by Dana Delamar
CHAPTER 8
“So, my son, what are you going to do about your wayward nephew?” Lorenzo took a sip of his cappuccino and peered at Benedetto over the rim.
Benedetto shrugged. If Dario would not come to heel, he’d have to break him. Eventually. He finished off his own cup and admired the fine view from the rear terrace of Dario’s home. Lake Como sparkled in the sunlight, clouds scudding across the blue sky. Still so lovely at this time of year, though a cold bite lingered in the mid-morning air. He burrowed his hands into the pockets of his fine cashmere coat.
“No plan, eh? That’s not like you.”
Benedetto looked his father over. Like the lake, the old man’s eyes glittered, intelligence and cunning in his gaze. Of course, he didn’t know everything. Lorenzo didn’t know about the debt Benedetto had racked up with the Russians, for example. That debt was the most pressing problem. Dario’s compliance—or lack of it—could wait. He had to find someone—someone discreet, someone not tied directly to him, someone who preferably owed him a favor—to meet with the Russians.
He’d considered farming the job out to Lucchesi. The man was trustworthy and could keep a secret, that was for damn sure. Hiding a son all these years!
However, Lucchesi abhorred drugs. And cocaine was how Benedetto was paying off the Russians, with three hundred thousand euros coming back to him in exchange for the extra kilos.
He supposed he could get one of his own to do the deal, but there was always the chance that Lorenzo would catch wind of it. If only Salvatore was out of jail—but that was useless thinking. Sal was stuck behind bars for another two weeks, and the Russians were demanding payment now. As in five days from now.
He could make the delivery himself. But he’d have to go in without backup. He didn’t trust his sons to help—they’d as soon shoot him in the back and shake hands with the Russians over his corpse.
Going in alone was risky, possibly suicidal. And certainly bad for business. The Russians would know something was wrong. Never let your enemy know when he has the upper hand. Who’d said that to him? Probably his father.
What about contracting the job out to d’Imperio? There’d certainly been enough friction between Gianluca and Dario at the party to make him think they weren’t fast friends, despite the betrothal between Delfina and Leandro. But could he trust Gianluca to keep quiet?
“What’s troubling you?” Lorenzo asked. “You’ve been brooding all morning.”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t try to lie to me.”
Adrenaline licked at the base of his spine. He was under no illusions. If his father caught a whiff of the debt and the reason for it, he wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of him. Remo, his older brother, had already paid that price, agonizingly so. Lorenzo had plenty of Andrettis to choose a successor from.
Benedetto let out a sigh. “All right. I’ve been trying to sort out how to get the families in line. La Provincia—that was a stroke of genius. A clever first step.”
Lorenzo waved the praise away. “Stop blowing smoke up my ass.”
“But the next step will be harder. La Provincia is almost too effective. The families aren’t fighting the way they used to, and everyone’s making money. So how do we get everyone to see the benefit of consolidated leadership?”
When Lorenzo smiled, the skin on his face creased like fine leather. “You haven’t figured it out yet?” He tsked at Benedetto, wagging a finger at him. “You’re off your game.”
Taking out his cigarette case, Benedetto lit up. Lorenzo declined to join him. “I do have some ideas, but nothing that will convince everyone. What do you think?”
“Only one thing will work—a strong external enemy. A war.”
“Against who? Cosa Nostra has been in disarray ever since the DIA went after them, and the Camorra is too weak.”
“But the Russians aren’t. And they’re eager to come in.”
A shiver raced through Benedetto’s gut. Inviting them in, when he was in this position—absolutely not. He needed someone else. The answer came in a flash. Of course. “Not the Russians. I don’t trust them.”
“Then who?”
“The DIA.” Italo Baldassare, the current prime minister, had long been tied to Cosa Nostra. But he’d recently severed that connection. There was an opportunity, if they were bold.
Lorenzo raised a brow. “You’d trust the fucking DIA over the Russians?”
“Baldassare needs money and votes for his next campaign.”
“He threw the Sicilians to the wolves.”
