by Dana Delamar
She wiped her cheeks and sniffed. “I know you hate this whole idea. And with good reason. But I don’t want to see you dead. I promise I’ll give you a divorce or let you live separately with a mistress—whatever you want—as soon as I have a child.”
Her words confirmed his thoughts. She just wanted what was most expedient. Whatever would get her to her ultimate goal. Freedom. “There won’t be a child.”
She twisted her hands together. “But we must have one to bind the families. After that, we can divorce.”
“No. And that is final.” She blanched, but he didn’t care. “What kind of heartless bastard do you think I am? Children aren’t bargaining chips. And no child of mine will ever be fatherless.”
Delfina smoothed her hands over her belly. “I understand. But you cannot tell my father.”
“Do I look stupid to you?” he snapped. When she turned away from him, he softened his tone. “Was there anything else?”
“You cannot take the vows, Nick. That’s the thing you need to fight.”
What was she talking about? “How can I marry you if I don’t take the vows?”
“I mean the vows to join the ‘Ndrangheta. The vows to follow my father, to be part of the Andretti cosca. That you cannot do.”
“Why not?”
With a wild shake of her head, she muttered “Madonna.” Then her hands flew up from her sides and she hissed, “Those vows are forever, Nick. To the grave. Anyone who violates them dies. Anyone.”
“You think they’re invincible.”
She stared at him, her eyes like black pools, every muscle of her beautiful face set like stone. “Listen to me. Traitors are never forgotten, never forgiven. They will hunt you to the ends of the earth. There is nowhere you can hide from them.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Idiota,” she spat, her eyes flashing fire, then she crossed her arms and blew out. “Let me tell you a story.”
He checked his watch. “Is it long? Because you’ve already used up two of your minutes.”
She hissed in frustration, but continued. “My great-uncle Remo betrayed this family once, long ago. My great-grandfather, Lorenzo, his father, saw to it that Remo, his oldest son, his own flesh and blood—”
“Nice buildup, Delfina, but this is boring me,” Nick said, feigning a yawn.
“Damn you, listen!” she snapped, her gaze burning into him like a laser.
“Well, what did he do?”
“When he was twenty-five, Remo felt he was ready to head the family, but Lorenzo thought him too hotheaded. He told Remo to wait. Remo went to the Russians and made a plan with them to start dealing in arms. He was going to carve out a whole new territory for himself, establish his own branch of the family.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“He disobeyed his capo, Nick.”
“Sounds like a son getting out from under his father’s thumb to me.”
She shook her head. “To seal their arrangement, Remo gave the Russians some inside information. That information cost my great-grandfather a lot of money and compromised our operations in Eastern Europe.”
“So what happened?”
“Remo thought his father would forgive him, write the loss off, if he ever found out. But to my great-grandfather, to my great-uncle Benedetto, to my father—money is all that matters. Money and pride. Remo had hurt his father on both counts.” She swallowed. “Lorenzo ordered Remo’s death. But first he was to be tortured. What they did to him—it was horrible. He had to be buried in a closed casket. And Lorenzo witnessed it all. He made Benedetto and my grandfather Carlo watch too. To this day, that story is passed down to everyone who joins the cosca. It is not just a warning. My great-grandfather is proud of it.”
Nick’s stomach curled in on itself. If a father could kill a son like that—but Remo hadn’t had the benefit of Interpol’s vast resources. They could hide him. And if they couldn’t… maybe he’d have to take out his own insurance before he left Italy. Maybe he’d have to make sure Lorenzo and Benedetto and Dario were dead.
Christ! What had gotten into him? Was he seriously considering murdering them? He was an officer of the law. Not a judge. Not a court-appointed executioner.
But in the big scheme of things—really, did it matter? If he stopped the Andrettis, if he got rid of Benedetto and Lorenzo—Dario too—if he did that, wouldn’t he be doing a good thing? They might never see justice any other way.
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.” Delfina glared up at him.
