by Dana Delamar
“She told you about me?” Gio asked, her voice lilting up in surprise before falling to a lower tone. “Whatever she said, it was all lies.”
Nick chuckled. “So you’re not the most wonderful person in the world?”
Gio rolled her eyes. “That bit is true. But the rest most certainly is not.”
“How is she?” Nick asked.
“Delfi will be fine. My brother’s an ass. But I truly believe he didn’t mean to hurt her. He adores her.”
“Strange way of showing it.”
Gio sighed, tipping her glass of champagne to her lips. “This is supposed to be a party. Let’s talk about something else.” She questioned Nick about where he was from, and he answered automatically, his mind on Delfina. There had to be some way to help her. But he couldn’t afford to anger her old man. If only he didn’t have to worry about his grandparents, he’d snatch Delfina up and figure out some way to make her disappear. It was the least he owed her for trying to help him.
As if he’d willed her there, Delfina appeared by his side, her face taut. “What is it? Did that bastard try to hurt you again?” Nick asked.
“I need you to come with me.” She turned to leave.
“What’s this about?”
She ignored the question. When he didn’t follow, she grabbed his hand and led him through the crowd. Her small hand practically disappeared as he wrapped his fingers around hers. Along the way, they were stopped several times by friends wanting to wish her happy birthday. He got a lot of questioning glances, but Delfina ignored them all and got moving again as quickly as civility allowed. Why had she taken his hand? Was she one of those birds who liked to stir up trouble? Eventually they reached an obstacle she couldn’t rush past. Her father.
Andretti was with two older gentlemen and another who appeared to be his contemporary. Dario looked pointedly at the two of them holding hands and frowned. She let go instantly, her shoulders pulling back and her whole body going rigid.
“Delfina, who have you got there?” the oldest man asked. He was well into his eighties, his wispy hair a mix of white and silver, but something about the man’s autocratic bearing and superior, demanding, tone chilled Nick.
“Bisnonno, this is Nick Clarkston. Nick, this is Lorenzo Andretti, my great-grandfather.”
Nick took the old man’s gnarled hand, surprised by the strength in his grip. “There’s something familiar about you,” Lorenzo said, peering at Nick closely.
Nick shrugged. “I must have one of those faces.”
Delfina then introduced him to her prozio, her great-uncle, Benedetto Andretti, a balding, well-dressed man in his sixties who also studied him. He was no warmer than his father, Lorenzo, and said even less. Then she introduced him to the youngest man, a sturdy fellow in his mid-forties, with close-cropped graying hair and a black mustache and beard. “This is Gianluca d’Imperio. Our host.”
Bugger. The father of the guy he’d nearly clocked. “Pleased to meet you, signore,” he said, taking the hand d’Imperio offered. D’Imperio’s fingers were surprisingly calloused. The man appeared fit, but something about him said he’d never done a minute’s manual labor.
D’Imperio grunted in response and drew on a thick cigar as he studied Nick. “I heard you and my son Leandro… met earlier.”
Nick shoved his hands in his pockets. “We did.” He wasn’t going to apologize.
“My son was asking for it, I’m sure.” D’Imperio chuckled. “However, Delfina shouldn’t appear to be attached to anyone else, yes?”
He was referring to them holding hands. “She was just getting me through the crowd, signore.”
D’Imperio took another draw on the cigar. “Be more careful.”
Nick nodded, then glanced at Dario. The man was glowering at him. This wasn’t good. “No harm meant,” Nick said, holding his hands up in surrender.
Next to him, Delfina shifted from one foot to the other. “I wasn’t thinking,” she blurted.
Dario put a hand on her shoulder. “I thought I made myself clear earlier.”
The look she shot her father was pure venom. “Had I known I was engaged before the party, everything would have been different.”
D’Imperio raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t know?”
“That was the cause of the… confusion earlier,” she said.
D’Imperio’s eyes flicked between her and Nick. “Is the ‘confusion’ cleared up?”
She glared at her father as she answered. “Yes. Now may we get on?”
