by Bethany-Kris
“Gone, Ma. Gone.”
Catherine frowned. “Where did he go?”
“He had some business to deal with,” Dante said in the background of the call. Her father’s face suddenly dipped into view of the screen, and Cece took the chance to kiss her grandfather on the cheek. “I took Cece for the day to help.”
“Oh, well … thanks.”
Catherine supposed if Cross had something come up, that explained why she hadn’t been able to get ahold of him all damn day. She spoke with him the night before, but all her calls were now going to voicemail. It sucked.
She missed her husband.
She missed her baby.
Dante left the view of the screen, leaving Catherine only Cece to look at. That was just fine with her, too. She adored her baby girl. Everything that was wonderful in her life could be wrapped up in her husband and daughter. She had not expected Cece to make her way into their lives as soon as she had, but Catherine wouldn’t change it for the world.
“Ma loves you, Cece,” Catherine said.
Cece made a kissy-face and a matching, slurpy kissing sound. “Loves my ma, Ma.”
“I like your dress.”
Just like that, her daughter lit up all over again. All it took was mention of clothes, shoes, or makeup, and Cece was all over it.
Her daughter fluffed the tulle of her skirt up for Catherine to see. “S’pink, Ma!”
“Very pink.”
“Clicky shoes!”
“I thought Daddy said you had to put the clicky shoes away until it gets warmer.”
Cece’s gaze narrowed. “My clicky shoes, Ma.”
“I know, but—”
“Noes to Daddy!”
Well, then …
Chuckles echoed from the other side of her Four Seasons Firenze hotel room. They matched the sound of her father’s chuckles on the tablet.
“Cece,” Catherine said, desperately trying to hold back her own laughter, “it’s very cold and those shoes are not warm on your feet.”
Serious as could be, Cece learned in close so all Catherine could see was her daughter’s one eyeball and said, “Noes to Daddy.”
Their child was absolutely them all over again. Cross’s attitude, and Catherine’s swagger. She would wear a leather jacket overtop a pink dress in her little heels, but good God, don’t touch her hair. She was the perfect mixture of their characters and behaviors. She took some of her father’s odd quirks, and her mother’s outgoing personality. She looked like Catherine with just enough of Cross to color her up.
No one ever missed a chance to remind them that they had gotten a child just as difficult, wild, and wonderful as they had been. Times a million, of course.
Cece picked up the tablet, and spun around.
Catherine tried to discern where her daughter was, but the dizzying speed made it difficult to see anything. She assumed they were at her parents’ home in Amityville. Except … Catherine thought she saw a port window.
Like on a plane.
“Where are you, Cece?”
“With Grandpapa Dante.”
“Yes, but where.”
“Here.”
“Cece—”
“Snack time,” Dante said quickly, and loudly, in the background. The tablet was snatched from her daughter’s hand at the same time Cece let out a peal of giggles high enough to break glass. Dante’s face came back into view before he told his daughter, “Sorry, Catty. We’ll call back later, okay?”
“Wait, where are you, Daddy?”
“Got to go, reginella. Cat, I know you’re listening—ti amo, mia cara bella.”
Just like that, her father hung up the call.
Catherine tossed the tablet to the bedspread and shot her mother a look. “Was that as strange to you as it was to me?”
Catrina didn’t look up from her magazine. “What do you mean?”
“They looked like they were on a plane.”
“How would I know, Catty? I wasn’t talking with her on the screen.”
Deciding she was getting nowhere with her mother on that line of questioning, Catherine picked up her phone from the nightstand and checked the screen. Still, no calls or messages from Cross. She dialed his number, and put it to her ear, but it only rang through to voicemail. She shot off one more text asking what the hell was up, but who knew if she would even get a response.
“Still nothing?” Catrina asked.
Catherine shrugged. “No, he’s not answering anything.”
“Busy, maybe.”
“It’s not like Cross to not call me back, Ma.”
Catrina’s brow raised as she stared at her daughter over the magazine. “What are you suggesting—he’s busy with someone else?”
Catherine barked out a laugh, and pushed off the bed. “Never.”
“I didn’t think so.”
Cross Donati was many things. Difficult. Combative. Stubborn. Introverted. Criminal. Sexy as sin. Dark in his soul. Sometimes a little too restless for his own good. A wonderful son, according to his mother and father. The perfect father, if you asked anyone else. Her very best friend, first and last lover, and her husband. He was not, however, unfaithful.
Ever.
“No, I’m just concerned,” Catherine said, staring out the window of her hotel room down to the cobblestone street below. “Or, starting to be. It’s odd for him not to answer me.”
“I’m sure he’s fine. Do you miss them?”
“All the time.”
Catrina set her magazine down. “I felt that way too when you and Michel were young. I felt like I was never home enough.”
“You were gone at most, a week a month, Ma.”
“Still.”
“I’m gone two weeks, sometimes three.”
Catrina pursed her lips, and surveyed her painted-red fingernails. “Is that why I haven’t been given more grandchildren yet?”
Catherine stiffened. “That’s a nice way to ask if we’re having more kids.”
“Curious.”
