Italian Boss, Ruthless Revenge

by Carol Marinelli

‘You said you had another job practically lined up,’ Lazzaro pointed out. ‘You specifically said—’

  Caitlyn put down her drink and stood up—she didn’t need this sort of inquisition now, didn’t want to go over that awful day again. And she was also angry—angry at the accusing way he always looked at her, the accusing way he so often looked at her.

  ‘Oh, I lied,’ Caitlyn flared, ‘and you were bloody grateful at the time, if I remember rightly. Grateful that you didn’t have to explain to your precious sister the type of man she was married to—grateful that you could put another Band-Aid over a raw subject rather than deal with it!’

  ‘I never asked for you to lie! I told you I wanted the truth.’

  ‘Perhaps!’ People were looking at them now, heads turning in their direction—the Italians were not exactly known for their discretion—but Caitlyn couldn’t have cared less. ‘But please don’t sit there and try to tell me you weren’t just a little bit relieved when you didn’t have to face up to it, didn’t have to actually deal with it—just like you don’t want to deal with your br—’ Her mouth snapped closed, her voice abruptly halting as if a plug had suddenly been pulled.

  ‘Go on.’ His voice was like ice. ‘Finish what you were going to say.’

  ‘I—I don’t want to…’ Caitlyn stammered, horrified at what she had just said, horrified at where this argument had led. But Lazzaro wasn’t letting her leave it there.

  ‘What is it I don’t want to deal with?’

  ‘Lazzaro, don’t.’

  ‘Clearly you have an opinion on me,’ Lazzaro continued, utterly ignoring her words. ‘And I’d like to hear it!’

  There was no chance of even pretending this evening was going to conclude politely—no chance of making small talk when the big talk was hanging in the air. ‘I should go…’

  She stood up. Hand shaking, Caitlyn reached for her bag—but Lazzaro caught her wrist. ‘Why would you leave when the conversation is just starting to get interesting?’

  ‘I’m going to bed.’ She pulled back her hand, and he let her go, but even as she turned, even as her shaking legs tried to walk her out of the ballroom, she knew that he was behind her.

  Momentarily she lost direction—the Mancini lobby was unfamiliar—but, locating the lifts, she clipped towards them, knowing it wasn’t over. Without looking over her shoulder, Caitlyn closed her eyes as he stepped in the lift beside her, but her eyelids couldn’t dim the burn of his eyes on her. Her body was drenched in his anger—her mind trapped in the maze of a row that hadn’t yet happened but, thanks to her careless words, it would seem now had to.

  He walked her to her door uninvited, leant against the wall without a word as it took her three goes to get the blasted swipe card to work, and even as she stepped in, even as she went to close the door, she knew she hadn’t seen the last of him.

  ‘What?’ His face twisted into a smile that was completely false as his foot jammed the door. ‘Aren’t you even going to ask me in for coffee?’

  And she nodded—because it wasn’t him she feared, but what she had unleashed in the terrible, public moment she’d so poorly chosen to discuss his private agony. Or maybe it had been the right moment, Caitlyn reflected as she stepped back enough to let him in. Because he hadn’t silenced her, or halted her…hadn’t run from the issue—in fact, he’d followed her here to face it.

  The room had been prepared—the bed turned back, chocolates placed on her pillows—and she stood there trembling.

  ‘You were saying?’

  ‘Your brother.’ Finally she concluded what she had to say—the plug back in, the power back on. And the light was a relief after the darkness they had plunged into. It had been a necessary darkness, though, Caitlyn realised—the panic, the fumbling, the searching, all needed to bring them to this point, where finally she could look at him as she said the word that no one was really allowed to. ‘Luca.’

  ‘I deal with Luca’s death every day.’ Lazzaro attempted a dismissal.

  ‘Every minute of every hour of every day,’ Caitlyn countered, watching as he closed his eyes. ‘I know you must feel awful…’

  ‘You know, do you?’

