by Dana Delamar
That cunning made Dario many times more dangerous. At least Carlo had never hidden his feelings. But somehow, after all these years, Dario remained an enigma. Ruggero was right about the danger. And yet… “I made a promise to you, Ruggero. I intend to keep it.”
“I got my Maserati. Mille grazie.”
“Not the damn car, and you know it. Your family needs you.”
“You need me more.”
“I have Tommaso, and Claudio and Santino.”
“Claudio and Santino are still boys. And Tommaso is going gray.”
“He’s still effective.”
“Sì. But you need more than ‘effective’ right now.”
“There is no budging you,” Enrico said, letting a hint of a question into the statement.
“My brother-in-law has a few months left.”
Enrico swallowed hard, his throat squeezing shut again. The Velas had had sacrificed too much for the Lucchesis. Ruggero’s father had even died in their service. Now Ruggero was putting his family aside again, as he’d done so many years ago when he and his father had followed the Lucchesis north. Enrico’s voice rasped when he spoke. “I owe you a debt I can never repay.”
“You have repaid it. Many times over. My family would be suffering were it not for yours.”
“That may be—”
Ruggero cut him off. “We both know it’s true. My whole family has benefited from the connection between our families. The Velas would still be poor farmers, scrabbling in the dirt, with too little in our bellies. My family swore to serve the Lucchesis. I swore it. And I will never turn my back on that oath.”
So much he owed this man. “When this is over—”
“Yes, I will go. When Dario Andretti is dead.”
“Then you are in charge of bringing my son back to me.”
Antonio swiftly rose from his chair and paced to the window overlooking the lake. Though he said nothing, he clasped his hands behind his back, his stance stiff and proud. Madonna. Enrico needed to deal with Tonio, but not until he knew what to do about Nico. And his godsons. Tonio would have to wait, as painful as it was for them both. It would be worse to make more promises he couldn’t keep.
He was the capo of the Lucchesi family. A little over two weeks ago, he’d had Dario Andretti at his mercy. And he’d spared Dario then, trying to atone for the wrong that Enrico’s father had done to Dario all those years ago. A wrong that Enrico had ultimately condoned. A wrong that he was still paying for.
He was the capo of the Lucchesi family. He had everything, and nothing.
Never had he felt more powerless.
Delfina fled her father’s study and ran smack into Cris. Seeing her face, he took hold of her arms. “Delfi, what’s gotten you so upset?”
She threw her hands in the air. “Papà. Leandro.” She almost added Nick to that list but caught herself. “Everything.”
His soft brown eyes searched hers. “We need to talk.” He steered her outside by the elbow and over to the bench under the huge plane tree that shaded much of the grass behind the house. He pulled her down beside him, hugging her close. “I know Leandro’s a jerk. But there are worse things that could happen.”
She showed him the bruises. “Like this?”
His face darkened as he ran a finger over the marks. “I had no idea. Does Papà know?”
“He didn’t care. I’m just currency to him. Something to be bartered and sold.”
“It’s complicated.”
She snorted and shifted away from him. “So I can’t count on you either.”
“I didn’t say that I’d do nothing. I’m just saying it’s not going to be easy. And Papà has good reasons.”
“He only cares about his business. Not about what’s best for me.”
“That isn’t true. There’s a lot at stake. More than you realize. Papà made a mistake. And he can’t go back on the engagement without making things worse.”
“What mistake?”
“He let you bring Nick to the party. Now that d’Imperio knows about the Interpol connection—no thanks to you—he has lost faith in us.”
Tears blurred her vision. “I’m doomed, then.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll fix this.” He reached out and wiped away one of her tears with his thumb.
“How?”
He pulled her close and kissed her forehead. “I told you; I’ll handle it. Stop fretting.” They sat like that for a minute or two, then he asked, “What are you doing with Nick?”
She stiffened, then forced herself to relax. That was the question, wasn’t it? “What do you mean?”
“His trousers were unzipped when I went to get him.”
Adrenaline spiked through her. Dio mio! How could she have been so careless? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your dress was dirty.”
“I fell in the garden and broke a heel. That’s why I didn’t have shoes either.”
He said nothing for a few seconds. “I found your hose in the shed.”
Madonna! “I got a run from walking barefoot.”
“I’m sure you did. But why take them off in the shed in front of him?”
“He was passed out.” She couldn’t look at him anymore.
“I’m not an idiot.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I know you were upset, but you can’t fuck around.”
Did everyone think they could tell her what to do? “Isn’t that my business?”
“Do you want to get him killed?”
A shiver ran through her. “Of course not.”
“Then stay away from him and be patient. I will fix this.”
“How?” She wanted to believe him. But would his plan work better than hers?
He shook his head. “There are some things you’re better off not knowing.”
Should she call off Gio? “I need to know.”
“You just have to trust me.”
“What if I can’t?”
He turned so he was looking directly into her eyes. “Listen to me. Don’t do anything stupid, or Nick will die. Do you hear me? Trust me to handle it.”