“Cross wants more,” Catherine admitted. “Like tomorrow. As soon as I could get pregnant, he would be perfectly happy. He doesn’t say it, but I know it. I see it.”
“He’s a good father,” Catrina replied, “and it would make sense that he wants more children. Cece might even calm down a bit if she had a sibling to model her behavior for.”
“I know.”
“I hear a but in there, Catty.”
“But I feel like I barely see my daughter as it is. And what, I should have more just to be away from that child, too?”
Catrina cleared her throat, drawing Catherine’s attention to her mother’s soft smile. “Well, you will have time. You will learn to make time. You will not be so busy once all you need to learn in this business is plugged into that brain of yours, and you begin to put it to use. There will be time, Catherine.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“Mrs. Donati?”
Catherine smiled at the approaching concierge of the Four Seasons. “Yes, that’s me.”
The man’s English was colored heavily by his Italian accent as he said, “Your mother called down to ask that I let you know she is suddenly feeling unwell.”
What?
Catherine tried not to let her panic or nerves show. “Did she?”
“She sent her apologies and asked that you attend your dinner meeting without her.”
Fucking fantastic.
Outside, Catherine appeared as calm as she could be.
Inside?
She was freaking the hell out.
Catherine couldn’t do this meeting with Giuseppe Bianchi alone!
Instantly, she reached for her bag to find her phone, but immediately remembered her mother had said to leave it behind. The Italian cartel boss would not appreciate interruptions or distractions during their meeting, and especially not someone taking a phone call. It was about the respect of the matter. Catherine had pointed out that she could very well turn th
e sound off, but her mother simply demanded she leave it behind.
Now, Catherine thought she knew why.
Her mother had also left Catherine’s hotel room an hour before the meeting saying she had to finish getting ready—she was already dressed and done up—and make some calls.
Bullshit.
Catherine smelled a set up.
Or … one of her mother’s lessons.
Shit.
“Would you like me to let your mother know everything is fine down here?” the concierge asked.
Catherine steeled her expression, and squared her shoulders. What choice did she have at the moment? Her meeting was in five minutes at the hotel’s five-star restaurant. Private tables had already been reserved. Giuseppe was likely inside waiting. She didn’t have time to play games with her mother, or call Catrina out on her little plan.
If that’s even what it was.
“Yes,” Catherine finally said, “please let my mother know I have this handled.”
“Very well, ma’am. Have a wonderful meal. Grazie.”
“Ciao,” Catherine replied in kind.
It was the best she could do.
More words, and they might not be nice.
Catherine headed toward the restaurant. Inside, the maître d’ took her name, and then directed her through dining patrons to a more private section closer to the windows overlooking a beautiful street with a very old world feel. As much as the view deserved to be appreciated, Catherine didn’t have the time.
Her dinner date was already standing to greet her.
Giuseppe Bianchi stood taller than most of the men Catherine had ever met in her life. He was at least six and half feet tall, with a chest as big as a barrel, cold dark eyes, and a hand that swallowed hers when he held it out to greet her. His dark hair was dotted with gray at the temples, although his strong features barely gave away the fact he was a couple of years older than her mother. Fit and handsome, Catherine was sure this man could both intimidate and enthrall. She was not interested in being enthralled by him, but the intimating bit …
She shook his hand, surprised at how strong he gripped hers.
“Mr. Bianchi,” Catherine said with a sweet smile.
For a second, her nerves were nonexistent. She was too busy sliding on her businesswoman mask to be bothered with the anxiety numbing her fingertips.
“Giuseppe tonight,” he told her with a white, toothy grin. Like the concierge, Giuseppe’s accent heavily inflected his words. “And you must be Catherine.”
“Or Catty,” she said in kind.
“My, my.” Giuseppe’s dark eyes looked her over from head to toe, lingering on her heels and then her face. “The resemblance is uncanny, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You look very much like your mother, Catherine.”
“Ah.” Catherine smiled. “So I have been told, although with just enough of my father to color me up.”
“Yes, Dante. The green eyes.” He waved a finger at her half up-do. “The dark hair. Definitely your father. Quite an … interesting man.”
He did not sound like he found her father interesting. Maybe irritating, though. Catherine made a note to ask her mother about that later.
Giuseppe let her hand go, and waved at a chair. “Please, sit.”
She did, and allowed him to push her chair in. A second later, and he was back in his own chair and waving a hand at a waiter.
“Wine, please, you know the one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought we were eating,” Catherine said.
Giuseppe shrugged his broad shoulders beneath his Armani suit. “We will. I ordered for us already.”
Well, then …
“Would you prefer business before or after dinner?”
“I prefer my food good, my business clean, and my wine tasteful, Catherine. I do not, however, mix them all together.”
She peered over her shoulder, noting a dark-dressed man standing in the corner with his hands clasped at his middle. He was watching them with rapt attention. In her husband’s business, they would call him an enforcer. Catherine was not sure how Giuseppe might refer to the man, but it was clear he was looking after his boss.
“Our next shipment is due to you in a month, is it not?” he asked.
Catherine’s attention came back to the table. “It is, but there’s some things we’d like to clear up.”
