Ricardo

by Marita A. Hansen

  Bad memories of the last time she’d been here flooded her mind, things she’d much rather have kept in the past. She’d wanted to surprise Ricardo with a picnic, so had turned up on his doorstep with a basket filled with food and wine. As soon as he’d opened the door, she’d known something was wrong, the expression on his face drawn and upset. She’d asked him what was wrong. Instead of answering like a normal person, he’d yelled at her, saying every hurtful thing under the sun, the expression on his face vicious. He’d even kicked the door so hard he left a hole in it. Scared; she’d dropped the basket and ran. The next day, he’d knocked on her door, wanting to apologize, but she couldn’t shake what he’d done. Not only had his outburst been unwarranted, he’d shown her the villain everyone had warned her about. As a result, she’d told him she didn’t want to see him anymore. He’d accepted her decision without complaint and walked away, seeming not to care. She still remembered staring at his back as he left, wishing she could take her words back, but she hadn’t because she knew it was the right thing to do—no matter how much it hurt. She just wished she’d continued to make better decisions after that day, such as not marrying Alberto D’Angelo.

  Not wanting to think about either of them, she pushed out of bed, feeling sore all over, her muscles aching from having ran so far. She walked to the door stiffly, her legs screaming at her to lie back down. She turned the handle, finding it locked. Annoyed that the Santini had locked her in, she banged on the door, demanding to be let out.

  The door cracked open, making her step back. A stocky man with harsh features appeared. He was wearing black pants and a white shirt, the holster over his chest holding a gun. He was a soldato—one of the lower positions in a mafia family. The soldiers often did the dirty work as well as protecting the family.

  “How may I help you?” he asked, his voice raspy like a smoker’s.

  “I want to speak to the Don.”

  The man’s eyes ran over her. “Not dressed like that. You need to shower and change first. There are clothes in the cabinet.”

  She glanced down at her body, jolting at her disheveled state. Embarrassed, she pulled her ripped blouse together. She’d been too caught up with her thoughts to notice the state she was in.

  “Call me when you’re ready,” the soldier said, closing the door on her.

  Humiliated, she went to the bathroom. Stripping off her ruined clothes, she jumped into the shower, using most of the body wash to scrub away the grime and memories of the attack. She could still feel her attacker’s fingers bruising her breast, his touch stamped on her mind. She tipped her head back under the water, willing herself not to think about it. Men had used her for so long, treating her as a sexual object or a means to an end—or worse, a nuisance in their way. It battered at her will, ground her down, though she wouldn’t allow it to happen anymore. She was taking her life back, living it for herself—not those bastards.

  She turned off the shower and dried herself, then headed to the bathroom mirror, not recognizing the woman staring back at her. She was always done up perfectly, her blue eyes rimmed in liner, her lips painted red, her hair salon-perfect—the consummate mafia wife. But all she saw in the mirror was a washed-up woman who no one wanted, someone who’d been used and thrown out with the trash.

  She ran a finger over the small bandage covering her nose, the break now healed. She’d kept the Band-Aid on as a crutch, something to remind her of all the pain her husband had caused her. Needing to let go, she took a hold of the edge and ripped it off fast, yelping at the sting. She splashed water on the reddened skin, then patted it dry.

  Once finished, she headed for the large antique cabinet. Lingerie filled the first drawer. She didn’t like the idea of wearing someone else’s underwear, but her breasts were too big to go without a bra. She pulled one on, along with some panties, then picked out a T-shirt and jeans from the next drawer, the clothes strangely fitting her perfectly. She wondered who they belonged to, possibly one of the Santini sisters.

  After drying her hair, she knocked on the door again. It cracked open, the man nodding his approval at her. “I’ll take you to the dining room for breakfast,” he said. “You can arrange with the Don’s brothers an appropriate time to talk with him.”

  “The Don’s brothers?” she asked, confused. The old man was an only child.

  “The Santini brothers.”

  She stared at him, not understanding.