What if Cris was wrong? Her plan would work; Papà was angry now, but he would get over it. He’d eventually see the wisdom in having Zio Enrico as an ally. The d’Imperios were powerful, but so was Enrico Lucchesi. And her plan would shield Nick too, once her father calmed down. She had to trust her gut. “I’ll try.”
“Don’t try. Trust me.”
Delfina swallowed hard. She hated lying to her brother. “I will.”
She said a silent prayer. Please let my plan work. And please don’t let Nick be killed.
Her heart skipping, Delfina reported at one o’clock to an ancient warehouse in the Bovisa district. Beautiful brass lettering spelled out “House of Morelli, established 1890” above the door.
She stepped inside, clutching her portfolio to her chest like a shield. The receptionist led her past a busy workshop and to a small office, where the man himself, Enzo Morelli, was sitting at a desk sketching what looked like a matching ensemble—dress, shoes, and handbag. He continued sketching as she waited, hovering near the open doorway.
Her eyes darted around the room, drinking in every detail of the clutter. Sketches were tacked up haphazardly on the walls in loose clusters by season and year. Swatches of cloth and leather spilled out of a filing cabinet hulking in the corner. A stack of photography and art books sat next to it, threatening to tip over. She wanted to touch everything. And straighten it up too.
With a flourish, Signor Morelli signed and dated the sketch, then set it to one side of his desk. He pushed his glasses down his long elegant nose and peered at her over the rims, his gaze roving up and down her body, but not in a prurient way. “You’re the Andretti girl?”
“Yes,” she said, stepping forward and offering her hand.
He rose and shook her hand loosely, holding it out of the way so that he could scrutinize her outfit. “At least you know how to dress. The cut and color suit you well
.”
She swallowed hard and squeaked out, “Mille grazie, signore.”
“Sit,” he ordered and put out his hand for her portfolio. “Let’s see what you have.”
She gave it to him, then didn’t know what to do with her hands. She tried to hold them still in her lap, but they kept finding things to do. She settled for clasping them together as he paged through her portfolio, a thoughtful frown on his face. He said nothing for several minutes, instead flipping through the pages, occasionally lingering on one. He folded down the corners on two pages and handed the book back to her. “These show promise. The rest are derivative.”
She tried to hold back her dismay, but he must’ve seen it, for his tone softened. “It’s a common mistake for a novice. And how else does one learn, except by imitation? All great artists must study their forebears. And then destroy them.”
She nodded, feeling a little better, even though she hadn’t gotten the job. She glanced at the two sketches he’d marked; they’d been her favorites too. “Mille grazie,” she said. She started to rise when his voice stopped her.
“Be here at nine on Monday.”
She settled back into her seat and looked at him sharply. “Listen, just because of who my father is, that doesn’t mean you have to give me this job. I don’t want it if you don’t think I show promise.”
Signor Morelli sat back in his chair and took his glasses off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I did not get where I am today by letting other people make my decisions. I am no fool, signorina. Be here Monday.” He put the glasses back on. “And bring some fresh ideas with you.”
Had she heard correctly? He made a shooing motion with his hand, then gave her a smile. “I have much to do, signorina.”
Delfina gawked at him for a moment, warmth spreading through her chest, before returning the smile. The internship was hers! And all her father had done was give her the opportunity. The rest she’d earned.
Nick woke in a sweat, startled by the pounding on his door. Someone had put him to bed the night before; they’d taken off his shoes and his jacket, but he was still in the shirt and trousers he’d worn to Delfina’s party. What the hell time was it? He glanced at the clock. Three in the afternoon? Christ. He sat up and groaned. His head felt like someone had been using it to mix concrete.
The pounding didn’t let up. “I’m coming!” he called as he stumbled to the door. When he opened it, he saw one of the maids, Fulvia. She’d been taking care of him, and today was no exception. She had a plate of mixed cheeses, meats, and olives. Along with a carafe of espresso. “Mille grazie, Fulvia,” he said, taking the tray from her.
She gave him a sweet smile and a bob of her head. “Prego, signore.”
His stomach rumbled when he caught a whiff of the coffee. When had he last eaten?
Setting the tray on the kitchen table, he tucked in to the meal and reviewed the night before—what he could remember of it. He had no idea how he’d gotten back to the guest cottage.
All he did have was a dim memory of being in the shed with Delfina, and she’d been naked, and he’d been… touching her? Or maybe his imagination had run away with him. Because the girl he saw in his mind was perfect. High breasts that turned up at the tips, large dark nipples, a narrow waist, skin like satin, black wavy hair that felt like silk.
Exactly how he’d imagined her before. But reality never lived up to one’s fantasies. Never, right?
Had he really touched her? He searched his memory some more, remembered her coming into the shed. She’d been in the arms of that blond bloke, Antonio, who he’d thrown a bottle at, though he couldn’t remember exactly why. Something about his father.
Jesus. What a cracking mess he’d made of things.
Then again, he had every right. She shouldn’t have sprung his father on him like that. It wasn’t sporting. At all.
Though he hadn’t told her much, it should have been enough for her to have known Nick didn’t want to see him.
Ever.