“No, I haven’t. Because it doesn’t matter.”
She tore at her hair, the black locks sliding through her fingers when she released them. “You are impossible.”
“I’ve been told that before.” He consulted his watch. “You’ve gone past your five minutes.”
She started speaking again, her voice low and intense, drilling into him. “They kept Remo alive for hours and hours. Burning him bit by bit. Breaking his bones. Pulling out his teeth. His fingernails. They cut him open, carefully, so he wouldn’t die straight away. Imagine seeing your intestines in a pool at your feet.”
She was a damn good storyteller, he’d give her that. “Has it occurred to you that this story is exaggerated? That it’s just Lorenzo’s brand of PR?”
“I heard it from my grandfather Carlo. He was there.”
“Maybe he was just trying to scare you.”
She laughed. “He hated his father. He told me that story after Teo because he wanted me to behave.”
“I don’t think Remo’s death made much impression on Benedetto. And he was supposedly there.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He’s in league with the Russians. I can feel it.”
“He wouldn’t do such a thing.”
“I think he already has.”
Delfina crossed her arms. “He’d never take such a risk.”
“He didn’t. Not exactly. He tried to get Cris to do it for him.”
“That was just about money.”
“I don’t think so. He acted rather strange about it.” He raked the hair back off his forehead. “I would bet that Lorenzo knows nothing about Benedetto’s deal with the Russians.”
“You had better hope he does,” Delfina said. “Or Benedetto will find a way to tie up all the loose ends.” She swallowed hard and her eyes widened. “You and Cris—” She clapped a hand over her mouth, her lower lip trembling.
“You think he wants us dead.”
She nodded, the fear in her expression arrowing through him.
Maybe he ought to be afraid.
But if he was already damned, how much worse could it get?
Delfina’s father returned all too soon, before she could convince Nick to refuse the offer to join the cosca. At least he’d agreed to the marriage. And marrying him had to be far better than marrying Leandro.
Nick had to have some feelings for her, or he’d have slept with her the night before when she’d offered. He’d tried to help her, several times now; he’d almost gotten himself killed last night trying to do just that. He even seemed to have forgiven her lies, and if that wasn’t love, at least it was affection, compassion.
He was a good man, if a flawed one, and the time she’d spent with him—especially those quiet, intimate moments when it was just the two of them—haunted her thoughts. Was this the great passion the poets talked about? Was she falling in love with Nick Clarkston? An odd thrill traveled through her chest. Maybe she was.
But even if she was falling for him, how did he feel about her? He cared for her; that was clear. Perhaps in time his feelings could deepen into love, and they could have a marriage in truth, and a child or two to go with it. A child who would bring lasting peace between their families.
However, if Nick took the vows to join the cosca, neither of them would ever escape this life. And even if he came to love her, she could never truly be happy. Because they’d never be free.
What was she going
to do?
Papà closed the door behind him and remained standing. “Well?”
Nick rose. “I will not take the Lucchesi name, and I will not be recognized as his son. The rest I will do.”
Her father’s mouth tightened and he shook his head. “You are a fool.”
“I’ve been accused of that, once or twice.”
Papà pulled out his mobile phone. “Then this will be the last time you hear it.”
Delfina’s heart lodged in her throat. She couldn’t let that happen. “Papà, is this how you treat the man who saved Cris’s life? We owe him a huge debt.”
Her father stilled and after a moment heaved out a breath. “Madonna,” he grumbled, but he put the phone away. “No name change. But your father must amend his will and recognize you in it. The will can be amended privately, and it will remain private until his death.”
“I don’t like it, but… I’ll agree.”
“However, since you have defied me, you must first pass a test of loyalty, a test of worthiness, for entry into this cosca.”
A shiver ran down her back. This couldn’t be good. “Papà, surely that isn’t necessary. He’s already killed for the family.”
“Yes, but can he follow orders?”
