low for a while.”
“I do not think that will be necessary.”
“Well, I can’t stay with you forever. Not now.”
“About that,” he said, glancing at her. “I know why you do not trust me. Why you are afraid to admit you love me.”
She stared at him, then recovered enough to say, “I don’t know why you think I love you.”
“I think so because it is true. You need something from me so you can admit it, and it is time I gave it to you.”
“I don’t need anything from you. I—” Kate cried out as a searing pain stabbed her below her right collarbone. She looked down, seeing a dark red blotch spreading over her blouse. She touched it, then looked at Enrico shouting her name as he wheeled to the side of the road. Holding her hand up to show him the blood on her fingers, she was unable to voice the questions in her mind: What was going on? Had she been shot?
CHAPTER 24
Antonio and Ruggero saw the Maserati swerve onto the shoulder, the signora holding up a hand stained red, their capo speaking to her urgently. Ruggero pulled over in front of them, doing his best to shield the convertible with the big black Mercedes. Antonio jumped out and Ruggero ran around the back of the car, then crouched down beside Antonio next to the front passenger fender with his gun drawn. Antonio saw a muzzle flash from the hills above, then heard the report of a rifle echoing around them. “Fucking Andrettis,” Ruggero muttered.
Antonio turned to look at the Maserati, to see what was happening inside. Don Lucchesi was leaning over the signora, pressing a hand to her chest. A bullet sliced through the windshield, hitting him in the ribs below his left arm. Antonio watched in horror as his capo arched in pain, losing his hold on the signora.
Antonio bolted for the car, panic flooding him despite his training. “Don Lucchesi!” he shouted, opening the driver’s side door. He threw his body over his capo’s, protecting him as he inspected the wound. “Can you breathe?”
“I’ll be okay.” Don Lucchesi turned to him, his face taut with pain, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Get us out of the car. Kate first.”
Antonio pushed his capo down on the seat, flattening him over the signora, then he ran around the back of the car and opened her door. He dragged her out of the car and laid her on the ground beside it, sheltering her from the shooters. Don Lucchesi crawled out after them, kneeling on the ground next to her. He placed his hand over her wound again, pressing down. “What about you?” she asked, looking up at him.
“It is you I worry about.”
“Why?” she asked.
But Antonio already knew. The patch of blood on her chest had expanded enormously in the short time it had taken to move her. The don tore off his shirt and wadded it up, pressing the ball of it into her chest. He looked at Antonio, who’d crouched down beside him. “Your jacket. She needs to stay warm.”
“Sì.” Antonio ripped off his jacket and covered the signora with it. He pulled his mobile phone out, calling Don Domenico for help. Don Domenico said he’d send the polizia; it would take too long for enough of their own men to arrive.
Antonio ended the call and cursed. They were on their own, for God knew how long. Blood welled down his capo’s side, so he shrugged out of his shoulder holster and pulled off his shirt, urging Don Lucchesi to hold it against his own wound. Then he took a deep breath and rejoined Ruggero at the Mercedes. He needed to focus, needed to help Ruggero defend them.
There were two shooters above them, positioned on each side where the highway cut through the mountains, the perfect spot for an ambush. Bullets rained down around them, mostly hitting the Mercedes and the Maserati, but some whizzed into the dirt right beside them. Ruggero’s shoulder was grazed when he popped up to get a better angle on the shooters, but their handguns were poor threats against the rifles. Ruggero nudged Antonio, and the two of them scrambled to the back of the Mercedes. The more serious hardware was in the boot. Ruggero pulled out two mini Uzis and a large black duffle bag. He tossed an Uzi to Antonio, just as he took a bullet in the left calf. Cursing, Ruggero looked at the wound, then tested out the leg as they scrambled back to better cover.
“How bad?” Antonio shouted at him.
Ruggero grinned and shook his head. “A scratch.” He turned his attention back to the shooters above them, switching the Uzi to full automatic, and spraying the left hillside above. Antonio followed suit and took the right side, willing his bullets to find their targets. He wanted these men dead. Per favore, Dio, let Don Lucchesi and the signora live.
They kept up a steady barrage of gunfire, pausing only to slam in new clips. Antonio was thankful Ruggero had done the packing; there was enough ammunition in the bag for an army. He made a mental note to never under-pack when it came to firepower.
The sing-song wail of sirens finally reached their ears, and Antonio and Ruggero ceased their fire and waited. There were one or two more shots from above, then no more. The men in the hills apparently wanted to avoid the polizia more than they wanted to finish the job. Antonio cursed again; he wanted those cowards dead.
Ruggero jerked the gun out of his hand and stashed the Uzis in the boot right before the ambulance and police cars pulled up. Antonio kicked their sidearms under the Mercedes. Then the two of them held their hands up in the air, waiting for the officers and medics to approach. It wouldn’t do to get killed now. Who would protect Don Lucchesi then?
The eruption of gunfire from Antonio and Ruggero sounded like World War III to Kate. Enrico crouched down over her, molding his body to hers. She jerked at the roar of the guns, the noise thundering in her chest, then she wrapped her free arm around him, pressing her fingers against his wound. The pressure made him flinch, but he didn’t cry out. He looked down at her. “We will survive this.”
“I know.” She fought to keep her voice steady. She looked up at him, her shock at learning his identity still in her mind. Don Lucchesi. That’s what Antonio had called him. Vince hadn’t been lying. But Enrico had, and yes, it was a doozy. Had he kept anything else from her?
