by Dana Delamar
She opened her eyes and lowered her arms. “I’m all right,” she said, an edge to her voice.
Nick almost asked her why she was angry, then he saw it: her hands were shaking. He pulled her out from under the table and put his arms around her. “They’re gone,” he murmured into her hair.
She clutched the lapels of his coat and buried her face in the crook of his neck. She trembled in his arms, but didn’t cry. He stroked down her back to the ends of her thick dark hair, but didn’t say anything.
Antonio, Cris, and Gio crowded around them. “Is she hurt?” Gio asked.
“No,” Nick said. “Just rattled.”
Delfina pulled out of his arms and accepted a hand up from Cris. One of her knees was skinned, but she seemed all right otherwise. Nick stood up, realizing he was going to be sore tomorrow from throwing himself so violently to the ground. “Anyone hurt?” he asked as Antonio and Cris holstered their guns.
People started pouring out of the club and sirens wailed in the distance. Cris nudged Antonio. “We should go.”
“Who was shooting?” Nick asked Cris, his voice low. “The Russians or my cousins?”
Cris shrugged. “I don’t know. Hell, I wouldn’t rule out Leandro, except that I don’t think he’d endanger his sister.” He addressed Antonio. “Do the Lucchesis have a black Fiat Sedici?”
“Not that I know. But it could have been stolen.”
Delfina poked Cris in the shoulder. “You shouldn’t have punched Fedele.”
“He shouldn’t have insulted us.” Focusing on Antonio, Cris said, “If you don’t exercise your authority, you’ll never gain their respect.”
“All I’ll get is their hate if I do.”
“They don’t have to love you. Just respect you. And if they can’t respect you, they have to fear you.” When Antonio nodded, Cris took Gio’s arm. “Let’s go.”
A man in the crowd tried to stop them, saying they should wait for the police, but Antonio and Cris just stared at the man until he gave way, apparently recognizing belatedly what kind of men they were.
They hurried to their cars and drove off. Nick sat up front with Cris while the girls huddled in the back, Gio stroking Delfina’s shoulder, none of them saying anything.
Nick let his head loll back on the head rest as Cris drove them home. On top of everyone else who wanted his head, did he have to add his cousins to the roll call of his enemies?
CHAPTER 14
Delfina and Jacopo worked feverishly on the dresses Saturday, developing the pattern for the first, then cutting it out by hand and pinning it to a mannequin, making adjustments as they went. Her knee was stiff from where she’d landed on it last night. She’d covered the bandage with black opaque tights so she wouldn’t have to endure Jacopo’s questions.
She was glad they had so much to do and that Jacopo was such a chatterbox. He’d saved her from having to say much. All she could think about was Nick, that toe-curling kiss he’d given her, the sadness in his eyes, in his voice. He did have feelings for her, and they ran deep. And that seemed to scare him. Maybe it should scare her as well, but it didn’t. It thrilled her.
And made her miserable. She was marrying this man, and unless something drastic happened, it was going to be one big unhappy disaster.
By one o’clock, they’d cut out and assembled the black dress. It still needed to be stitched together, but a shiver of excitement went through Delfina as she looked at it. “Take a picture, cara,” Jacopo said. “Show your family.”
“Brilliant idea!” Delfina snapped a photo with her phone. Her first official design.
Jacopo put an arm around her and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re the brilliant one.” He let out a sigh. “Someday your name will be in lights.”
She smiled. “Someday.”
“Well,” he said, “I think that’s enough for today. Go home and celebrate. We’ll pick this up Monday. Have you decided on the other two colors?”
“I’m thinking silver and cobalt.”
He nodded. “I like them both. Let’s go through fabrics on Monday and see what we need to order.”
She was flying high, singing along to the radio as she drove home. The future she’d always dreamed of was really happening. She’d been terrified last night, but today, with the sun out and the trees just starting to turn, she felt like nothing could hurt her. Not when she was so close to seeing her hopes realized. Anything was possible now. Somehow things would work out with Nick; she could feel it. They’d figure out a solution to their problems.