  He smiled, comprehension crossing his harsh face. “There’s been a change in leadership. Ricardo Junior is now the Don.”

  Bianca’s mouth dropped open. “I didn’t know his father had passed away.”

  “He hasn’t, but he’s too unwell to head a war campaign.”

  She nodded, still stunned that her ex was now the head of the Santini. She’d always known he would take over, Ricardo a powerhouse amongst the Mafiosi. He was someone who people respected and feared, especially the feared part. She just didn’t expect it to happen so soon.

  The soldier escorted her down the passage and the curving staircase. It was covered in red carpet and had a chair lift, which she assumed was for Bella, who she’d heard had been disabled in a car accident.

  She crossed the marble floor and entered a large dining room, the soldier excusing himself. The people around the table all stopped eating and focused on her. The majority of the Santini family was present, but she was only concerned with one of them, her heart pounding at seeing Ricardo again. She searched their faces, both disappointed and relieved he wasn’t there.

  Ricardo’s next oldest brother pushed out of his chair and headed for her. Salvatore was a softer version of Ricardo, his kind blue eyes so different from Ricardo’s violet glare. Salvatore was reason, whereas Ricardo was passion, the two complete opposites. But regardless, they had a strong bond, both of them always looking out for each other in their youth, which she hoped hadn’t changed.

  Smiling at Salvatore, she allowed him to hug her, the embrace purely platonic. He pulled back and smiled down on her. All of the Santini men were tall, but Salvatore was the tallest by far, the man making her feel like a midget.

  “It’s lovely to see you looking better, Bianca,” he said. “You gave us a scare last night. I was afraid we’d lost you.” His eyes turned sad, sending worry through her. She looked back at the table, the youngest Santini notably absent. The attack on her car returned, along with the memory of the Donatelli pointing their guns at Alessandro.

  “The Donatelli got Alessandro,” she said, now upset.

  “We know. Ricardo is currently arranging the ransom to get him back.”

  She breathed out; relieved he was alive, but still upset he wasn’t out of danger. Alessandro had been nothing but lovely, helping her when she’d returned from the hospital after her husband had brutally assaulted her.

  Her eyes went to the other members of the Santini. The oldest of the sisters nodded at her. Anna was sitting next to her husband and younger sister. Bianca smiled at them, happy to see that Anna’s husband had survived the attack on the Rossos. Their three children were sitting alongside them; too busy eating to pay her attention, all of them under the age of ten.

  Her eyes moved to the opposite side of the long table, where Luciano sat. He looked like Salvatore, just a bearded and gaunt version, nothing like he’d been in his youth, which was muscular and charismatic. She’d heard his wife had died in a car crash five years ago, Luciano obviously still not over her death.

  Salvatore directed her to the table. Bianca stopped a few feet from it, shocked by the man entering via the back door. Brando was dressed in smart black pants and a crisp white shirt, the holsters he was wearing empty. His black hair was slicked back and his tanned face clean-shaven, the man stunning. He looked like an older version of her former lover, Jagger D’Angelo, the resemblance uncanny, especially Brando’s golden eyes. The last time she’d seen Brando was a decade ago, well before she’d met Jagger, so she’d never made the connection, but now, without a doubt, they
looked more like brothers than cousins.

  Brando sneered at her, jolting her out of her thoughts. A smile quickly followed. His gaze ran down her body, stripping her bare. He was beautiful like Jagger, pure heaven to look at, but she didn’t want to be reminded of her old lover, the lothario having ripped her heart out.

  The doors on the other side of the room opened wide, the matriarch of the family making a grande entrance. Concetta Santini walked across the marble floor, the click clack of her heels resounding throughout the room. The woman was impeccably presented, from her sculptured coiffeur to her designer dress, and the shine of her very expensive shoes, and although her sons towered over her, she walked as though she was ten-feet tall. The woman was a proud Mafiosa, someone who’d ruled the household with an iron fist when Bianca had known her—which she guessed hadn’t changed.

