by Dana Delamar
So did he, but… could she still be trying to stop the engagement? He shook his head. “Cris is hurt, and you’re upset.”
“Maybe I want some comfort,” she whispered.
So do I. How he wanted to forget this night, to bury himself inside her and forget everything else, forget every horrible thing he’d done. How he wanted to wipe away her tremulous smile and the bruised look in her eyes.
And lingering beneath all that, his whole body screamed to finish what they’d started in the olive grove. But for the first time in his life, Nick didn’t give in to such demands. For some reason he didn’t understand, he wanted more than a romp. He was starting to feel something for her. Something that frightened him. Something he didn’t want to feel.
And right now, he really needed to be alone with what he’d done to those men.
“This should be more than a shag—at least for your sake,” he said and gave her a gentle nudge in the direction of the villa. “Go home, Delfi.”
She stared at him, gobsmacked, her face flooding with color. “You’re serious.”
He nodded, hardly believing it himself. But it was the truth. “Go on.”
She dried her wet cheeks, her motions jerky, and sniffed loudly. “I’ve made a dog’s breakfast of this, haven’t I?”
He cracked a smile. “No more than I have.”
The funny thing was, as she walked away, he felt he’d finally done something right. One tiny thing, in a universe of mistakes.
CHAPTER 11
As Delfina had predicted, Benedetto arrived around dawn. Nick hadn’t even spoken to Dario yet when the knock came on his door. Benedetto barged in, leaving a guard on Nick’s doorstep. “Where is everything?”
Blood thundering in his ears, Nick put a finger to his lips. “Let’s take a walk.”
Benedetto followed him outside and into the garden, the guard trailing them just out of earshot. “Why are we out here?”
“Dario is keeping tabs on me.” Nick inhaled deeply, taking in the piney scent of the cypresses they walked past, trying to calm himself. It wasn’t working. He’d had precious little sleep that night, and what he did get had ended each time with him waking in a sweat, heart thrashing against his ribs, his ears full of the roar of gunfire.
“Ah.” Benedetto clasped his hands behind his back. “Tell me everything.” When Nick finished, Benedetto said, “So again I ask, where is my property?”
Nick swallowed, certain the pounding of his heart was audible. “I want something in exchange.”
Benedetto stopped walking and turned to stare at him, his eyes tundra cold and lethal. “You demand nothing. I make the demands.”
Nick’s stomach contracted into a ball. Everything hinged on what he said next. What if during all his ruminating overnight he’d come to the wrong conclusions about Benedetto? He chose his words with excessive politeness. “I mean no disrespect. But my position is precarious, and I’ve done my best to salvage the situation for you. Is it so unreasonable to beg a favor?”
Benedetto didn’t relax. “We will see.”
Not good enough. Nick went with Plan B, which was much less polite than Plan A. “Something was wrong with the deal, the amount they were paying. I can only conclude that you owe the Russians. And I would guess that you owe them more today. And tomorrow, it might not be only a debt you owe them.”
Something flickered in the man’s eyes, and the sudden tightening of his neck and shoulders told Nick he’d guessed correctly. He tensed for a bullet from behind, but Benedetto didn’t signal the guard. Instead he looked away from Nick, but Nick didn’t dare do the same. Finally Benedetto took a deep breath. “What do you want?” He almost sighed the words.
Triumph surged through Nick, but he kept it off his face. “I want my grandparents safe, and Delfina’s engagement over. And I want you to finance a design company for her. Make things happen for her, without her knowing it.” He paused. “And one last thing: don’t let Dario force her to marry someone else.”
Benedetto’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t want her?”
No point in giving the man extra ammunition. “I’ve had her. And I don’t do relationships.”
“If you want all this, you’ll have to do something more for me.”
Nick crossed his arms and nodded, trying to ignore the tightening in his gut. He was going to regret this.
“Dario may be scheming against me. You will work for me—supply me information from Interpol. Not him.”
“That’s going to be hard to do, seeing as he’ll kill me if I don’t.”
