Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian

by Angela Bissell

  His hand squeezed hers. ‘He cannot hurt you, cara. I won’t let him.’

  A lump rose in her throat. When he said things like that, looked at her the way he was looking at her now, she was filled with confusion. Torn between the cynical voice that said he was using the situation—using her—to get to her father, and the whisper of hope urging her to believe he truly cared.

  ‘Helena?’

  She started. The voice uttering her name this time was not deep and manly but soft and feminine. Her mother’s. Pulling her hand free, she jumped to her feet.

  Leo rose beside her. ‘I’ll take a walk,’ he murmured, turning to go. ‘Call me when you’re ready to leave.’

  ‘Or you could stay.’ She touched his arm. ‘You barely said more than hello to her yesterday.’

  He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Another time. I have some calls to make.’

  Helena didn’t push. She understood his unease. Her mother was the wife of the man whose company he’d set out to destroy.

  She dropped her hand and waited for the door to close behind him before moving to the bed. She pulled up a chair, took her mother’s hand. ‘How do you feel, Mum?’

  ‘Fine, apart from this awful headache.’ A weak smile formed on her pale lips. ‘He’s very handsome, isn’t he?’

  Helena looked down, frowned at the mottled purpling on the back of her mother’s hand where an IV catheter—now gone—had ruptured a vein. Yesterday she had stretched the truth. Told her mother she and Leo were seeing each other, trying to work some things out. In reality she didn’t have a clue what they were doing—and she didn’t think he did either.

  ‘I’m sorry he didn’t stay.’

  Miriam’s smile vanished. ‘You mustn’t apologise, darling. For anything.’ She closed her eyes, frowning, as if the pain in her head was suddenly too much to bear.

  Alarmed, Helena sat forward. ‘Mum?’

  Miriam’s eyes opened again. ‘I’ve made choices,’ she said, her blue eyes latching on to her daughter’s. ‘Choices I know you don’t understand. But I only wanted the best for you, darling. And for James. Douglas is a difficult man, a proud man, but he gave us the best of everything. You can’t argue with that.’

  Damned if she couldn’t. But she swallowed the bitter retort. Now was not the time to catalogue Douglas Shaw’s many failings as a husband and father.

  Miriam gripped Helena’s hand. ‘It wasn’t all bad, was it? We had some good times. After James came along things were better, weren’t they? Douglas was happy for a while.’

  ‘Yes,’ Helena agreed, reluctantly. ‘I suppose he was.’

  In fact the years following her brother’s birth had been the most harmonious she could remember, her father seemingly content for once—because, she supposed, he’d finally got what he wanted. A son.

  ‘But, Mum, that was a long time ago. And things...well, they aren’t fine now, are they?’

  The proud, resolute look she knew so well came into her mother’s eyes. ‘I can make them fine.’

  Helena donned a dogged look of her own. ‘For how long? Until the next time he’s angry and drunk?’

  She reached out, gently touched the faint discoloration under Miriam’s left eye. Last week’s bruise had faded, but in time there’d be another. And another.

  ‘Things are only going to get worse. He’s only going to get worse. You do see that, don’t you?’

  Miriam’s mouth quivered, just for a second, before firming. ‘I have to think of James.’

  ‘Who’s nearly sixteen,’ Helena pointed out. ‘Old enough to understand that marriages can fail. Parents can separate. I love him, too, but you can’t wrap him in cotton wool for ever.’

  Most of the year her brother was at boarding school, limiting his exposure to the tensions at home. But he was a smart boy, perceptive, and Helena suspected he already knew more than he let on. To her knowledge their father had never laid a hand on his precious son, but that could change. Violent men were unpredictable—especially when fuelled by rage and drink. She would sit James down and talk with him, make sure he understood his options. Ensure he was safe.

  ‘It’s a few weeks yet till the summer break,’ she said. ‘When he comes home he can decide who he stays with. Who he sees.’

  A tiny tremor ran through her mother’s hand. ‘No. Your father won’t let go that easily. He’ll force James to choose between us.’

  That was a possibility. One Helena couldn’t deny. ‘You’re his mother,’ she said gently. ‘That will never change. He loves you.’