  Concetta headed for Bianca, her violet eyes stunning, made even more so by her long, dark eyelashes. Bianca had been afraid of Ricardo’s mother when she’d first met her. Concetta said what she thought, no mincing of words, and if she didn’t like you—you knew it. And Concetta definitely didn’t like Bianca. Though, strangely, Bianca felt none of that fear now. It was probably because she’d been through hell with the D’Angelos, a family she never wanted to see again.

  Concetta came to a stop in front of Bianca. She didn’t say a word, giving Bianca the impression she expected her to bow down.

  “Signora Santini,” Bianca said, giving her a polite nod. “I’m very grateful you’ve allowed me to enter your household.”

  Concetta’s upper lip curled back with disdain. “We couldn’t turn away a D’Angelo, no matter who that D’Angelo is.”

  Bianca stiffened, the woman’s words insulting. “Nonetheless, I’m still grateful for your kindness,” she said, knowing she couldn’t snap back.

  Concetta smiled, appearing amused. “I don’t have a kind bone in my body, Bianca, but I’ll allow you this noble attempt at flattery. Though, I won’t be so cordial if you go near my Ricardo, so stay away from him.”

  “That’ll be impossible to do, considering we’ll be living under the same roof.”

  “You’ll abide by my rules or I’ll toss you to the Donatelli scum without hesitation.” Concetta moved her mouth to Bianca’s ear, whispering, “I’m sure they will be very happy to accommodate you after you killed their beloved heir.”

  Bianca jerked her head back. “That was an accident,” she snapped, unable to hold her temper, the guilt of what she’d done still haunting her.

  “Which makes it even worse, considering who your intended target was—your husband. That’s why you will not go near Ricardo.”

  “I would never hurt Ricardo, and I have no desire for a relationship with him or anyone.”

  “Keep it that way, because, Bianca,” she paused, “I will do a lot worse than the Donatelli if you hurt my son.”

  Bianca cleared her throat. “I will try my best to keep away from him, and if he speaks to me, I will only answer him, rather than engage in conversation.”

  Concetta nodded, a glimmer of respect inherent in her eyes. “You said that with backbone, not like the trembling child that came here all those years ago. You were far too weak for Ricardo, but I’m happy that you’ve grown stronger. Regardless, you’re still not good enough for my boy; never were and never will be; so keep that promise and I won’t allow any harm to come by you.”

  Bianca nodded, knowing the woman would stick to her word.

  Concetta turned and headed for the head of the table. Once seated, she snapped an order at a servant to get her a cappuccino, berating the young man for not having one already present.

  Salvatore indicated for Bianca to take the seat by his wife. Bianca sat down next to Rosa, the little strawberry blonde smiling sweetly at her. The woman’s nature was as lovely as her husband’s, her chocolate brown eyes full of compassion.

  Most of the breakfast went by quietly, only Salvatore’s son breaking the silence. The little boy, who looked about five, started coughing and wheezing. Salvatore pulled him onto his lap, taking the inhaler and spacer his wife was holding out. He attached the inhaler to the cylindrical spacer, then placed its mask over the boy’s mouth, pressing down on the inhaler. He counted to ten, then pressed it one more time, removing the mask once done. He gave the boy a kiss on the head, then popped him back on his chair.

  After Bianca had finished breakfast, she excused herself and headed out of the room.

  “Bianca,” Salvatore called out.

  She stopped at the bottom of the staircase.

  Salvatore ran after her. “Please accept my apologies for how my mother treated you. I know you would never hurt Ricardo.” He came to a stop in front of her, giving her a soft smile. “And he was a fool to let you get away, and now with Ghita gone—”

  Bianca cut him off, knowing where he was heading. “As I said to your mother, I have no intention of rekindling a relationship with Ricardo.”

  “But you two were so good together.”

  “That’s not how I remember things, especially with the way he blew up at me for no apparent reason, his reaction not normal.”

  “There was a reason, he has IED.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Intermittent Explosive Disorder. Not long after you two split, he went to see a doctor, who diagnosed it. It’s why he can’t always control his emotions.”