Benedetto smiled. “That brings us to my next request. When I ask, you will kill my nephew.”
Nick couldn’t hide his surprise. “You do mean Dario?”
“Of course.”
Cold-blooded son of a bitch. Nick was no fan of Dario’s either, but then again, he wasn’t a blood relative. “And how am I supposed to do that?”
“You’re a clever boy.”
Nick shook his head. “What you’re asking—I’m not sure I can do it.”
“I don’t think you have much choice.” Benedetto raised a finger and beckoned his guard.
Nick’s pulse beat wildly as the guard approached. Benedetto stopped the man with a gesture just two feet away from Nick.
“Have I told you about Eusebio? He’s a man of remarkable talent. I believe he knows at least one hundred different ways to kill a man.”
“Like everyone else around here. Is there some special Mafioso-ninja school all these guys go to?”
“Would you like a demonstration of these skills?”
No sense of humor, this guy. “No need. I can imagine.” All too well.
Benedetto held Nick’s gaze for a few moments. “So, have we a deal, as the Americans are fond of saying?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck! But what choice did he have? “Yes. When do you want me to do it?”
“I’ll contact you. My nephew may prove useful for some weeks yet.” Benedetto checked his watch, before focusing on Nick again. “Now, where is everything?”
“With my father.”
Benedetto’s face fell and he cursed.
“Would you rather it was with Dario?” Nick asked.
“This complicates things.”
“I’ve been told my father is a reasonable man.”
Benedetto snorted. “He has no love for cocaine. He will be anything but reasonable.”
So it must be true. His father didn’t deal in drugs. Nick found the idea oddly comforting. “Everyone has a price,” he said.
Benedetto jammed his hands in his coat pockets and looked Nick up and down. “You are a Lucchesi, through and through.”
“I am nothing like my father.”
Benedetto laughed. “You have his balls. And his brains. Be grateful,” he said, then he walked away.
Nick started to follow him but stopped short when he felt a vibration against his chest. The phone from his father. He turned and hid the mobile as he read the incoming text message. “N and S are safe. Let me know if you wish to talk to them. E.”
Stunned, Nick stared at the message. He hadn’t asked his father to do anything for him, and yet he had. Did he actually give a damn, or was he just trying to win Nick’s favor?
Either way, at least his grandparents were safe. And for that he could be thankful.
He texted back. “Thank you. Their number?”
A set of digits with an Italian country code came back to him. He dialed the number, almost dizzy with relief when he heard his grandfather’s voice. Tears pricked his eyes. They were safe. Safe. He hung up without speaking. At the moment, he didn’t have it in him to hide his emotions from them. Anything he said right now would be more worrisome than reassuring.
Now all he had to do was figure out how to save his own hide. And determine what to do when Benedetto issued the order against Dario.
Benedetto must have evaluated and discarded a dozen approaches before he reached Enrico Lucchesi’s door. He’d finally settled
on one he thought was foolproof, though there was no telling with Lucchesi. The man was bound to make things difficult, if not impossible. But as Lucchesi’s son had said, every man had his price.
Besides, as Dario had pointed out, Lucchesi had value. His control of the bank was pivotal to the ‘Ndrangheta’s continued success. But Benedetto would rather have that business in his pocket, not Dario’s. His nephew was up to something, and that made him dangerous.
But that was a problem for another day.
A maid ushered him into Lucchesi’s study. He left Eusebio outside, trusting that Lucchesi would not be underhanded.
Lucchesi was pouring over something on his laptop, a frown of concentration furrowing his forehead. Perhaps business wasn’t that good? Or perhaps Lucchesi was tired of playing contabile as well as capo. He had yet to replace the traitorous Franco Trucco. Trustworthy accountants were hard to find.
Gesturing for him to take a chair, Lucchesi said, “What can I do for you, Don Andretti?”
Benedetto raised a brow. “So formal, Enrico?”