“He had to. The journalists were on to him. It was only a matter of time. He’ll need a new financial partner. And if he sicced the DIA on us—at least publicly—he’d be a shoe-in for re-election.”
“You think you can trust him?”
“Do pigs like to eat?”
Lorenzo shrugged. “Yeah, he’s a greedy pig, but he’s still a pig. I don’t want to put myself in his hands. He’s liable to sell us out when he needs to.”
“But that’s just it. He won’t have to. As long as he appears tough on the ‘Ndrangheta, as long as we sacrifice a few families—the ones who won’t cooperate—he won’t need to sacrifice us. He won’t want to. We keep bankrolling him, he looks tough on crime, and we gain control of the ‘Ndrangheta.”
Sitting back in his chair, Lorenzo tapped the tips of his steepled fingers against his chin. “There is a certain brilliance to your plan.”
Benedetto blew out a long stream of smoke and smiled. “Problem solved.” If only he could solve the other one.
Cristoforo stepped out onto the terrace through the rear double doors of the villa. He headed straight for them. “Prozio, may I speak with you alone?”
Interesting. “Certainly.” He glanced at his father. “If you’ll excuse us, Papà.”
Lorenzo picked up his cup and waved them away. The boy headed for the hedge maze. The stories those hedges could tell. Who knew how many meetings had been carried out among their twists and turns?
Once they’d walked in some ways, Cristoforo cleared his throat. “Can I speak to you plainly, without fear of our discussion getting back to my father?”
Very interesting indeed. “Of course. You are a man now. You can make your own deals.”
His grand-nephew let out a breath. “I’d hoped you’d see it that way.” The boy’s nervousness was almost touching.
“What is on your mind?” Benedetto clasped his hands behind his back, listening to the crunch of gravel beneath their shoes.
“The engagement between Delfina and Leandro cannot stand.”
“It is quite an advantageous connection.”
“I know. I offered to marry Gio instead, but Papà won’t hear of it.”
“Gianluca would be insulted.”
The boy grumbled something before saying, “Papà can’t have that. He screwed things up by not revealing the truth about Clarkston to d’Imperio.”
“Or to any of us. He’s playing some game.”
Cristoforo stopped walking and turned to face him. “Well, I don’t like him using Delfi to do it. Leandro got upset and bruised her at the party. We don’t need that kind of stain on the Andretti name.”
“So what do you want from me?” Benedetto brushed a bit of lint from his sleeve, not wanting to betray his excitement. It would be good to have Dario’s capo di società in his debt.
“I want you to persuade Papà to see things my way.”
“And if I did, what would I get in return?”
“A favor. Anything you want.”
Benedetto smiled, his first real one in a long time. Sometimes one was in the right place at the right time. He shook the hand Cristoforo extended. And sometimes one wasn’t.
The boy had so much to learn.
When Delfina entered the House of Morelli workshop on Monday at nine sharp, right on time, a hush descended over her fellow apprentices. Was it just her imagination, or were their faces horribly unfriendly? She clutched her portfolio tigh
ter to her chest, unsure what to do next. The receptionist who’d greeted her last time wasn’t at her desk. Since no one said anything, she started toward Signor Morelli’s office in the back. She’d gotten only a few feet when a tall handsome man in his thirties approached her from that direction. He offered her his hand. “I’m Jacopo Bossi, Enzo’s assistant. He asked me to get you settled.”
She shook his hand and smiled up at him. With his wavy, sandy brown hair and high cheekbones, Jacopo could be walking runways instead of designing clothes for them. He was casually but elegantly dressed, in a white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and a dark navy suit expertly cut to emphasize his broad shoulders and narrow hips. She took her seat at the high desk he led her to.
“This will be your workstation. The lid lifts so you can store supplies in it.” He leaned close to her, lowering his voice. “I suggest writing your name in nail varnish on any tools or supplies you want to keep, since things tend to get ‘borrowed’ otherwise.” She stowed her handbag and portfolio inside.