As she drove through the gates to the house, her stomach tightened, and her good mood vanished. If she didn’t manage to change Nick’s mind, he’d take the vows, and nothing good would come of that.
When she stepped inside the villa, she heard her father and Cris arguing in his study. “Why did you have to be so bloody stupid?” her father shouted.
What had Cris done now? She poked her head in the door and stopped dead when she saw a wooden crate covered with Cyrillic writing. The lid had been removed; it was a case of Russian vodka.
The crate was a message—the shooters hadn’t been Nick’s cousins.
Her father and Cris turned to her, both of them red in the face. Her first instinct was to defend Cris—after all, he’d only gotten involved with the Russians to try to help her. But telling her father the truth was Cris’s decision to make, not hers. Instead she crossed the room to Cris and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Maybe you should…?”
He shook his head and addressed their father. “I think I know how stupid I’ve been.”
Their father crossed his arms and stared at them. “What aren’t the two of you telling me?”
Delfina tried to make her face as blank as possible. “About what?”
“The night Cris was shot.”
“There’s nothing more to tell,” Cris said.
Papà’s eyes moved back and forth as he studied them, searching for weakness. Finally he threw up his hands. “You both think you’re adults, that you know everything now. But you don’t.” His voice was tight, hoarse. “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done to keep you safe. To keep this family safe. To make our lives better, more secure. And unless you both trust me to do my job, all of us will pay a terrible price.”
The last time she’d seen her father upset like this was the morning after Cris had been shot. Whatever faults he had, he did love them, even if sometimes that love was hard to see. Even if sometimes his love threatened to drive them away.
She cleared her throat. “We understand, Papà.”
“Make sure that you do. If we don’t stand together, we will fall, and the vultures of this world will be only too happy to feast upon our corpses.”
Delfina looked at Cris, suppressing a shudder. No doubt one of those vultures was Benedetto.
Enrico’s heart thumped against his ribs as he waited in Dario Andretti’s front room for his son. He’d insisted on speaking to Nico before he signed the new will, and Dario couldn’t very well refuse him.
They hadn’t spoken since that horrible fight at Delfina’s birthday party. He had no reason to think this discussion would go any more smoothly, but still a part of him hoped.
He glanced at the guards he’d brought—Ruggero, positioned by the door, and Tommaso by the window. Both men were standing ramrod straight, their shoulders stiff with tension. Ruggero hadn’t liked the idea of coming here. He’d wanted to bring Claudio and Santino as well. But Enrico had insisted they show good faith. Two guards were enough. Especially when they bristled with weapons. Dario hadn’t insisted on frisking them; in fact, he’d acted as if this were an ordinary social call.
When they all knew it was anything but.
The doorknob turned, and the pounding in Enrico’s chest turned painful. He looked up, expectant, his heart slowing slightly when Delfina stepped in. Was Nico refusing to see him?
Delfina smiled and came forward, lightly kissing him on the cheek. “Zio, it�
��s good to see you.”
He returned the smile, trying to be easy, but she saw through him. Patting his hand, she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Nick will be along in a minute. He’s nervous too.”
Nervous would be fine. Angry would not. But he had to make sure Nico knew he hadn’t insisted on legally recognizing him; it wasn’t even his idea. He’d spent his whole life denying himself the pleasure of raising Nico, of calling him son. All to keep him safe.
And now he had to acknowledge him for the same reason.
Dio mio, he wished now that he’d brought Kate with him. But he hadn’t wanted to endanger her and their child too.
The door opened again, and this time, his son was there. His left eye had been blackened, a ring of greenish yellow bruising encircling it. Enrico rose involuntarily. “Who hit you?” he blurted.
“I’m all right,” Nico said.
“What happened?”