  Miriam’s throat worked for long seconds, then she whispered, ‘I’m proud of you, darling. Do you know that? You had the courage to walk away when I didn’t.’ Her grip tightened on Helena’s hand. ‘I don’t think I can be as brave.’

  ‘Oh, Mum.’ Helena hugged her, hiding the rush of moisture in her eyes.

  Brave? The word seemed to hover in the air and mock her. Brave was not how she’d felt these last few nights, lying in Leo’s arms as she searched in vain for the courage to talk about their son.

  Cowardly was a more fitting word.

  Maybe even selfish.

  She pulled back and gave her mother a steady look. ‘You can,’ she said, the conviction in her voice as much for herself as for her mother.

  She mightn’t have a clue where she and Leo were headed but one thing she did know—she loved him now just as she had seven years ago. If they were to have any shot at a second chance she had to overcome her fear. Do the right thing and tell him about his son.

  She squeezed her mother’s hand. ‘You can,’ she repeated.

  Miriam’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Your father will never agree to a divorce. And if he does where will I go? What will I do? I grew up with nothing, Helena. I can’t go back to that. And I’m too old to start over on my own.’

  ‘Mum, you’re not even fifty! And you’ll be entitled to a divorce settlement. We can find you a good lawyer.’

  Somewhere in the distance a man raised his voice, the strident sound out of place in the quiet of the ward.

  Helena tuned out the disturbance, her mind already too full of noise. ‘Please, Mum,’ she said. ‘Let me help you.’

  Miriam’s tears spilled down her cheeks. She nodded and pulled her daughter into a tight hug.

  ‘Miss Shaw?’

  Helena straightened and turned. A nurse stood in the doorway.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ the woman said, her tone brisk, her face serious. ‘But could you come with me, please?’

  * * *

  Leo stood in the empty visitors’ room at the end of the ward and stared out of the rain-spattered window. Outside, London was gearing up for another five o’clock rush hour and the frenzy of people and traffic on the wet streets below matched his edgy, restive mood. He swayed forward, letting his forehead bump the cool glass.

  Why was he still here?

  It was Thursday and he should be back in Rome, presenting his report on the ShawCorp takeover to his board—a task he had, until recently, anticipated with relish.

  Now, not so much.

  And wasn’t that one hell of a kicker?

  Seven years he’d planned this victory—seven years—and in a matter of days the taste of triumph had turned to ash in his mouth.

  Footfalls echoed in the room and he straightened, pulled his hands from his pockets. Time to get some air, stretch his legs. Then he’d wait in the limo and clear his emails. The hospital’s sterile surroundings were closing in on him and, as mean-spirited as it sounded, he was in no mood for polite chitchat with the relative of a sick person.

  The roar that rent the air before Leo had fully turned from the window gave him a split second to react. Even so, the fist flying towards him caught the left side of his jaw and sent a shard of pain ricocheting through his skull.

  ‘Bastard!’

  Douglas Shaw spat the word before lunging again, but Leo was ready this time. He dodged the blow and with a swift, well-timed manoeuvre seized Shaw
’s wrist and twisted his arm up his back.

  ‘Calm down, you old fool,’ he grated into the man’s ear.

  ‘Don’t give me orders, Vincenti.’

  Shaw struggled and Leo firmed his grip, inching the man’s wrist higher up his back.

  In a second, Shaw’s voice went from gruff to reedy. ‘You’re breaking my arm.’

  Making a noise of disgust, Leo let go with a shove, giving himself room to counter another attack if Shaw was stupid enough to try.

  The older man wisely calmed down. He rubbed his arm. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  Leo returned his hands to his pockets, adopting a casual stance that belied the tension in his muscles, his readiness to act. He studied Shaw’s hostile face—a face he had, until now, seen only in media clippings and corporate profiles. Hollows in the man’s cheeks and a grey tinge to his skin made him look older in the flesh. Strong cologne and the waft of alcohol tainted the air.

  Leo suppressed a grimace. ‘I’m surprised you recognise me, Shaw. After all those declined invitations to meet I was beginning to think you had no interest in your new majority shareholder.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here?’ Shaw snarled the question. ‘Looking for a chance to gloat?’