  ‘My grandfather died six months ago—’

  ‘You compare the death of a young man—’

  ‘No!’ Caitlyn interrupted with a shout of her own. ‘No, but I know how it feels to miss someone, and I know how it feels to love and mourn someone. But I also know peace, Lazzaro, something that seems to elude you even two years on!’ Her voice was softer now. ‘I know you rowed before he died—I read it in the papers, and Antonia said it was awful. But by all accounts Luca was out of control, something had to be said—and I don’t get it. You’d have been prepared for his anger. How did you let him hit you? How—?’

  ‘Drop it!’ His voice had a stern warning ring—angry, even. Only it wasn’t aimed at her, instead it was turned onto himself. The past few days had been hell—the past few weeks, in fact. Knowing his family would soon all be together, that Luca’s name would be said again. Like living in a sewer—the filth and grime seeping through the floorboards no matter how much he tried to gloss it over. And now here she stood—understanding in her voice, eyes that seemed to reach inside him—and it would be so, so easy to push aside doubt, to convince himself that she actually was different, that here was someone he could tell.

  And how he wanted to tell. Only Malvolio’s warning was ringing in his ears like the doomsday bell, and eyes as blue as Roxanne’s eyes were staring back at him, just as they had that fateful day.

  ‘It shouldn’t be like that, Lazzaro…’

  ‘How should it be, then?’ Lazzaro fixed her with his glare, tried to warn her off—to get her the hell back—tried to ward her off, tried to keep his head, before she melted his heart again.

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘That’s right, you don’t know—you don’t know,’ he repeated. ‘So don’t tell me I’m not dealing with things properly when you have no idea what happened that day.’

  ‘Tell me, then,’ Caitlyn begged.

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Because I want to know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because…’ Like pulling the cork on a champagne bottle, she could feel the trepidation, feel the pressure building inside, and she didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to release what was inside. Only she couldn’t hold it back, and just closed her eyes as she let it out—as the cork hit the wall and words spilled and bubbled and overflowed. ‘Because I care about you, Lazzaro—and I’m sorry if that’s not what you want to hear, or if it troubles you. I’m sorry if I’m not supposed to have feelings for you and I’m only supposed to be around when my services are required, but I happen to care about you—’

  ‘What?’ He was practically sneering. ‘You want me to open up to you?’ He mocked her with a black laugh. ‘So you can use it on me later?’

  ‘Why would I use it on you later?’

  ‘You contradict yourself,’ Lazzaro jeered, because it was easier—easier to keep her at arm’s length than let her drag him in. ‘One minute I am the lowest form of life—a man you say would sleep with his friend’s wife—yet in the next breath you tell me you care. How?’ he roared. ‘How could you care about someone like that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Caitlyn whispered. ‘I just know that I do.’

  There was the longest silence—his eyes were scales that weighed her up, his mind was begging him to see reason. Only he didn’t want to.

  Really didn’t want to.

  He wanted her to care—because so did he.

  ‘Caitlyn, I have not slept with Bonita—I would never do that—I’m asking you to believe me.’

  ‘Bonita’s not the problem…’ Thick black tears were rolling down her cheeks. She knew that because she saw the streaks on her hand when she wiped them away, pathetically grateful when he peeled off a wad of tissues and handed it to her. ‘I’m just not up to this, Lazzaro. Hot one minute, cold the next…I do
n’t understand why sometimes you choose to hate me…’

  ‘Look, can we just start again?’ His usually steady voice was rapid, interrupting her. ‘Can we forget all that has been and start again?’

  ‘Can we?’ She truly didn’t know.

  ‘I can.’ Lazzaro nodded.

  ‘And you won’t hate me again in the morning?’

  ‘I never hated you…’ Lazzaro said slowly. ‘How can I hate you when all I do is want you?’

  But it wasn’t enough. She knew that, knew that, but she couldn’t question him, didn’t want to question him further, because his mouth was on hers, and it was surely sweeter than the truth.