The gunfire abruptly stopped, then she heard the sound of emergency sirens, then men approaching, their voices hard and demanding as they spoke to Antonio and Ruggero. Moments later, a confusing swirl of people descended on them, and Kate panicked, her heart rate surging when Enrico’s weight was lifted from her. When the medics tried to separate them, she clutched at Enrico’s hand, a weak protest leaving her mouth. She was shocked at how frail she sounded, at how difficult it was to close her fingers around his hand. He squeezed her fingers before turning to the medics and firing off a string of rapid Italian. She couldn’t follow every word, but she knew he’d said she’d lost a lot of blood. And he insisted they treat her first.
As the medics labored over her, she found herself relaxing in the midst of the frenzy. It was going to be okay; the ambulance was here. She wasn’t going to die in the dirt on this roadside. She looked at Enrico for confirmation, trying to give him a smile through the oxygen mask she wore. But when she saw him wince hard with pain and struggle to take a breath, a frightened bird beat its wings in her chest. She squeezed his hand, but he didn’t return the pressure. He dropped hers instead, his hand flailing at his chest. He wheezed out some words to the medics, then two of them left her and started working on him.
“What’s wrong with him?” she cried.
“Puntura del polmone,” the medic said. Lung puncture. He moved into her line of sight, cutting off her view of Enrico. “No worry, signora.”
The medics wheeled her away on a gurney, while the others were working on Enrico. She couldn’t see what they were doing, if Enrico was all right. She got a glimpse of his face, his eyes closed, his skin gray. She didn’t want to leave him, and when she struggled against it, one of the medics gave her an injection. Warmth shot through her veins, then she was drifting, her sight crumbling at the edges.
There was something she needed to do, something she needed to know, but the urgency and what it was quickly faded. The ambulance doors slammed, the siren wailed, and the gravel crunched beneath the tires. And then Kate’s world fell silent.
Enrico woke up in a hospital room, Antonio slumped asleep in the chair next to him. In place of the shirt and jacket he’d given up, Antonio wore a light blue surgical scrub top, the trousers of his dark blue suit dusty and bloody, the knees torn from scrambling about in the rocks next to the cars.
Enrico tried to talk, but his mouth was so dry he couldn’t get much above a whisper. He coughed to get Antonio’s attention, then wished he hadn’t. It felt like someone was shoving an ice pick in his left side, and he barked out a curse. Antonio woke up then, his eyes wide. “Signore?”
“Acqua, per favore.”
Antonio poured him a glass and handed it to him. Enrico was surprised it took an effort to raise the plastic cup to his lips. The water was room temperature and flat, but it felt good and he downed the whole glass. And then he remembered.
“Kate, how is she?”
Antonio smiled. “She’s going to be fine. They got the bullet and stopped the bleeding.”
“Grazie a Dio,” Enrico said. Then he remembered something else. She knew. She knew who he was. Before he’d had a chance to tell her himself, to explain.
“I have to see her.” When he tried to sit up, pain sliced through his torso. He cursed again, then lay back, panting, but even that hurt. Any movement involving his rib cage hurt. Horribly. He tried again, moving in the tiniest of increments, and found he could manage to get upright that way. Antonio restrained him with a hand to the chest.
“I’m sorry, signore, but you can’t get out of bed. Your lung was punctured.”
Enrico glared up at Antonio, but knew he was right. His next thought was his first practical one. “How many guards do we have here?”
“Ruggero’s with the signora, and there are two other guards outside each room. We also have a man at each exit and entrance to the floor. You’re safe.”
“Not if they really want to finish the job.”
“The carabinieri have their men here as well.”
That earned a smirk from Enrico. “Maggiore Alfonso must want to keep my contributions to the policeman’s fund.”
“He’s a smart man.”
“What have they been told?”
“Only that someone was shooting at us. We didn’t speculate about who it was, though of course Fuente asked if it was Andretti.”
“And what did you say?”
“I shrugged. What else could I do?” He paused, then looked away from Enrico
. “I’m not sure it was Andretti.”
“What do you mean?”
“How would he know where we were at that exact moment? How could anyone know?”
“Maybe we were followed.” Antonio shook his head. “Then what?”
Antonio rubbed his chin, his fingers rasping across blond stubble. “There are two possibilities. One, Ruggero or I somehow signaled the shooters. Of course, we’d have to do it without the other one knowing. You should check our phone calls and text messages to verify. Two, someone planted a GPS tracker on one or both of the cars.”
“Have you searched the cars?”
“No. The polizia have them. And I didn’t want to leave until I knew you were all right.”
Enrico looked at the ceiling. Could this possibly be Franco Trucco’s work? “Can you get Ruggero for me?”
Antonio was nearly to the door when Enrico stopped him. “Don’t tell anyone about this. We don’t want to alert the traitor.”
“I understand, signore.”
While Antonio was gone, Enrico struggled upright again. He had to get out of this damn bed and see Kate. He had to know whether she hated him.
He turned himself to one side, inching his legs off the mattress and over the edge of the hospital bed. He was clutching the metal frame, his lips pressed tight together, when Ruggero limped in. “What do you need, signore?” Ruggero asked, hurrying to his side. “Lay down,” he added, when Enrico didn’t answer.
“How’s your leg?” He held himself upright with trembling arms.
“Fine. The bullet passed through.” Ruggero grabbed hold of Enrico’s arms. “You must lay down, signore.”
He did his best to fight Ruggero, but it was like trying to move a mountain. He could barely stay up. “I need to see Kate.”
Ruggero’s mouth compressed into a thin line. “The signora is fine.”
“She knows. She knows who I am.”