  Leo threw his head back and laughed. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, old man. I have better ways to spend my time.’

  Shaw stepped forward, his sore arm and Leo’s superiority in the strength department clearly forgotten. ‘Maybe I should teach you another lesson—like the one I taught you seven years ago.’

  Leo freed his fists, leaned his face close to Shaw’s. ‘You can try, but we both know your threats are empty. The truth is you’re a coward and a bully. I know it. Your wife knows it. And your daughter knows it.’

  A deep purple suffused Shaw’s face. ‘By God, I should—’

  ‘Stop it! Both of you!’

  A female voice sliced across the room, silencing whatever puerile threat Shaw had been about to deliver.

  ‘This is not the time or place.’

  Helena glared at each man before turning to murmur something to the nurse hovering in the doorway behind her. The woman muttered a reply, levelled a stern look at the men, then disappeared. Helena came into the room, her movements short, stiff, and stood shoulder to shoulder with Leo.

  This time Shaw threw his head back and laughed. ‘Of course!’ he exclaimed to the ceiling. ‘I should have guessed.’ He snapped his chin down, pinned his daughter with a contemptuous stare. ‘Some things never change—you’re still a disloyal slut.’

  Rage exploded in Leo’s chest. Before his brain could intervene his muscles jolted into action. Within seconds his hands were twisted in the front of Shaw’s shirt and he had the man pinned to a wall.

  ‘Leo—stop!’

  Helena’s voice barely registered over the roar in his ears, but her firm touch on his arm dragged him back to his senses. Sucking in a deep breath, he dropped his hands, appalled by how swiftly the urge to do violence had overtaken him. That was Shaw’s MO, he reminded himself with a flare of disgust, not his.

  He stepped back and Shaw eyed him with a supercilious sneer that made Leo, for one tenth of a second, want to wipe the look off his face and to hell with being the better man.

  Shaw straightened his attire and brushed himself off as if Leo’s touch had left him soiled.

  Pompous ass.

  Helena turned to her father, her pale features set in the cool, dignified mask Leo had learnt to recognise as her protective armour. A week ago that very mask had bugged the hell out of him. Now her poise under pressure drew his unbridled respect.

  ‘Leo’s right,’ she said, her voice as cold and sharp as a blade of ice. ‘You’re nothing but a coward and a bully.’

  Shaw’s face darkened, but Helena showed no fear. She stepped closer, and Leo braced himself to intervene if Shaw made any sudden moves.

  ‘You tried so often to make me feel like a failure as a child. To make me feel worthless. But the truth is there’s only one failure in this family and it’s not me or Mum.’ Her chin jutted up. ‘It’s you. It’s always been you.’ She pulled the strap of her handbag higher up her shoulder. ‘Go home, Douglas,’ she said, her voice quieter, weary now. ‘My mother doesn’t want to see you.’

  And then she stepped back, looked at Leo.

  ‘I’m ready to go whenever you are.’

  Stiff and proud, she strode out of the room and Leo bolted after her, ignoring the man whose bluster had withered to a hard, brittle silence. A few days ago Leo would have sold his soul for a chance to face off with the man. Now there Shaw stood and Leo couldn’t care less. The only face he wanted to see was Helena’s.

  He caught her in the corridor, pulled her gently to a stop. The tears on her cheeks caused a sharp burning sensation in his chest.

  She swiped at her face with the heel of her hand. ‘Please, just take me home.’

  He frowned, picturing the cramped flat he’d cast an appalled eye over four days ago. He had announced with unequivocal authority that she would stay with him at the hotel.

  ‘Home?’ he echoed, his stomach pitching at the idea of taking her back there.

  ‘I mean the hotel. Just anywhere that’s not here.’

  His innards levelled out. ‘Si. Of course.’ He cradled her damp face in his hands, pressed a kiss to her forehead. ‘Will you wait here one minute for me?’

  She nodded and he kissed her again—on the mouth this time—then released her and headed back to the visitors’ room.

  Shaw hadn’t gone far. He stood by the window, much as Leo had earlier, staring down at the rain-soaked streets.

