by Dana Delamar
In his excitement about the assignment, he’d forgotten to ask his grandparents to pop by and go through the post.
Sighing, he scooped up the pile of envelopes, catalogs, and magazines, yanking on the items wedged under the door. He ripped the cover of the latest Maxim, tearing it in half, then forced himself to slow down, to push the door back into its frame.
He glanced at the torn cover, almost not looking at the girl. Hold up. Nick Clarkston, the Nick Clarkston, former terror of Cambridge, too tired to admire a pretty girl? That was definitely not normal. He needed a bloody holiday.
Leaving his suitcase by the door, Nick carried the hodgepodge of post into the tiny kitchen and dumped it on the two-person table pressed up against the wall. He sat down and pawed through the stack, hastily sorting: bills, bills, bills, adverts, a wedding invitation, catalogs for products he’d never buy, British GQ, National Geographic Traveler, the torn Maxim.
Then he saw something that made his heart somersault: a cream-colored envelope postmarked Cernobbio, Italy, his name and address handwritten in black ink.
His pulse tripping, he tore the heavy paper open and pulled out a crisp sheet covered in dark handwriting. Could this be related to his investigation?
“Signor Clarkston,
I beg your pardon for contacting you like this, but I did not have a telephone number for you.”
Nick smirked. Of course you didn’t. He had only a mobile phone. And he rarely gave that number out. Cut way down on the number of advertisers calling him. And he could turn it off whenever he wanted. He didn’t much fancy being interrupted at someone else’s convenience.
The letter continued, and what he read next made his heart burst into a gallop.
“I know you work for Interpol. And I know you do not have contact with your father. Do you know who he is, I wonder?”
Nick stopped reading. The simple question pierced him. No, he didn’t know who his father was. Not in any true sense.
He almost hadn’t passed the background check for Interpol because they couldn’t verify his father’s identity. He’d tried tracing the man himself, but had turned up nothing that made sense. The only Enrico Franchetti he’d found had been an elderly man, far too old to be his father. What did this person know? Nick turned back to the page.
“My name is Franco Trucco. I work for your father. And he has done me a grievous wrong. He killed my daughter while driving drunk. He must be brought to justice, he must be held to account, but my hands are tied. Your father is a powerful man who operates outside the law. Given your position at Interpol, I write to you in the hope that you can accomplish what I cannot.”
So his father had been at it again, and another woman was dead by his hands. Another woman—maybe a woman in love with him, like his mother had been. Before his father had driven her to desperation. Before he had driven her mad with grief. And of course, his father didn’t care about the outcome. He hadn’t come to see Nick afterward, hadn’t attended the funeral. Hadn’t even sent flowers. His father had acted as if they hadn’t existed, as if once Veronica was dead, he had no connection to Nick.
Had it not been for the monthly checks sent to his grandparents, Nick would have thought his father had forgotten him entirely. Oh yes, his father had supported him financially. But he’d never visited, never spoken to Nick, never held him in his arms again. Never offered to take him to Italy, never offered to raise him. Bloody bastard, why do I care?
Nick heard the crackle and felt the crunch as the heavy paper crumpled in his fist before he stopped himself and smoothed it back out. The letter was a clue. The first clue to finding out who his father really was. The first clue to finally bringing his father to justice.
The only thing Nick knew for certain was that the man who called himself Enrico Franchetti, the man who claimed to be his father, didn’t officially exist.
Signor Trucco closed with his phone number, urging Nick to call him at his soonest convenience. Nick picked up his mobile and started to dial the number, then hit the End button. It was just after one in the morning, too late to call. And he ought to sleep first, get some rest. In his current state, it wasn’t wise to talk to anyone, much less to a man who worked for his father.
Nick set the phone down and paced around the kitchen, his eyes straying back to his mobile. He wanted to know. Now. As much as he needed it, sleep was out of the question. Shoving his hands in his trouser pockets, he debated. Call or wait? He ought to check out this Trucco first, see if he was legitimate. Maybe this was some cruel joke. Not many people knew the story, but one of his mates could have gotten roaring drunk on holiday in Italy and decided to take the piss out of him.