“Like what?” His grin deepened as he sipped from a glass of water, and never once took his gaze from her. “Surely our business is still … good, Tesoro.”
Treasure.
Catherine ignored the sweet endearment, and continued on. “Business is always good. However, some of our associates—”
Giuseppe cocked a brow. “The Three Families I supply for you?”
“Yes, those.”
Catrina had long acted as the broker of sorts between the Three Families and Giuseppe. He supplied their cocaine, but Catrina was the one who made the deals and had the face to face meetings with the man as a go-between.
“What about them?”
“Prices are fluctuating. You—or your men, perhaps—have been noted to change prices, to let them fluctuate a little too much. The entire agreement between us and you as a supplier was that the cost of the … product would remain within a very small margin between the families to keep competition from causing issues.”
“Are you accusing me of ripping them off?”
Catherine glanced away, but she knew she couldn’t back down. She had the numbers to prove what she knew was fact. “My husband is Cross Donati—which I’m sure you know—and he’s being charged twenty percent more a kilo. My cousin controls another faction of the Three Families—John Marcello—and last month, his cost was tipping thirty percent. The only margin that remained where we agreed was my other cousin’s—Andino’s—family.”
Giuseppe stiffened in his seat, and his gaze narrowed. “I was not aware that the Marcellos are that integrated into the Three Families now.”
“It’s been this way for years. I didn’t realize the information wasn’t widely known.”
By the look on his face, Giuseppe had not appreciated her comment. What was Catherine supposed to do? Keep letting this man rip off her husband, and cousins?
“Our product was fine at cost,” Catherine added, “for my mother’s business, I mean. However, two months ago, and then last month, there were twenty combined kilos ruined in the transport. We were still required, and expected, to pay for that cocaine, Mr. Bianchi. And we did, of course, but if twenty kilos at every run continues to be ruined, why would we bother paying you for it? It’s not as if we can actually sell it.”
“You pay for it because that’s a risk of the business, Mrs. Donati.”
Catherine sat a bit straighter in her chair. “Sure, but what if someone else could get us that product, even at a slightly higher cost, but with guarantees of perfect, unsullied kilos? Might that be a better option for us than—”
“Your wine, sir.”
The waiter approached their table, cutting off the rest of whatever Catherine was going to say. She waited as he poured a glass for Giuseppe, and then moved to pour one for her.
“No, but grazie,” she said, putting a hand over her glass. “Water would be great, though.”
The waiter looked between the two of them.
“This is a five-thousand-dollar bottle of wine,” Giuseppe said, his expression blank as he stared at Catherine. “It comes from my own personal winery. It’s forty-year old wine I had sent in specially for this dinner.”
Catherine felt a knot rise in her throat.
She had offended him by refusing, clearly.
Problem was, Catherine didn’t drink. Not for pleasure, social convention, or in private. She simply didn’t drink because of her history with depression, anxiety, and self-medicating. She was not about to explain that to a stranger, though. She also wouldn’t drink simply to soothe this man’s desire to have his many eg
os stroked.
“My apologies,” Catherine said, looking up to the waiter, “but please, only water.”
The waiter nodded, and quickly left. Giuseppe wasted no time downing his entire glass of wine before setting it to the table a little harder than necessary.
“I assumed you would be enough like your mother to make this dinner worth my time,” Giuseppe said gruffly as he loosened his tie. “Unfortunately, while interesting, you are definitely not your mother, Catherine.”
This time, it was Catherine who took offense.
“Is that so?”
“Your mother would never challenge my business, never mind refuse my hospitality.”
“My mother has had no reason to challenge your business until recently, and it’s nothing more than happenstance that it’s me sitting here instead of her,” Catherine tossed back. “And choosing not to drink while I do business isn’t exactly rejecting your hospitality, is it?”
“To me, most assuredly.”
Great.
Something told Catherine this meeting was going to go downhill from here, and fast.
“Could we at least get back to discussing business, then?” Catherine asked.
The man coughed out a harsh laugh. “No, I think we’re done here, Catherine Donati. You see, I think you had a good idea with something you said to me. If you have someone else to supply your Three Families as well as your own ventures, then I suggest you take that offer. You will not find a good partner with me in Italy any longer.”
Crap.
Shit.
Fuck.
Yep.
Downhill fast.
This was exactly why Catherine had not wanted to do this meeting alone. She did not know this man’s nuances, or his preferences. Her mother’s warnings about him, and suggestions, had done nothing to help her. She still fucked it up.
“I assumed your mother knew what she was doing when she let me know you would be the one handling this meeting on her behalf when she called me yesterday,” Giuseppe said.
“Wait, what?”
“Apparently, she did not see her mistake.”
He stood.
Catherine followed suit.
“My mother called you yesterday to let you know—”
“This meeting is done,” he told her, “so have a wonderful evening, Catherine. Please, do pass onto your mother that we will not be working together again. I hope your next venture comes out better than this one has. Perhaps next time, you will realize threats do not work on men like me, and your business is only one of many. Your money is not needed, but appreciated. Never contact me again.”