  He glanced over his shoulder, his top lip curling. ‘What do you want now, Vincenti?’

  ‘To give you some advice.’

  Shaw snorted. ‘This should be good.’

  Leo stood a few paces shy of the older man. ‘Next time you feel the need to lash out,’ he said, undaunted by the sudden fierce glower on Shaw’s face, ‘stay away from your wife. If you do not, and I hear that you have harmed her, know that I will come after you and do everything in my power to see you prosecuted in a court of law.’

  He eyeballed Shaw just long enough to assure the man his threat was genuine, then started to leave, his thoughts already shifting back to Helena.

  ‘Let me give you a piece of advice, son.’

  Leo stopped, certain that whatever gem Shaw intended to impart wouldn’t be worth a dime. He turned. ‘What?’

  ‘There are two kinds of women in this world. Those who understand their place and those who don’t. Miriam always knew how to toe the line, but she coddled that girl far too much. If you want obedience in a woman you won’t find it in Helena. She’ll bring you nothing but trouble.’

  Dio. The man was a raving misogynist. ‘You don’t know Helena.’

  Shaw sneered. ‘And you do?’

  ‘Better than you.’

  The sneer stretched into a bloodless smile that raised the hairs on Leo’s forearms.

  ‘In that case, since the two of you are so close, I assume you know about the baby?’

  At that moment a grey-haired woman entered the room and headed for the kitchenette in the far corner.

  Shaw stepped forward and Leo tensed, but the other man’s hands remained by his sides.

  He leaned in to deliver his parting shot. ‘The one she buried nine months after you scarpered back to Italy.’

  For a suspended moment Shaw’s words hung in the air, devoid of meaning, and then, like guided missiles striking their target, they slammed into Leo’s brain one after the other. His lungs locked. The skin at his nape tightened. And when Shaw walked away, his expression smug, Leo couldn’t do a damn thing to stop him. Because his muscles—the ones that had been so swift to react earlier—had completely frozen.

  Through a dark, suffocating mist, he registered a touch on his arm. He looked down.

  ‘Are you all right, my dear?’ The elderly woman peered up at him through round,
wire-rimmed spectacles. ‘You’re as white as a ghost.’

  * * *

  ‘Tell me about the child.’

  Helena stared at Leo’s implacable face. ‘Stop standing over me.’

  She wished she hadn’t sat down as soon as they’d entered the suite. She fought back a shiver. She’d thought his silence during the limo ride from the hospital had been unbearable. Having him tower over her now, like some big, surly interrogator, while she cowered on the sofa was ten times worse.

  He gritted his teeth—she could tell by the way his jaw flexed—then visibly flinched.

  ‘You should ice that,’ she blurted, eyeing the livid bruise beneath his five o’clock shadow. She still couldn’t believe her father had punched him.

  ‘So help me, Helena, if you do not—’

  ‘I wanted to tell you.’ She jumped to her feet, unable to sit there a moment longer while he glowered down at her. She circled around the sofa, gripped the back for support. ‘I was just...waiting for the right time.’

  Oh, God. How weak that sounded—how very convenient and trite. He’d never believe it. Not now. Not in a million years.

  She searched his face, desperate for a glimpse of the warmth and tenderness she’d grown accustomed to in recent days. But all she saw was anger. Disbelief. Hurt. She thought of her father and his smug expression as he’d passed her in the hospital corridor. A flash of hatred burned in her chest. He’d ruined everything. Again.

  ‘You were waiting for the right time?’ Leo plunged his fingers into his hair. ‘Did you not think seven years ago that it was “the right time”?’

  Her legs shook and she dug her nails into the sofa. ‘You left,’ she reminded him. ‘You went back to Italy.’

  ‘Because I had nothing to stay for. Your father had seen to that.’

  ‘You said you never wanted to see me again.’

  ‘I had no idea you were carrying my child.’

  ‘Neither did I.’

  Only once had they burst a condom, and she’d sensibly taken a morning-after pill. And since her cycle had always been erratic her overdue period hadn’t, at first, been cause for concern.

  ‘And when you did find out? Did it not occur to you then to find me and tell me I was going to be a father?’