Pulling his laptop out of its padded case, he set it up on the kitchen table, then drummed his fingers on the table’s edge, waiting for the machine to boot. At last the Windows startup music chimed, and he entered his password. A few more clicks and he was finally able to log in to the Interpol databases.
His fingers flew across the keys as he hunted for information about Trucco. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Then he looked in open investigations. And there Trucco was—or wasn’t.
Franco Giorgio Trucco, aged 62. Found tortured, his throat slashed, in Milan two weeks ago. The murder was listed as a possible Mafia execution. A glass of ice water splashed down Nick’s spine. He searched for known associates, but none were documented. Under Profession, the file said Trucco worked as an accountant for Falcone Enterprises.
Nick pulled up the company’s website; it was privately held and registered in Switzerland. Which meant the trail had run cold. The airtight Swiss privacy laws would yield him nothing.
But it was a clue, nevertheless. Many Italian firms that incorporated in Switzerland did so to hide from taxes or to cover illegal activity. And many of those firms had Mafia ties. A tingle of excitement sizzled in his chest. He was on to something.
He picked up the letter again, studying the postmark. It was dated just a few days before Trucco’s death. Had someone found out about the letter and killed Trucco over it?
Nick tapped his fingers on his lips. Could his father have had something to do with Trucco’s murder? Who else wouldn’t want Nick to talk this man?
This wasn’t the first time Nick had suspected his father of having criminal ties. The most likely false name, the way the checks came—always through a local solicitor’s office, always written on the solicitor’s account. Never once from his father directly.
Nick had questioned the lawyer before, Edmund Tyrell. But Tyrell had given him nothing, had known Nick had no right to question him, no jurisdiction. He’d calmly listened to Nick threaten him and then just as calmly ushered him out of his office each time.
Well this time, Nick had something. Trucco was dead, but perhaps there was someone at the number he’d left who’d give Nick some answers. And if there wasn’t, then by God, Tyrell was going to do some talking. Nick would be at the man’s office first thing, right after he called Trucco’s number. And he wouldn’t leave until Tyrell gave him something.
Something he deserved to know: his father’s real name.
Nick woke repeatedly through the night, memories of his mother’s death haunting his dreams, even though they hadn’t plagued him for years. That damn letter. At six, he gave up on sleep and took a long hot shower. Two cups of tea later—the only thing he had in the house—he felt little better than he had the night before.
He’d dawdled as long as he could. Seven fifteen. Still too early. But fuck it. He punched in Trucco’s number and waited for someone to pick up. Just as he thought the call would go to voice mail, a man answered in Italian. Bollocks. He should have anticipated that. His Italian was still only rudimentary.
“Ciao. This is Nick Clarkston, calling from London, England. By any chance, do you or someone there speak English?”
“Sì, Signor Clarkston. How may I be of assistance?” The man’s English was good, if stiff, his accent as British as Nick’s own, though tinged with the exotic.
“I received a letter from a man named Franco Trucco.”
“You are speaking to him.”
Surprise hit him like a bullet. How stupid did this man think he was? “Ah, you are? I mean, great. It’s good to speak to you. I’ve been away and saw your letter only last night. It was troubling.”
“I meant it to be. Your father has caused me enormous grief.”
I can relate to that. “I understand. And I’m sorry.”
“Why would you be sorry? You were not the cause.”
“Why did you write to me?”
“I thought I explained myself. I want justice. You are the only one who can give it to me.” Oddly, the man seemed to believe his own words, even if he wasn’t the real Franco Trucco. Whoever he was, Nick’s father was definitely in the man’s black books.
“Perhaps. But first tell me who my father is. His real name.”
The man’s voice grew sly. “You do not know it?”
Nick’s mouth filled with a bitter taste. “No.”