“Considering that your family seems bent on destroying mine, my formality is understandable, no?” Lucchesi gave him a tight smile.
Benedetto returned the smile, even though he felt like clenching his teeth and leveling Lucchesi with a stare. “Per favore, I beg you not to hold me accountable for the actions of my brother and my nephew.”
“Are you saying you had no influence over Carlo—or Dario, for that matter?”
The barb hit home. And it was impossible to answer without appearing a fool. So he said nothing.
“The fox has lost his tongue,” Lucchesi mused. “For once.”
“Shall we speak plainly?”
“Always.”
“You have certain items that belong to me. I want them back.”
“I believe the money belongs to the Vilanovichs.”
“It is none of your affair.”
Lucchesi leaned forward and placed his hands flat on the desk. “Oh but it is. Once you involved my son, it became my business.”
“I didn’t involve him.”
“Doesn’t matter. You found someone to do a risky job for you and you didn’t care who got hurt. Even if it was your own flesh and blood. Have you bothered to visit Cris?”
Benedetto’s cheeks burned. “You seem bent on provoking me.”
“Tell me, Don Andretti, why I should do otherwise.”
Here it was. The demand, ever so subtle. Benedetto smiled. “I can help you get what you want most.”
“And what do you think I want so badly, that I would consider working with you?”
“Peace. And a return to the old codes. No drugs, no prostitution, no pornography.” He could always find some sacrificial lambs to make Lucchesi happy.
“You can give me neither.”
Acid scalded Benedetto’s throat. “You question my authority?”
“You run La Provincia. Not the whole of the ‘Ndrangheta. And by your own admission, you have no control over Dario.”
“What I meant was that I did not order—or condone—any actions against you. I would rather have you as a friend, Don Lucchesi.”
“Would you?” Lucchesi’s gaze sharpened, as did his tone. Time for some reminders of what a good friend Benedetto Andretti could be.
“When my brother Carlo brought you before La Provincia, when he accused you of breaking the truce between our families, did I not treat you fairly?” Benedetto asked, keeping his voice mild.
With a curt dip of his chin, Lucchesi said, “I cannot fault you in that matter.”
“Well then. I believe that demonstrates my intentions toward you. I had nothing to gain then, and much to lose.”
“As you do now.”
He was going to put a bullet in Enrico Lucchesi the minute he was no longer useful. “Ah, but I do have something to gain this time. Your friendship. Your partnership.”
Lucchesi snorted. “You think I would take on an Andretti as a partner?”
“Hear me out, per favore.” When Lucchesi crossed his arms and nodded, Benedetto continued. “Despite the success of La Provincia at negotiating disputes”—Lucchesi snorted again—“there is still too much strife between the families. It would be in everyone’s interest to form a permanent advisory council that would coordinate the efforts of the families and keep and enforce the peace.”
“And you would be in charge of this council, of course.”
Benedetto shrugged. “That position could be permanent. Or it could rotate, or be elected.”
“And I suppose this council would collect a percentage from all the families?”
“Naturally, to fund peacekeeping and military operations and certain administrative expenditures.”
“I have noticed, Don Andretti, that expenses for La Provincia keep increasing. Why is that, I wonder?”
That bullet would go right between Lucchesi’s dark eyes. “As more families have turned to La Provincia for mediation, my travel expenses have increased.”
Lucchesi waved his words away, as if they smelled of pig shit. “What does this partnership you speak of have to do with this council?”
“To be effective, the council would need regional heads. You would be the head of Lombardy.”
“Not Dario?” Lucchesi asked, arching a dark brow.
“My nephew has less foresight, less patience, less… restraint, than you.”
“And in exchange, I return your property?”
His pulse quickened. He had Lucchesi now. “Yes.”
“No.”
“What?” His stomach sank, the breakfast he’d eaten on the jet going sour.
“You are right that I want peace with your nephew. But I will not have it unless my son is free.”
Benedetto smiled and stretched, reaching for a confidence he didn’t feel. “Done. Now return my property.”