“Enjoy the party,” Dario said, waving for them to go. Delfina spun away. No handholding this time. Nick rushed to follow her through the press of bodies. He’d never seen so many people at a birthday party. Where the hell was she taking him? And why the hurry?
He caught up with her at the foot of the grand staircase in the foyer. “What’s going on, Delfina?”
“You’ll know in a minute.” She started up the stairs, beckoning him to follow.
Bloody hell. He trotted behind her up the plushly carpeted stairs. Beneath that pretty blue dress, Delfina was wearing sheer black hose with sexy seams that ran up the backs of her legs. He followed the lines of them up to where the hem of the dress hit her, just above the knees. Too bad he’d never be able to follow those seams all the way to heaven. If he did, Dario would make sure Nick joined the missing-finger club. Or worse.
They entered a room partway down the hall. A tall dark-haired man stood with his back to them, an arm around the shoulders of a woman with auburn hair, the two of them facing the double doors leading to the balcony. A few paces off was another man, blond and young. Along the opposite wall stood a dark-haired, powerfully built man, his hands clasped behind his back in the stance common to bodyguards everywhere. Nick checked and saw the bulge under the man’s left armpit that indicated a handgun. Who were these people? The tall man turned and Nick froze. No. No. No. “Nico,” the man said, stepping toward him.
Nick shook his head violently. This wasn’t happening. His stomach lurched, his insides going to paste. A red-hot ball grew in his chest until the heat flooded up into his face, making his ears roar and his throat go tight. When his hands started to tremble, he clenched them into fists, at which point the blond on his left and the guard on his right started toward him.
“Antonio, Ruggero, no,” Delfina said. The blond stopped, but the other guard didn’t. He was on Nick in a heartbeat, cranking Nick’s right wrist up between his shoulder blades, his other arm locking around Nick’s neck before he was almost aware of it. Nick tried to fight, but the guard’s hold on him was solid, unshakeable, the man displaying a massive force that surprised him. The guard was an inch or two shorter than Nick, but clearly he spent far more time in the gym. Hard cords of muscle, apparent even through the man’s suit jacket, crushed into Nick’s throat, cutting off his air supply.
“Ruggero.” His father’s voice, controlled, commanding. Seemingly unaffected. How could he be so cool, while Nick was on fire?
The guard, Ruggero, tightened his grip on Nick’s neck and gave his right arm a wrench. His shoulder exploded with pain, the arm threatening to burst from its socket, narrowing Nick’s world down to a single point of agony, surpassed only by the burning need for oxygen. The guard spoke in his ear, his voice a rough rumble. “Bones break like sticks, yes?” Yes, yes, they do, you fucking sociopath.
“Ruggero, let him be.” His father spoke again. He was right in front of Nick, so close they could touch.
Nick opened his mouth. Bastard. Bloody bastard, he wanted to yell. But nothing came out, and not just because his air was being cut off. Ruggero let him loose, but Nick could only stumble back a few steps, unable to speak, unable to do anything but stare at the father he hadn’t seen in all this time. He shook out his right arm, wincing with pain, but that pain was nothing compared to the storm raging inside him. His father, the mobster. The murderer.
His father stepped forward, closing the gap that had opened between them. “Nico,” he said, h
is voice gentle and choked, that little betrayal of emotion transfixing Nick, as his father reached out and touched his shoulder.
The urge to surrender, to throw his arms around his father, gripped Nick hard, and tears—bloody, traitorous tears—burned his eyes. Seeing them, his father reached out with his other hand to fold him into an embrace.
“No,” Nick moaned and backed away. He wanted to run, to get away. He wanted to vomit. He wanted anything but to stand there, panting and shaking. His father tried again, and this time Nick’s voice was stronger. “Don’t bloody touch me.” His father’s hands dropped to his sides and Nick saw tears in his eyes. “You’re nothing to me. Understand?”
“Nico, I am your father.”
“You stopped being my father nineteen years ago.”
His father—scratch that, he’s bloody Enrico Lucchesi, he’s no father to me—pinched the bridge of his nose. His voice was hoarse. “You never stopped being my son. Never.”
“You’re the reason she’s dead. You killed her.”