“Well then, you must come to Italy, meet your father, and learn who he is. And then together we will crush him.”
Time to gamble. “No.”
“No?”
“Franco Trucco is dead. And you are a liar. Who are you? Did one of my friends pay you to do this?”
The man chuckled. “I assure you, this is no joke.”
“Stop fucking with me, mate.”
“Very well. My name is Dario Andretti. When you research me, you will find that I have certain ties. You will think you cannot trust me. But I tell you, Signor Clarkston, I am the only person you can trust.”
Nick laughed. The guy had bollocks. “And why is that?”
“Because your father will never be honest with you. But I will.”
“Tell me then. What is his name?”
“Enrico Lucchesi. Not that it will help you much. He has constructed a rather clever front for himself. Trust me, the law has tried many times to pin him down, but he always manages to slither away, rather like a snake.”
“So how is this time any different?”
“Because I can give you everything you need to put him in prison.”
Blood thundered in his ears. “Who is he? What has he done?”
Andretti laughed. “All in good time. Come to Milan. I will explain everything.”
“Wait a minute. I’m not going to hop on a plane just because you say so.”
“Call me when you arrive.”
“I’m not—” Click. The line went dead. Nick stared at the phone. What now?
Blevio, Lake Como, Italy
Despite herself, Delfina Andretti admired the A-line cut of the new dress her father had bought her for her upcoming twenty-second birthday party. She twisted back and forth in front of the floor-length mirror in her bedroom, watching the cobalt-blue dress flare out around her legs, then settle back with a gentle flounce.
“You like it?” her mother asked. Her furrowed brow and darting eyes gave her away. She was worried. And ever determined to keep the peace. No matter what the cost.
“Of course, Mamma. It’s beautiful. Papà has good taste.”
Her mother smiled. “He’ll be glad to hear you’ve finally forgiven him.”
Delfina met her mother’s gaze in the mirror before turning to face her. She crossed her arms. “I didn’t say anything about forgiving him.”
Her mother tried to smooth her hands up and down Delfina’s upper arms, but Delfina pulled away from her touch. “You know he’s sorry about that.”
He’s never sorry. “He’s only sorry he agreed to marry me off to Enrico Lucchesi in the first place.”
“He knows he should have consulted you.”
She turned away from her mother. “You mean Nonno Carlo should have consulted me. And of course that was never going to happen.”
“Delfina, stop acting like a child. I thought you learned your lesson with that boy.”
His name is Teo. A ball of fire filled her chest. She glared at her mother over her shoulder. “When’s the last time Papà asked your opinion on anything of consequence? That’s right. Never.” Her mother flushed, and Delfina regretted her nasty words. It wasn’t Mamma’s fault. Mamma was just as powerless as she was. “I’m sorry.” She touched her mother’s arm.
“You are full of foolish notions. I should never have let you watch all those American movies.” Mamma looked as weary as Delfina felt. How many times had they had this same fight?
“It isn’t foolish to want to be an equal partner in my marriage. It isn’t foolish to want independence and freedom. Do you really think I want to live this life?” Delfina gestured at her well-appointed bedroom. Other than the mannequin in the corner and her half-finished sewing projects, the room was like something out of a five-star hotel, all showy fabrics and dark woods.
“Why not? You have everything you could possibly want.”
“Except a choice. I won’t even get to choose my husband.” Delfina’s hands twitched. She wanted to shake her mother, hard. “Maybe you didn’t mind when it happened to you, but I don’t want to marry someone just to strengthen Papà’s business. I especially don’t want to marry someone who’s almost twice my age!”
“Well you don’t have to. Not since that whole business with your grandfather.”
Delfina practically rolled her eyes at the way her mother described what had happened. Less than two weeks ago, Enrico Lucchesi had shot and killed her grandfather Carlo right in front of her father Dario. And then he’d married another woman—her late cousin’s wife, no less. What a tangle.