  “All the more reason why I shouldn’t be with him,” she said, relieved she’d gotten out when she had.

  “He’s medicated now.”

  “I don’t care, I’ve had enough of violent men; and for goodness’ sake, he just lost his lover. Let the poor man mourn, instead of trying to hook him up with me.”

  “He wasn’t in love with Ghita.”

  “That’s not what I heard. Alessandro told me Ricardo was head over heels in love with her.”

  “Ricardo was confusing obsession with love, and I think he’s starting to realize that now. I love Rosa with all my heart and soul, and if I ever lost her, I’d be unable to function. Ricardo isn’t acting like that with Ghita’s death.”

  “Everyone acts differently.”

  “He had more of a reaction to you leaving him, than to Ghita’s murder.”

  Bianca frowned. “That can’t be true. He didn’t even try to get me to change my mind.”

  “You didn’t see what he did when he returned home. He went into a shell, closing everyone off, even me. He refused to talk to anyone for weeks on end, and when he did speak, he snapped at people, even hitting Brando once just for mentioning your name. I think you hurt him badly.”

  Bianca went quiet for a moment, taken by surprise.

  Salvatore placed a hand on her arm. “I don’t mean to make you feel bad; I just want you to understand that he did love you, probably still does, knowing Ricardo.”

  “I still can’t be with him, not after the vicious way he spoke to me. I deserve better than that.”

  “He’s changed.”

  “For the worst, I hear.”

  “I don’t agree.”

  “Please, can we not talk about him anymore?”

  He let go of her arm. “I’m sorry; I just want to see Ricardo happy.”

  “As do I, just not with me.”

  “Understood, I’ll drop the subject, plus Ricardo wasn’t the reason I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to apologize for the lack of conversation at the table. We’re all just very worried about Alessandro, plus with the passing of Valentino—”

  Her eyes widened. “Valentino’s dead?”

  He nodded. “From a car bomb. His funeral’s in two days.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. I should pass on my condolences to your parents.”

  “Oh, definitely don’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  “Papà is too ill to understand anything, and my madre hated Valentino. He’s a reminder of my father cheating on her, so don’t even mention his name around her.”

  Bianca nodded. �
�I won’t say a word. If anything, I will avoid her.”

  A small smile pulled at his lips, the expression quickly disappearing. “That’s for the best.”

  “As keeping away from Ricardo is too.”

  “Quite the opposite there.”

  “I will take my leave,” she said, ignoring his reply. “I need more rest, yesterday took its toll.”

  “Sì, you must’ve run quite a distance to get here, possibly a marathon. If I had a hat on, I’d take it off to you.”

  “Unfortunately my legs are paying for it today.”

  “I can see that; I did notice you were walking rather awkwardly.”

  “Which is why I need a rest, though call me if any of my famiglia phone or if Alessandro’s brought back safely. Also, when it’s suppertime, could I please have a servant bring my food up to my room?”

  “It’s an unwritten rule that everyone, other than my father, has dinner at the table.”

  “Will Ricardo be there?”

  “Sì.”

  “Then save me a seat at the opposite end of the table from him.”

  “Maybe,” he smiled.

  She shook her finger at him. “You better do it or I’ll sit on your lap in front of your wife.”

  He laughed. “Do it, I’d love to see Rosa’s reaction.”

  “Cheeky.” She smacked his arm playfully, then excused herself. She headed up the staircase, knowing her stay with the Santini was going to be eventful.

  ***

  Bianca had barely closed the door before someone knocked on it. She reopened it, finding Brando standing on the other side. Again, she was shocked by how much he looked like her former lover. Though his golden eyes were harsher and the cut of his lips appeared to have a permanent sneer to them. He smiled at her, showing perfect white teeth. No, they weren’t perfect. Like Jagger’s, his two incisors were pointy. He ran his tongue over one of them, making her think of vampires. She knew it was a ridiculous thought, but he was too beautiful to be real.