“Not true. You know that, Nico.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Nick then.” Lucchesi reached out again, then stopped himself. “I am sorry for everything that happened.”
The roar in Nick’s ears intensified. “You didn’t even have the decency to come to her funeral.”
Lucchesi focused on the floor. “I thought it best to stay away.”
Nick smirked at him, triumphant. “You couldn’t face me or my grandparents.”
“That was not the reason, Nico.”
“Nick.” He waited, but Lucchesi said nothing more. “You’re a coward and a liar.”
“He is neither,” the blond—Antonio—said.
Nick looked at Antonio, really looked. He was young, around twenty or twenty-one. “You think he’s told you everything? Let me guess—you never heard of me, never even knew I existed, until just now.” Antonio turned red. “As I thought.”
“There’s a good reason for that,” the red-haired woman said in an American accent.
“Kate, please,” Lucchesi said. “He is upset. Justifiably.”
Nick let out a snort. ‘Justifiably.’ What an understatement. He turned to Delfina. “Why did you arrange this?”
“Because you need help with my father. Your father is the only person who can—who will—do anything.”
She had so little faith in him? “I have the situation under control.”
With a raised eyebrow, she asked, “What about your grandparents?”
“He’ll accept the deal.”
“Even if he does, you don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand?”
She threw her hands up in exasperation. “You never should have come here. You keep insisting you’re Nick Clarkston. But you’re not. In Italy, you’re Niccolò Lucchesi, and you will be until the day you die.”
Lucchesi spoke up then. “That is why I avoided the funeral. You would have wanted me to take you to Italy, and I could never have said no.”
Nick’s throat tightened, making it nearly impossible to speak. “I kept thinking you’d come back.”
“I missed you so much. But I wanted more for you than this. I wanted you to have all the choices I never had.”
“You had choices.”
“From the moment I was born, my destiny was written,” Lucchesi said, his tone weary. “Those who are born into the malavita can never leave it.”
“You don’t want to leave it. You have everything you could possibly want.”
“I never wanted any of this, for myself or my sons. I had hoped to keep you free.”
“I’m not part of it.”
“Your name makes you part of it. There is no going back to your old life. You think Interpol will trust you once they know?”
They wouldn’t, that was true. “They don’t have to know.”
“And you accuse my husband of being a liar,” Kate said.
“What difference does it make who my bloody father is? He might as well have been a sperm donor for all the influence he’s had on me.”
“You’re acting like a child,” Kate said. “You have no idea the sacrifices he’s made.”
“And you have no idea what it’s like to know you didn’t matter to either parent.” The words slipped out, hot and bitter, and for a moment he was flung back to that horrible moment of discovery, when he’d learned his mother was dead, gone forever beyond the reach of his tears, his pleading. It took everything he had not to sob like the little boy he’d been that horrible day. Delfina tried to touch him, but he flinched away. If she succeeded, he’d crumple, he’d lose what little control he still had.
The whole room was silent, seconds ticking by, Nick’s breathing sounding harsh in his own ears. Then Lucchesi spoke. “You matter—you will always matter—to me. Let me help you. Let me make it up to you.”
“Make it up to me? I don’t need your bloody help. What a load of bollocks.”
He slammed out of the room and ran smack into Leandro, who started to laugh. “I heard the whole thing. What kind of fool walks away from the Lucchesis?”
“This one. Now get out of my way.” Delfina came up behind him and tried to grab his arm, but he shook her off. “Go play with your fiancé,” he snarled at her.
He stormed out to the rear gardens. The mass of people outside held no appeal, other than that he could get lost in the crowd. Just find a quiet corner and drink until he didn’t care anymore. About his father. His mother. Dario. Delfina. Just forget it all. Just forget he existed.
Nick Clarkston was a sham, a fiction, as Delfina had pointed out. And a bloody liar. His grandparents weren’t safe. And he’d been the one to put them in danger.
Who the fuck was he anymore? Did he even care? Why couldn’t God take pity and toss him down a deep dark hole, like Alice, so he’d wake up in Wonderland? Instead of where he was: the eighth circle of hell. Where he belonged, with all the rest of the liars.