Except behind the bars of a prison cell.
The anger he’d felt during the meeting with his father rose all over again. Though a fair portion of his anger was self-directed, if he were honest.
What had happened to the cool detachment he’d always wanted to show? Why had he admitted he’d missed his father? At least he hadn’t done the worst thing. He hadn’t flung himself into his father’s arms and sobbed like he had the day his father had left them. At least he hadn’t done that.
But he hadn’t been mature about things either. He could still hear his father’s wife saying in her Yank accent that he’d been acting like a child, a charge he couldn’t deny.
And Delfina had seen it all. The absolute worst moment of his life, next to finding his mother dead.
Another knock at the door. It must be Fulvia coming back for the tray. He’d be forever grateful to her. The throbbing in his head had receded, and he felt much better with some food in his belly.
He flung open the door, ready to thank her profusely. Instead he saw Delfina, a finger to her lips. The bugs. He’d nearly forgotten about them. She seemed happy to see him, her eyes shining as she beckoned him outside.
“You’re in a good mood,” he said, following her into the hedge maze, the way much easier in daylight. Maybe he hadn’t made a complete cock-up of the night before.
“I just got the job of my dreams.”
He’d kissed her, maybe done much more, but how little he knew about her. “What job is that?”
“I’ll be working for a designer. Enzo Morelli. I start Monday. It’s just an internship. I think Papà wants me to be sure before he invests in three more years of university for me.”
Fashion design? She sure looked the part; he’d never seen a girl her age appear so elegant with such ease. “Congratulations. I hope you enjoy the work.”
“I’m sure I will. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“I didn’t realize… women like you worked.”
They reached the bench where they’d first spoken at length. Delfina made a sour face. “They don’t. Papà doesn’t approve. I was supposed to ask Leandro’s permission, but I didn’t.”
He sat beside her. “You need his bloody permission? Since when?”
“Since that’s how it works for families like ours.”
Bloody hell. “And if he objects?”
“I don’t intend to marry him.” She held his gaze. “I’d sooner shoot myself.”
“Don’t say things like that.”
Twisting her hands together in her lap, she hunched her shoulders. “It’s true.”
“Listen.” He grabbed her forearm, unable to stop himself. “Don’t you ever think about killing yourself. You hear me? It’s bloody unfair to the people you leave behind.”
Eyes widening, she covered her open mouth with her hand. “Dio mio! Your mother. I wasn’t thinking…. I’m sorry.”
An awkward silence descended on them. After a while, Nick broke it, a little embarrassed about his outburst. By now, she must think he was a bleeding nutter. “After everything that happened at the party, I wasn’t sure you’d ever want to speak to me again.”
She laughed, a little too loudly. “I was thinking the same thing.” Her smile receded. “I’m sorry about what happened with your father. I truly am. But it had to be done.”
“I don’t need his help.”
“You will.” He started to interrupt, but she held up a finger to silence him. “I don’t mean it to sound like I have no faith in you. It’s just that the situation, this world, is utterly foreign to you. You’re at a horrible disadvantage. And my father has no scruples. He’s not like you, Nick. None of us are. This life requires so many compromises, and if you haven’t a strong ruthless streak, you’ll never survive it.”
He blew out hard. There was no sense arguing. They were never going to agree on this point. Instead, he asked the question that plagued him. “Did we…?” He couldn’t quite say the words, so he settled for gesturing he
lplessly between them.
She tilted her head and smiled. “Yes.”
His stomach tightened. “Everything?” She nodded. Oh dear Lord. Hopefully he’d done at least one thing right. “Did I wear a condom?” She shook her head. “And you’re not on birth control.” Of course not, you berk. She’s a virgin. Correct that. Was a virgin.
“I’m not, but the odds are against a pregnancy. It was early in my cycle.”
He so did not want to have this discussion. Ever. And certainly not with the virgin he’d deflowered. And whose father would—literally—kill him if he found out. “Did I hurt you?”
She hesitated, then said, “Not much.”
“I’m such a prat.” He touched her hand. “Aside from doing it in the first place, I should never have done it while I was drunk. And in a garden shed. Your first time should have been special.”
“It wasn’t romantic, true, but it was special.”
She was having him on. “Don’t spare my feelings,” he said.
“I’m not. When have you ever known me to?”
“True. You don’t mince words.” He chuckled.
She fiddled with a button her jacket. “There is a problem though.”
“What’s that?” he asked, his heart speeding up.
“If I am pregnant, we have to marry.”
“Wouldn’t your father want to put a bullet in me instead?”
Her eyes flicked to his, then quickly away. “Probably. But he wouldn’t. Nobody else would have me.”
Nick’s stomach twisted into knots at such a future for her. And for the others who might suffer from his stupidity as well. “Even so, do you think he’d harm my grandparents, just to teach me a lesson?”
She bit her lower lip. “I wish I could say no.”
He was going to be sick. Not Gran and Grandad. Somehow he had to undo the mistakes he’d made, the mistakes that had gotten him to this point.
Fuente had been right; he was out of his depth, and sinking fast.