She should be happy things had ended that way. At least she could be thankful that her engagement was over almost before it started. She had nothing against her uncle Enrico—he was a fine man, and the world was certainly better off without her grandfather. But she hadn’t wanted to marry Enrico. Aside from him being old enough to be her father, she’d have been stepping into the shoes of her late Aunt Toni, and those would have been difficult to fill.
Her chest and throat ached. Aunt Toni had encouraged her to follow her dreams, to become a fashion designer and get far away from the family. But she’d also told Delfina it was important to find someone to love. To marry the right man.
Aunt Toni had been content with Enrico Lucchesi, even though their marriage had been arranged. Shortly before her death, she’d told Delfina the secret to a happy marriage: “Make sure he cares about your happiness more than his own. And if you feel the same way, you’ll always be glad you’re together. No matter what happens.”
She hoped to find that kind of love someday. But it wasn’t going to happen unless she could escape this life, somehow, and that was close to impossible. She looked at her mother. “Haven’t you ever wanted anything different?”
“This is all I know. It’s not a bad life.”
“But it’s not a good one either. Doesn’t it bother you how Papà makes money? Doesn’t it bother you to think that people have died for what we have?”
“Of course, Delfi. But most of them made the same choice your father did.”
“Not all the dead were criminals.”
“Your father isn’t some thug. He’s a man of honor.”
“Dress it up how you like. That doesn’t make it any less ugly.”
Her mother sighed. “Fine. Pout all you want. Just remember that your father loves us and he puts the pasta on our plates.”
“I’m aware of that.” She watched her mother leave the room. How could she ever forget? She was a Mafia princess, after all. Delfina smiled, but it was wry. The label fit perfectly, like the dress. She smoothed her hand down the layers of chiffon and ruffles. So pretty. But it had been bought with ugly money. Dirty money.
Reaching behind her, she yanked the zipper down and shrugged off the dress. She left it in a heap on the floor, then reconsidered and picked it up, smoothing the fabric and laying it on the bed. It wasn’t the dress’s fault. It was too pretty to mistreat. In her head, she deconst
ructed the pattern, admiring how the designer had put the dress together to flatter and conceal. The cut would work for a great many body types, not just hers. It was the kind of style she’d like to be known for. Something that would work for the average woman. A touch of beauty that was within reach of everyone. Not just the stick thin or the super-rich.
She sat down on her bed and fingered the chiffon. But how would she ever get to follow her dream to leave Italy, to seek her fortune in Paris or London, far from her family’s influence? Her father had barely agreed to send her to university. If Aunt Toni hadn’t interceded, she’d have been stuck at home. Her father had flat out told her it was a waste of time, that he intended to marry her off soon, and what would she need a career for? Fortunately, he’d never been able to resist his sister when she wanted something. But Aunt Toni was dead now, and there was no one to persuade her father to change course. No one but Delfina, and her arguments fell on ears deafened to her reasoning and even to her pleading. So now it was all-out war between the two of them.
Delfina went to her desk, pushed aside a pile of Vogue back issues, and picked up the thick notebook that contained her sketches. She flipped through the pages idly. How would she ever get to make her designs real? If only her father would let her alone, if only she were free. A thought teased her. What if he were in prison? What then?
Don’t be stupid. She couldn’t betray him. She couldn’t do that to him, to her family.
Or could she? He’d betrayed her, hadn’t he? He’d known what she wanted, and he’d tried to strip her of it anyway. Just like with Teo. Her father had never let her choose a single thing for herself, certainly not a boyfriend, much less a husband. That whole business with her uncle proved it. Her father didn’t care about her. What had he done to earn her love, other than providing a few genes? He treated her like a game piece. Not like a daughter.
The heat of tears burnt her eyes, and she took a deep breath. No. She was not going to cry over this. Crying never solved anything. Her tears hadn’t spared her, or Teo. With a sigh, she thought about the boy she hadn’t seen in six years. What was Teo doing now? Had he ever forgiven her?