Nick stroked a hand over his face. “What would I have to do?” He looked a bit uneasy. Good. Perhaps the danger was finally sinking in.
“A small task.”
“How illegal is it?”
“A bit of insurance fraud. Burn down a warehouse for me.”
“That’s all?”
Her father smiled, his eyes glittering like obsidian. She knew that smile. He had something up his sleeve. “That’s all.”
Nick shrugged. “No problem.”
“Nick—”
Her father cut her off. “Enough, Delfina. Haven’t you interfered plenty?” His voice was low, commanding. The one he used when he was stretched to breaking.
A lump formed in her throat, a lump with sharp, jagged edges. She’d failed to stop any of this from happening. Nick was walking into a trap.
CHAPTER 13
Ornella had been at it all morning, one dig after another. Delfina was close to shoving a wad of tulle down the girl’s throat. But Delfina was taking Jacopo’s advice to ignore her. And there was one good thing about Ornella’s jabs; they gave her less time to worry about Nick. And those same jabs made her want to prove herself more than ever.
Since that first day when Jacopo had gone over her sketches and advised her on how to improve them, Delfina had been working on revising them. And today, finally, she’d created a design that sent him over the moon.
The dress was daring while still being conservatively cut. It was a riff on the typical “little black dress.” Except that the long-sleeved top was cut entirely from a semi-sheer black gauze, and the skirt had peek-a-boo panels in the same gauze interspersed with panels of black velvet. The woman who wore the dress would be showing the world her undergarments—or lack of them. Jacopo urged her to clean up the sketch, then show it to Signor Morelli.
She’d just finished the new version when she heard a voice beside her. “Delfina,” Cris said, and she raised her head, startled. “That’s the second time I’ve said your name.”
She smiled. “I guess I got caught up.”
“You love this. It really shows,” Nick said on her other side, startling her again.
Her cheeks heated. She could barely look at him. If only he knew how much time she’d spent worrying about him. And wondering too. Had he really meant what he’d said the night Cris had been shot? “Why are the two of you here?” she asked.
“Gio invited us out,” Cris said. “Didn’t you get her call?”
“No. I turn the phone off when I’m working.” She started digging for it in her handbag, but Cris stopped her. “I told her we’d collect you.”
Nick took the sketch from her hands, then let out a low whistle after scanning the drawing. “What I wouldn’t give to see someone in this,” he said, his eyes catching hers.
Does he mean “someone” as in me? She blushed furiously, imagining herself in the diaphanous gown, her body boldly on display. Her father would kill her, but the idea made her flush with heat.
“Let me see,” Cris said.
Dio mio, no! She tried to intercept the sketch, but Nick and Cris held it up too high for her to reach. Bloody children. “Give it back,” she demanded of Cris.
He chuckled. “Not on your life.” He glanced at the sketch and his eyebrows popped up. “Now I see why Nick likes it.” He scanned it again. “Papà would kill you if he saw this.”
“I know. But he’s not going to see it.”
Jacopo approached. “Who are your visitors, Delfi?”
Cristo. She never should have told him about Nick, but then she’d never thought they’d meet. Would Jacopo give her away? She made the introductions, her heart jittering in her chest when she said Nick’s name.
To his eternal credit, Jacopo said nothing obvious as he shook Nick’s hand, though he mouthed “molto bello” at her when Nick and Cris were looking elsewhere. She couldn’t help grinning at her friend. Nick certainly was “molto bello” worthy. Very worthy.
He was wearing the same suit he’d had on at her birthday party. It had been properly cleaned and pressed since then, and the cocoa brown shade brought out his coloring in a way that made her flash back to that night in the garden shed, to that afternoon in the olive grove.
And most of all to how he’d rejected her advances, how he’d said no to them having children after they married. Had she traded a horrible marriage for a hollow sham? Couldn’t he see that she cared about him?
Nick Clarkston had gotten into her blood like a virus. The question was whether she’d ever recover.