He pointed to a plain wooden table behind her. “That’s your work area for anything you can’t handle on the desk.” Then she followed him into the back, where he showed her the fabric room, crammed with racks of material in a rainbow of weights and colors. She wanted to run her hands over every single sample, but she restrained herself. She’d have time for dreaming later. In the center of the room, a dauntingly huge mound of swatches nearly covered a table.
“Your first job,” Jacopo said, “is to sort and hang these new swatches by type, weight, and color family—not by manufacturer. The tulles go with the tulles, starting with white on the left leading to black on the right. Any questions?” When she shook her head, he helped her carry the samples to her work area. “Perhaps some of the others will help,” he said.
He then escorted her around the workshop, introducing her to the half dozen other apprentices, all of them in their twenties, an even split between men and women. Or boys and girls, to judge by the less-than-civil interest they showed in her. All of them seemed to hate her on sight. Why?
Just ignore them, Delfi. After Jacopo finished introducing her to the girl whose desk was closest to hers, Delfina returned to her work table and started in on the sorting. The task wasn’t difficult, but it was tedious, and she had to be careful not to cut her fingers on the staples that attached the swatches to their cardboard manufacturer tags. After a time, her mind started to wander. Someday she’d have a design house just like this, full of gorgeous fabrics, the bustle of people working, the hum of sewing machines, the rooms perfumed with her own signature scent….
Delfina smiled to herself. That kind of success would be years in the making, if it ever happened. Which reminded her that she wanted to show Signor Morelli the new work she’d done. She retrieved her sketchbook from her desk and set it on the corner of the table so that it would be at hand when Signor Morelli came out of his office. She’d worked feverishly for days, coming up with dozens of new sketches to show him. She’d even included some handbags and shoes.
After a while, she realized that whenever an apprentice walked by her table, he or she muttered something, but Delfina couldn’t catch the words. She ignored their behavior, and tried to chalk it up to first-day paranoia.
A few hours into the job, when Delfina had finally made some noticeable headway in her sorting, one of the girls, Ornella, bumped into the table and knocked her portfolio to the floor, scattering her sketches across the thick wooden planks. The girl, a waif with a huge mane of hair, an upturned nose, and a thin mouth, stopped and crossed her arms, staring at Delfina. “I suppose you’ll want help with that.” A pause, then she added the word they’d been whispering. Only she didn’t whisper it. “Principessa.”
Delfina’s heart sped up. Princess, as in Mafia princess? No, it had to be a coincidence; they couldn’t know who she really was. “It’s fine. I’ll get them myself.”
Ornella cocked a skinny hip and crossed her arms, watching Delfina gather up the pile of papers, then she snatched one up just as Delfina’s fingers touched it. The drawing was a handbag she’d been playing around with. Ornella’s face darkened and she shook the crisp paper at Delfina. “You know, don’t you, that most of us have struggled for years to get here. And you just sail in on your father’s name.”
Blood rushed in Delfina’s ears. “Why do you say that?”
“Mario overheard your interview. The old man wouldn’t have taken you on otherwise.”
“He said I had talent.”
“He was blowing sunshine up the rich girl’s skirt. Signor Morelli’s been having money problems like everyone else. Sooner or later, he’ll ask you to talk to your father about a loan.” Delfina colored. Ornella had hit too close to the truth.
The girl laughed at Delfina’s blush. “My goodness, you are a complete princess, aren’t you? You actually thought—”
“Yes, I did. And I do have talent.”
Ornella raised a brow and raked Delfina’s outfit with her eyes. She reached out and fingered the sleeve of Delfina’s scarlet jacket, a take-off on the classic Chanel style that Delfina had sewn herself. The jacket suited her beautifully, and she’d always been proud of it. “If ripping off a designer old enough to be my great-great grandmother is your idea of talent, think again.”