Nico stepped inside and shut the door, putting his back against it as if he were thinking about the need to escape. “Dario found out that Delfina and I…” He trailed off and glanced at her.
“Oh,” Enrico said, retaking his seat. Dio, could his son get into any more trouble?
Silence descended on them. Enrico had no idea what to say. He’d prepared a speech on the way over, but the words flew out of his head.
“What did you want to talk about?” Nico asked, his voice creaking like an old hinge.
“The change in my will, the recognition. I wanted you to know that it was not my idea—”
“So you don’t want me after all.”
“It is not that. I just wanted—”
“That’s fine. Because I don’t want it either.”
Enrico’s heart cracked in two. “You do not understand. I do want this—”
“No. You don’t. You’ve never wanted me. And you don’t want me now.”
“Listen to me, I just did not want you to think—”
Nico stepped forward, thunder in his eyes, his hands clenched into fists. “Actions speak louder than words, especially with you. You’re only doing this because Dario is forcing you to.”
“That is not true.” Enrico rose, stepping toward Nico. “I always wanted you. I wanted you to be my son. I was there, all the time, watching from a distance. I knew what football team you rooted for, I knew what subjects you excelled at, I knew what girls you chased. I was at your graduation from secondary school and at your graduation from Cambridge. I was there.”
His son’s eyes narrowed. “But you weren’t there when I needed you most.”
The pit in Enrico’s stomach grew. It was time to admit what he never could before. “I was there, Nico. At her graveside. I did not know what I was going to do. And then you saw me—I saw the hope on your face—and I knew if I went to you that I would have to take you with me. So I left.” His voice wavered on the words, his vision blurred. He hated what he’d done.
“It was you? I thought I’d imagined it.” Nico rubbed his face, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “How could you leave me like that?”
“Carlo would have killed us both if he had known about you.”
“You were a coward.” The words sliced him like knives.
Delfina sprang to her feet. “He’s telling the truth, Nick. Would you rather be dead?”
Nico stared at her, his chest heaving. “Sometimes I think so.”
“Oh Nick.” She stepped toward him and he retreated to the door. Nico studied the carpet for a moment, no one making a sound.
Enrico rose to leave. He’d ruined everything by coming here. “Nico, I am sorry. I failed you.” He needed fresh air, needed to get out of this damn house. He needed anything other than more of his son’s hatred and hurt.
Nico’s raised hand and his low voice stopped him. “Wait.” His son took a breath, then continued. “I was wrong. You didn’t fail me when I needed you most. When I truly did.”
“What do you mean?” A spark of hope flared in Enrico’s chest.
Nico met his eyes. “You saved my grandparents. And you tried to rescue me.” His gaze flickered to Ruggero, then returned to Enrico. “Had I taken your help, Cris wouldn’t have been shot, and I wouldn’t be in this mess today.”
“I still failed you back then.” Nico nodded, but didn’t say anything. His heart pounding, Enrico asked, “Will you ever forgive me?”
Nico shrugged. “I don’t know if I can. But I am grateful for what you’ve tried to do for me now.”
So he hadn’t entirely failed his son. “Even if it means you will have to take my name?”
Nico’s jaw tightened. “I agreed to be recognized in your will, but I keep my mother’s name.”
Enrico turned from Nico to Delfina. “Certainly Dario will insist.”
Nico, rather than Delfina, answered. “He tried. But he gave in. As long as I do everything else he wants.”
A frisson ran down Enrico’s back. He didn’t like the sound of that. “What other things?”
“It’s none of your business. I made the deal, I agreed to it, and it’s done.”
“Tell me.”
Nico stepped away from the door, crossing his arms. “You’ve said your piece. Now go.” His face settled into the stubborn cast worn by every Lucchesi male who’d ever refused a request. He looked just like Dom, just like Primo, just like Mario. Just like Rinaldo, his grandfather. All of them gone now.