  His mouth was ravaging hers—his want matching hers—and the earth shifted as he moved closer into her space. She could hear the zipper of her dress as he pulled it down, the chill of air on the small of her back, and she braced herself for his hand on her bottom. At that moment she would have forgiven him for heading down instead of up—only he didn’t. Each rib, each space was fingered with such lingering expertise that her panties were a damp mass when finally he found her bra, unhooked it. But instead of removing her top, instead of undressing her, he lowered his head and kissed her through her dress and the lace of her bra, his teeth nibbling round each areola, her dry-clean-only dress neither dry nor clean as still he worked on. His greedy hands pulled her dress down at the straps, and a thousand glass beads cascaded to the floor, crushed beneath their feet in the race to get out of their clothes. But there was no time. Caitlyn was whimpering with need to have her hungry nipple in his mouth, and if he hadn’t taken it then she’d have begged.

  It hurt.

  Oh, but it was a delicious hurt as his mouth stretched her nipple to its greedy length. His lips paused, then he smiled up at her and suckled till it was indecent, till Caitlyn was moaning, her hand fumbling with his trousers, with his belt. One need was satisfied and she was greedy for more now, as still he suckled, trying to get rid of things that didn’t matter to reach the things that did.

  She was naked from the waist up and flaming from the waist down, but still he paid her breasts lavish attention as he slid her panties down her thighs. And the bed was just a little bit too far, so the dressing table sufficed, the mirror cold against her back, the surface hard against her bottom. But absolutely the pain was worth the gain, and the angled mirrors gave her never-ending views of him as she laid her head on his shoulder. She gazed at their reflection, saw his arms tighten around hers as he slid inside her, could see her thighs wrapped around his waist as she pulled him in closer, see the dint in his buttocks as her hands went there.

  ‘Lazzaro…’ she pleaded, and she wasn’t looking any more, but sucking, biting on his salty shoulder, dragging her lips as she tried to hold it in.

  But thankfully he wasn’t taking his time tonight. He was swelling deeper inside her as she coiled into him, and she wasn’t sure if it was people in the next room knocking or the thud of the mirror against the wall, didn’t even care where they were as he arched his body and leant back, as somehow he climbed deeper inside her…as somehow he took just a little bit more than she knew she should give.

  And after, when they were in bed, when maybe she should have just left it, bravely she didn’t. Boldly, yet terribly tentatively, her fingers traced the length of his jagged raised scar. She watched as he closed his eyes—not gently, but sort of squeezing them together, as if anticipating the hurt her touch would cause, as if the wound was still raw—and Caitlyn knew then that it was.

  ‘What happened here?’

  His fingers caught hers, closed around them. Caitlyn was sure he was about to pull her hand away, and mentally kicked herself for asking too much too soon, but instead of pushing her away his fingers straightened her hand out, till it was the cool of her palm pressing against his cheek. And though they’d just made love, though never in her life had she felt so close to another human being, for that atom of time they weren’t just close, they were together—his pain hers, her comfort his to have.

  The tension permanently etched in his features faded away as she leant forward, soft lips on his wound, trying to kiss away the agony. Her salty tears bathed his scar, but only for a little while. Not roughly, but gently, he pushed her away, turned his face away from hers as she voiced the question again.

  ‘What happened that day, Lazzaro?’

  But even though she’d asked, even though she was sure she could deal with it, his voice told her that maybe she couldn’t. The hollows of his pain and raw grief were so evident it made her wince, made her close her eyes as, albeit gently, and albeit tenderly, this time he pushed her away with three little words.

  ‘Ask your cousin.’

  ‘Going anywhere?’ Brave, but scared, she smiled down at him the next morning.

  Two strikes and he was out for good was her unwritten rule—but Lazzaro’s eyes weren’t avoiding hers this morning. In fact, utterly relaxed, he even managed to make her laugh.

  ‘Just to my room…’ His hand was under the sheet, exploring her shamelessly. ‘I’ll meet you at breakfast and tell you what our plans are until our flight this evening.’

  ‘Go, then…’ Caitlyn grinned. She loved him all of the time, but liked him more when he was like this.

  ‘You know the only place I’m going,’ Lazzaro drawled, making her gasp as he did something indecent, ‘is here.’

  ‘How was your night?’ Alberto Mancini beamed over them.

  The mood was rather more relaxed as his intimate, though very well-bred friends gathered for a lavish breakfast.

  ‘I trust you were comfortable?’

  ‘The bed was a bit lumpy,’ Lazzaro teased good-naturedly. ‘But for a second-rate hotel—not bad!’