CHAPTER 6
Dario had barely finished smoothing over Gianluca’s concerns about Delfina’s behavior when Leandro strolled up to them, a sly smirk on his face. Of all the men in Italy, this had to be the one destined to be his son-in-law. God must hate me. “You’ll never guess who’s here, Papà,” Leandro said to Gianluca.
“The Pope? We seem to have everyone else.”
Leandro licked his lips. “Enrico Lucchesi.” An unpleasant prickling peppered Dario’s skin. What the bloody hell was Lucchesi doing here?
“You’re not serious,” Gianluca said.
“He’s upstairs, in Gio’s room, with his wife. But that’s not the best part.” When Leandro paused, Gianluca motioned for him to spit it out. His son’s smile widened, grew nasty, and Dario’s pulse slammed into overdrive. “That idiot who tried to hit me? He’s Lucchesi’s son. And”—his eyes slid to Dario—“he works for Interpol.” Dario’s hands clenched into fists. He’d love to knock that grin off Leandro’s face. And the good-for-nothing junkie knew it too.
Gianluca coughed mid-draw on his cigar. “What the hell?” He rounded on Dario, and Benedetto and Lorenzo stepped closer. “You’ve brought fucking Interpol into my home?”
Jesus and all the saints… Dario took a breath. “Not exactly.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Gianluca’s face turned red.
“The boy works for me. He’s Interpol, but he’s mine.”
“But he’s Lucchesi’s son.”
“His bastard, you mean,” Leandro said.
“Shut up,” Gianluca said, stealing the words Dario wanted to say. “Explain yourself, Andretti.”
“Yes, please do,” Benedetto said. “You’ve been holding out on us.”
When he found Delfina, he was going to kill her. Inviting Lucchesi here had to be her doing. “I’m not holding out on anyone. I’m still finalizing the deal. The boy wants to work for me.”
“Sounds like a Lucchesi trap.” Lorenzo pursed his lips in disapproval. “Your father was
right; you are a fool.”
Dario’s cheeks burned. “It’s not a trap. I approached the boy, not the other way around.”
“So, what, he just threw himself in your lap?”
“I can give him something he wants. Something we all want.”
Gianluca’s meaty forefinger stabbed him in the chest, connecting right over the sternum. “What game are you playing, Andretti? Are you planning to turn pentito?”
“Me roll over and testify? Never.” Dario spat on the flagstones.
Benedetto circled around until he was just to Dario’s left. He leaned in when he spoke, his voice low. “My brother never saw anything in you. I thought he was missing something, but now I’m not so sure. Either you’re an idiot, or you’ve cooked up a scheme to take over.”
The quivering began in Dario’s belly, then burrowed deep into his bowels. Remember Remo. He was moments from death, unless they believed what he said next. “What I’ve done is figure out a way to eliminate Enrico Lucchesi.”
Benedetto cocked a brow. “Go on.”
“The boy hates his father. Says he killed his mother. He wants his revenge, wants to put Lucchesi in prison. I told him I could help, but for a price. The boy offered information. It’s that simple.”
Leandro, of all people, came to his rescue. “It’s true. He hates Lucchesi. You should have heard them.”
“It could have been an act,” Lorenzo said.
“I know when people are lying,” Leandro said. “They weren’t.”
“You’re sure of the boy?” Benedetto asked Dario.
“More or less.”
“What kind of answer is that?”
Dario met his uncle’s gaze. “An honest one. I want insurance, of course. I just haven’t figured out what would be most effective.”
“How Carlo resisted strangling you, I’ll never know,” Benedetto said, continuing to study him.
“I think we’re forgetting something,” Gianluca said. They all turned to him. “Lucchesi runs the banks we use. Can any of us take his place?” When no one spoke, Gianluca continued. “I don’t have anything against Lucchesi. He’s never screwed me, and I trust him not to turn on us.” He stared at Dario. “He killed your father, but even you have to admit he’d been sorely provoked. You can’t kill a man’s entire family and kidnap his fiancée and not expect payback.”