“So let’s see it,” Jacopo said, putting out his hand for the sketch. Cris gave it to him and Jacopo beamed at her once he finished studying it. “Cara, I’ve got to show this to Enzo. He’ll love it.”
Her heart rate spiked. “Are you sure?”
Jacopo nodded. Signor Morelli came out of his office, his hat and coat on, clearly on his way home. “Enzo, you must see this,” Jacopo trilled.
Does he have to be so loud? And so obviously in love with what I’ve done? Delfina felt the stab of every apprentice’s gaze. She looked over at Ornella. The girl straightened up and pushed back her mass of golden brown curls, her face taut with anger as she tracked Signor Morelli’s progress toward Delfina’s desk.
Jacopo practically forced the sketch into Signor Morelli’s hands. “What do you think of Delfi’s design?” Jacopo was all nervous energy and smiles, like a boy who’d been told he was getting a puppy. What a good friend he was. Even if he was embarrassing her to death.
Signor Morelli pulled his glasses out of his pocket as Nick and Cris crowded around, dwarfing Signor Morelli and Jacopo. Every second of the wait was torture. She wanted to crawl under her desk and hide.
At last Signor Morelli perched his glasses on the end of his nose and peered at the sketch, a frown on his face. Her stomach sank. Madonna. He hates it. He just doesn’t want to say so.
Cris butted in. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?”
She wanted to cuff him on the arm, but restrained herself. It wouldn’t be professional. “Ignore him,” she said.
“I know what I like, Delfi,” Cris said. He turned to Signor Morelli and tapped the paper. “This should be on the runway, don’t you think?”
Signor Morelli looked up at Cris. “You’re Delfina’s brother.”
Cris stuck out his hand. “Cristoforo Andretti.”
Signor Morelli took Cris’s hand. “I see the resemblance now.”
“So, what do you think?” Cris asked. “It’s damn good, yes?”
Signor Morelli cleared his throat and nodded, then he smiled at Delfina. Her heart cartwheeled in her chest. “It is good. Stunning, in fact.”
“So when will we see it on actual women?” Cris asked.
“S
oon.” He focused on Delfina. “I’d like to feature it in the spring show.”
She blinked. Had she heard correctly? “You want it for the show?” Her voice came out in a barely audible squeak. She hardly noticed though. All she heard was the slam of a ruler on Ornella’s desk and her muttered curse.
“Yes. Start working with Jacopo on the patterns.”
Jacopo turned to her and said, “I told you so. You owe me lunch, cara.”
“Monday.”
“It’s a date.”
Signor Morelli put his glasses away and said to Delfina, “I’d like to see it in black, burgundy, and white. And two other colors of your choice.”
“How soon?”
“Two weeks. That will give us plenty of time to adjust it before the show.”
“Mille grazie, signore,” she said as he walked to the door. Delfina felt light-headed, as if she might faint. She was going to have a design in the show!
The only sour spot was the glare on Ornella’s face. If the girl could kill with a glance, Delfina would have been bleeding out.
Jacopo followed her gaze. “Ignore that one. She’s always bitter. That’s why Signor Morelli hasn’t promoted her to second assistant.”
She patted him on the arm. “You always know just what to say.”
Which was when Nick cut in. “Time to go.” He offered her his arm. Could he be jealous? He flashed an insincere grin at Jacopo. “Pardon me, mate.”
Jacopo eyed Nick up and down, then raised his hands in surrender. “I see my Delfi has attracted a real he-man.”
Nick shrugged as she took his arm. “No hard feelings.”
Jacopo looked at Delfina, amusement written all over his features. She could imagine what kind of “hard feelings” he might harbor toward Nick, and the thought make her snicker.
“What?” Nick asked, his gaze darting from one of them to the other, Jacopo dissolving into laughter and pressing a fist to his mouth.
Cris rolled his eyes. “No idea. Come on, let’s go.”
“Just a minute,” Jacopo said. “Delfi, come to the back with me. There’s something I need to show you.”