“The classics are well worth reimagining,” Jacopo said as he approached. He stopped and stroked the sleeve of Delfina’s jacket. “This is smashing on you, and I think the changes you’ve made are quite clever. At least you know how to recut a design to suit your figure.” He glanced at Ornella, who was wearing a baggy sweater and leggings that made her as drab as a sparrow. “Ornella, Signor Morelli is waiting on those handbag redesigns. You were supposed to have those in first thing this morning.”
Handbags? Cristo. No wonder Ornella got so upset. Delfina said, “Listen, I didn’t know handbags was your area—”
“Like I care about the chicken scratches of the new girl.” Ornella crumpled up Delfina’s sketch and tossed it at her. Then she glared at Jacopo. “I’m almost done. I’ll leave you and your pet alone.” She stomped over to her desk and threw herself into her chair, her wild mass of golden brown curls flying around her face.
With a smirk, Jacopo whispered, “Little Miss Drama.”
Delfina tried to suppress her smile but couldn’t. She blew out the breath she’d been holding. “Thanks for the support.”
He smiled and leaned over her table. “Don’t let that strega get to you. She’s just jealous.”
“Of what?”
“She can tell by your jacket that you’re good.”
“She seems to think I was hired because of who my father is.”
He gave her a look she couldn’t read. Did he know that Signor Morelli had taken money from her father? “Your father owns the largest Fiat dealership in Milan,” he said, “along with a slew of other businesses that have the Andretti name plastered all over them. It’s no secret that your family is well-off. And it’s no secret that Signor Morelli has had money problems.”
“All of the apprentices feel the same way she does.” She let her shoulders collapse into a hunch and crossed her arms at her waist. It always came back to the way her family lived, didn’t it?
He surveyed the room. “Probably, though they’re wrong. Signor Morelli recently got a loan from a new silent partner. At least for now, the House of Morelli is solvent. But I won’t lie to you. Everything is riding on how well we do at the spring show.”
How long would it be until Jacopo learned who the silent partner was? Then even he’d turn his back on her. “They’re never going to accept me. Maybe I should leave.”
“No, no, no.” He wagged a finger in her face. “I did not come over here to join in a pity party. If someone whispering about you bothers you this much, then yes, you don’t belong here. Or in the fashion industry, full stop. There are lots of amazing people in fashion, and lots of bitter, no-talent cowards who like to tear everyone else down.” He held her
gaze. “Decide now whether you want to be in this business. It’s not going to get any easier.”
He was right. If she were going to be condemned for being an Andretti, she might as well act like one. Aunt Toni had always said the Andrettis were tougher than everyone else. Delfina drew herself up, out of the slouch she’d fallen into. Ornella and the rest of them could go to hell. “I’m staying.”
“Perfetto!” He rubbed his hands together. “Are you hungry? I know a nice place around the corner.”
Crap. The only person who would speak to her was asking her out. “Thanks for the offer, Jacopo, but I’m…” She couldn’t force “engaged” out of her mouth. “I’m involved with someone.”
He chuckled. “I should hope so. A gorgeous creature like you won’t be single for long.” He patted her forearm and lowered his voice. “You’re not my type, cara. Wrong equipment.”
She put a hand over her mouth. “Oh, I’m an idiot—”
“And I’m flattered you didn’t assume I was gay. I’m sure you have to fend them off constantly. It’s become automatic with you, yes?”
He was so kind to give her an out. Her face and neck burned as she nodded. How could she have misread the signs? “If the offer still stands, yes, I’d love to have lunch with you.”
“And I’d love to hear all about your man.”
She grabbed her handbag and followed him out the door, ignoring the icy looks Ornella and the other apprentices threw her way. If they were going to hate her because of who she was, she’d just have to work hard and prove herself. And if Jacopo was offering his friendship, she’d take it. Even if they hated her for that too.
In time, she’d prove them all wrong. She was a fighter; she was an Andretti. But she was far more than her father’s daughter. Somehow, some way, she’d get out from under his long shadow.
Nick had just finished wandering the grounds and was returning to the guest cottage when he ran into Cristoforo coming from that direction.
“Nick! There you are!” Cris seemed agitated.
“What’s wrong?”