Dio, I beg you, don’t let my boy end up among the dead. Enrico glanced at Delfina as he rose, and she seemed just as worried as he felt. Perhaps she knew what his son had agreed to. He’d press her about it later. And then he’d do his best to intervene, even though Nico wouldn’t thank him for that either.
Nico was not going to become the latest victim in the Andretti family’s pursuit of vengeance. If anyone was going to pay that price, it would be Enrico himself.
Those sins were his alone to bear.
Dario certainly didn’t waste time. Barely four days had passed since they’d made their agreement, and despite Delfina’s and his father’s attempts to dissuade him, here Nick was, sitting in a nondescript Fiat outside an old warehouse in Milan’s Rogoredo district with the ever-menacing Flavio and a driver Nick didn’t know. Three cans of petrol were sitting in the boot, waiting for the spark from the box of matches Nick clutched in his jacket pocket.
“We go now,” Flavio said, startling Nick. He’d never heard the man utter a word before. Flavio’s voice was a low rumble seasoned with gravel. The man sounded like he ate boulders for breakfast.
Nick fumbled for the door latch, his fingers slick with sweat. He stepped out into the cold air and inhaled deep, trying to slow his racing pulse. At least Dario hadn’t ordered him to kill someone.
What he was doing—arson—was still a major felony, though considering he’d already shot and killed three men, he shouldn’t even be blinking at the thought of what he was about to do.
There had to be some catch. Maybe the warehouse wasn’t Dario’s? Nick chewed the inside of his lower lip as he and Flavio grabbed the cans and headed toward the warehouse. Yeah, that had to be it. A warning to someone who’d royally pissed off Dario.
They rounded a corner and stopped at a side door. The padlock had been cut through and lay on the ground. Someone else had already broken in. Setting down his cans, Nick grabbed Flavio’s arm as the big man was about to open the door. He pointed out the broken lock. “Someone’s in there.”
Flavio glanced at the lock, then pushed the door open. “No worry.”
If Flavio was surprised, he hid it well. Nick swallowed hard, his heart tapping his ribs. Something was definitely up. He gripped his two cans of petrol and followed Flavio inside. The driver was waiting in the car behind the wheel, ready to take off as soon as they’d completed the deed.
The interior was dark. Street lights dimly filtered through grimy glass windows, giving enough illumination for Nick to see orderly rows of pallets stacked twenty feet high all about them. This was de
finitely a well-used space, and between that and the broken lock, Nick felt certain that someone was going to be furious tomorrow. And most likely the owner wouldn’t be able to file an insurance claim.
Flavio flicked on a torch, letting Nick see the labels on the pallets. Looked like a lot of clothing, shoes, and assorted designer leather goods. If the high-end labels were real, the merchandise in the warehouse would be worth millions. And if not, imitations would still be worth a small fortune. Someone had definitely gotten on Dario’s bad side.
Using the light from the torch, Flavio gestured to the left. “There,” he said. “Spread along wall, then we light from door.”
Nick nodded and forced his feet to move. He hurried along the row of pallets, heading for the far wall. When he reached it, he unscrewed the cap on the first can, the pungent odor of petrol burning his sinuses. He splashed it along the wall, moving fast, being careful to avoid dripping any on his clothes or shoes. When the can was empty, he retraced his steps and opened the other one, coating the walls and the pallets back to the door where they’d entered.
He met Flavio at the entrance. The big man jerked his head at the partly open door and they stepped outside. Nick pulled the box of long wooden stove matches from his pocket. With trembling fingers, he dragged the match along the sandpaper strike zone. Too slow. The match failed to light. Flavio glared at him, disapproval on his face. Once again, Nick was proving to be a miserable Mafioso. He tapped another match from the box, then heard a muffled crash from within the warehouse. “What was that?”
Flavio shrugged and motioned for him to go on.
“Someone’s in there.”
“Rats.”
Nick raised a brow. “Who is it?”
“No one. You hurry.”