“You will understand if I remain skeptical.”
Lucchesi had gone too far. “No, I won’t.”
“Then we are at an impasse.” With a shrug, Lucchesi sat back in his chair.
“You forget that I could press my nephew to dispose of your son.”
“You won’t. Or you wouldn’t be here right now.” He wanted to shove that self-confident grin, those shiny white teeth, down Lucchesi’s throat. “Bring me my son. Then we’ll talk,” Lucchesi said.
“Give me my property, and you will get your son.”
Lucchesi held up his watch and tapped its face. “The Russians are waiting. They are not known for their patience.”
“Your boy killed Yuri and Gregor Vilanovich. Perhaps I should turn him over to their father?”
His stare unwavering, Lucchesi touched the lid of his open laptop. “I’ve been going over certain accounts today. Yours and La Provincia’s. I found some suspicious activity. Transfers that could be considered irregular. Transfers it might interest the other families to know about.”
Fuck. Him. “You can prove nothing.”
A self-assured smile spread across Lucchesi’s face. “You are certain?”
“The Vilanovichs will burn him with a blowtorch. They’ll pour acid on his skin. Maybe cut off a hand or a foot before they tire of his screams.”
“At least he won’t die alone. You’ll be right beside him.”
Benedetto searched Lucchesi’s face for weakness, but all he saw was a cold, implacable man. His brother Carlo had pushed Lucchesi too far, had changed him. The man who ruled with his heart was dead.
Benedetto had fatally underestimated Lucchesi. He raised his hands in surrender. “Fine. I will free your son.”
“Do it, and I will return your property.”
“I need the product now.”
Lucchesi leaned forward. “What you need is an incentive. Tick tock.” He sat back in his chair and studied his nails. “The clock runs backward for no man. Not even you, Benedetto.”
Stomach churning, Benedetto rose and headed for the door. As he reached it, Lucchesi’s voice stopped him.
“I am a man of my word. Demonstrate your friendship, and you will have mine in return.”
Fuck Lucchesi and his friendship. That’s what he wanted to do.
But the Russians were coming. And Lucchesi was right—they were not known for their patience.
Or their mercy.
What the hell was going on with Dario’s family? First Delfina defying him and defiling herself with Clarkston, now Cris getting shot?
Clarkston’s story stank like week-old fish. Now that Cris was home and had slept, it was time to get some answers.
At least Lucchesi had sent his personal physician to accompany Cris home. Dottor Beltrami had recommended that Cris stay at the clinic overnight, but Dario didn’t like the idea of Cris being in Lucchesi’s hands. The man might get ideas.
Odd though how Lucchesi let Cris go without a fight, without a single demand.
Dario didn’t like that either. Not one bit. Lucchesi was up to something. Perhaps he somehow thought to broker a true peace between their families.
Over Dario’s maggot-ridden bloated corpse.
If Lucchesi wanted to play nice and remain naïve, that was hardly Dario’s problem. But Cris and Delfina were.
He left his study and headed upstairs, pausing outside Cris’s door when he heard low voices. Cris and his wicked older sister. Dario shook his head. She’d nearly ruined his plans to create an alliance with Gianluca. And if she turned up pregnant at the doctor’s appointment tomorrow, she still could ruin everything. The ungrateful little troia.
He regretted the insult the moment he thought it. He shouldn’t blame her—Delfi was an innocent, still a girl really. It was Clarkston who was to blame for all of this. Clarkston who had no doubt led her astray. Clarkston who would pay if things went wrong. The boy had all the charm of his father, the kind of charm that led young women, like his dear sister Toni, astray.
Dario turned the doorknob without knocking, wanting to catch them unawares. When the door unlatched, Delfi snapped around to face him and color flooded her cheeks. Clarkston’s gaze slid away the moment Dario turned to him. But Cris—Cris lay still, his pale face washed out in its nest of dark brown curls, a white bandage above his left temple showing where a bullet had almost ended his life. A few millimeters to the right, and his boy would be dead.