  ‘Come,’ said Alberto. ‘I am going to speak with the minister and his lovely wife—and before I make my speech, can I borrow your boss?’

  ‘Of course.’ Caitlyn smiled, swallowing hard when Bonita slipped into Lazzaro’s vacant seat.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘for your discretion yesterday. I am so glad last night is over. If it wasn’t for Lazzaro, I don’t know how we’d have got through.’ She gave a tired smile. ‘I know that Lazzaro tells his PA everything.’

  ‘Not this one…’ Caitlyn started, but her voice faded as Alberto took the floor, greeting his guests, thanking them for coming. That much Caitlyn understood, but after a moment he handed the microphone to Lazzaro, and she watched as he spoke on his friend’s behalf. Whatever he said made everyone laugh—only not Bonita. Her hand was dry as it reached for Caitlyn’s.

  ‘Thank God for Lazzaro…’ Bonita said in a strangled whisper. ‘Alberto is forgetting names, slurring his words sometimes—I did not want him to look a fool, or for people to think he was drunk, so I asked Lazzaro to stick by him…to cover for his memory lapses…’ She dabbed at her cheek with a handkerchief, then saw Caitlyn’s shocked expression, and for a second it was Bonita consoling Caitlyn.

  ‘You really didn’t know? Lazzaro never told you?’

  ‘I thought…’ Caitlyn winced in misery, but Bonita actually laughed.

  ‘What must you have thought? Oh, but you are new—you would not know what a wonderful man he is just yet.’

  Oh, but she was starting to.

  ‘Alberto is sick,’ Bonita explained, her voice brave, but her hand slipping into Caitlyn’s again, and clinging onto it as she spoke. ‘He is to start treatment as soon as possible, but we want to wait—his daughter gets married soon. Just two more weeks is all we are asking,’ Bonita rasped. ‘If we can just hold it together for two weeks, till his daughter gets married—then we can tell everyone.’

  Just for a second Caitlyn met Lazzaro’s gaze—guilt and regret were washing over her for her harsh assumptions—for thinking the very worst of him. And she was proud too—proud that even last night, with his back to the wall, he hadn’t betrayed his friend’s trust.

  Hadn’t told her the truth when it would surely have been so much easier for him.


  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘I WISH you’d told me,’ Caitlyn said, wondering how the sky could be so blue and the sun could be out, yet it was so cold as they emerged from the hotel. Finally she was to be treated to a real glimpse of the Eternal City…

  ‘It wasn’t my place to tell.’

  ‘So you let me think the worst?’

  ‘You chose to think the worst,’ Lazzaro pointed out.

  ‘So do you…’ It was the hardest thing she’d ever said, offering a fact that was only based on her feeling. ‘Lazzaro, surely it’s something we should talk about—?’

  ‘Not today.’ He silenced her with a kiss. ‘Let’s just enjoy today.’

  There were only a few hours till they headed back to Australia—and though she’d braced herself for coldness, for distance between them, it was anything but. And once breakfast was over, he’d suggested they spend the day wandering Rome.

  They stopped in tiny cafés, where Caitlyn practised her appalling Italian and Lazzaro winced in apology at the waiters. She took her camera out at every turn. She ate chestnuts out of the bag, and, even though they were possibly the most disgusting thing she had ever tasted, somehow she finished the lot.

  ‘You should get a memento…’ Lazzaro was steering her towards shops with names that were more likely to be represented by fakes in her wardrobe. But even though she’d probably rue it later, even though her friends would never understand, and even though they were the most glamorous she’d ever seen, the boutiques around Piazza di Spagna held little interest for Caitlyn—even when Lazzaro prompted her to choose a bag, ‘or shoes, or whatever it is that women like.’

  ‘I like walking.’

  So they did—moving away from the shops to the Spanish Steps themselves, where Caitlyn, just a little bit shy, pulled out her camera again and asked Lazzaro to take her photo. Blushing, she shook her head when a cheerful tourist offered to take the camera and take a photo of the two of them.

  ‘Thank you, but no…’

  ‘Why not?’ Lazzaro laughed at her blush as they walked on. ‘Don’t you want to remember us together today?’