The Sicilian's Scandalous Secret

by Sarah Morgan

  Blocking out images of black, silky lashes and a hard, sensual mouth, Fia stayed until Luca was safely asleep and then returned to the kitchen to clear up. Because she’d sent the staff home she had to do it herself, but the mindless work helped calm the panicky knot in her stomach. She poured her anxiety into each swipe of her cloth until every surface in the kitchen shone, until sweat pricked her brow, until she was too bone-tired to feel anything except the physical ache of hard labour. And then she grabbed a cold beer from the fridge and took it to the small wooden jetty that butted out from the restaurant.

  Fishing boats bobbed quietly in the darkness, waiting to be taken out onto the water.

  Usually this was a time to be calm, but tonight her nightly ritual failed to produce the desired effect.

  Fia kicked off her shoes and sat on the jetty, feet dangling in the cool water, her gaze sliding to the lights of the Ferrara Beach Club on the opposite side of the bay. Eighty per cent of her customers tonight had come from the hotel. She had reservations for plenty more, booked months ahead. Twisting off the cap, she lifted the bottle to her lips, realising that by being good at what she did, she’d inadvertently drawn the eye of the enemy.

  Her success had brought her out from under the radar. Instead of being irrelevant to the all-powerful Ferraras, she’d made herself significant. This was all her fault, she thought miserably. In pursuing her goal of providing for her family, protecting her son, she’d inadvertently exposed him.

  ‘Fiammetta!’

  Her grandfather’s bark made her jump and she sprang to her feet and walked back towards the stone house that had been in the family for six generations, a feeling of sick dread in her stomach. ‘Come stai?’ She kept her voice light. ‘You’re up late, Nonno. How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m as well as a man can be when he sees his granddaughter working herself to the bone.’ He scowled down at the bottle in her hand. ‘A man doesn’t like to see a woman drinking beer.’

  ‘Then it’s a good job I don’t have a man I need to worry about.’ She teased him lightly, relieved that he had the energy to spar with her. This was their relationship. This was Baracchi love. She told herself that just because he didn’t express it didn’t mean he didn’t feel it. On some days she actually believed that. ‘What are you doing up? You should be asleep in bed.’

  ‘Luca was crying.’

  ‘He had a dream. He just wanted a cuddle.’

  ‘You should leave him to cry.’ Her grandfather gave a grunt of disapproval. ‘He’ll never grow up to be a man the way you coddle him.’

  ‘He’s going to be a fine man. The best.’

  ‘The boy is spoiled. Every time I see him, someone is hugging him or kissing him.’

  ‘You can’t give a child too much love.’

  ‘Did I fuss over my son the way you fuss over yours?’

  No, and look at how that turned out. ‘I think you should go to bed, Nonno.’

  ‘Can I cook for a few people? That’s what you said to me—’ he winced as he walked stiffly towards the waterfront ‘—and before I know it my home is full of strangers and you are serving good Sicilian food on fancy plates and lighting candles for people who wouldn’t know the difference between fresh food and fast food.’

  ‘People travel a long way to taste my cooking. I’m running a successful business.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be running a business.’ Her grandfather settled himself in his favourite chair at the water’s edge. The chair he’d sat on when she was a child.

  ‘I’m building a life for myself and a future for my child.’ A life that was now overturned. A future that was threatened. Suddenly she didn’t trust herself not to betray what she was feeling. ‘I’ll fetch you a drink. Grappa?’

  She had to tell her grandfather about Santo, but first she had to work out how. How did you tell someone that the father of his precious great-grandchild was a man he hated above all others?

  Fia walked back to the kitchen and grabbed the bottle and a glass. It was a long time since he’d mentioned the Ferraras. And that was because of her, of course. Concerned for Luca, she’d insisted that if he couldn’t speak the name positively then he wasn’t to speak the name at all.

  At first she was just grateful that he’d taken her threat seriously, but now she was wondering whether it meant he’d actually softened over time.

  Please. Please let him have softened—

  Fia put the glass on the table in front of her grandfather and poured. ‘So what’s wrong?’

  ‘You mean apart from the fact that you are here every night slaving in that kitchen while someone else looks after your child?’

  ‘It’s good for Luca to be with other people. Gina loves him.’ She didn’t have the family she wanted for her son, so she’d created it. Her son was never going to be lonely in the way she’d been lonely. He had people he could turn to. People who would hug him when life threw rocks.

  ‘Love.’ Her grandfather grunted with contempt. ‘You are turning him into a girl. That’s what happens when there is no father to teach a boy to be a man.’

  It was the perfect opening for her to tell him what she needed to tell him. But Fia couldn’t push the words past her dry throat. She needed time. Time to discover what Santo intended to do. ‘Luca has male influences in his life.’

  ‘If you’re talking about that boy you employ in the restaurant, there’s more testosterone in my finger than he has in his whole body. Luca needs a real man around.’

  ‘You and I have very different ideas about what makes a real man.’

  His bony shoulders slumped and the lines on his forehead were deep. In the past month he appeared to have aged a decade. ‘This isn’t what I wanted for you.’

  ‘Life doesn’t always turn out the way we plan it, Nonno. When life gives you olives, you make olive oil.’

  ‘But you don’t make olive oil!’ He waved a hand in frustration. ‘You send our olives to our neighbours and they make our oil.’

  ‘Which I use in my restaurant. The restaurant that everyone in Sicily is talking about. I was in the paper last week.’ But somehow the buzz that she’d got from that fleeting moment of success had gone. Recent events had diminished it to nothing. ‘The week before I was mentioned in an important travel blog. The article was called “Sicilian Secrets”. I’m doing well. I’m good at my work.’

  ‘Work is what a woman does before she finds a husband.’

  Fia put the bottle down on the table. ‘Don’t say that. Soon, Luca will be old enough to understand you and I don’t want him growing up with that opinion.’

  ‘Men ask you out! But do you say yes? No, you don’t. Dark, blond, tall, short—it’s always “no”. You shut everyone out and you have done since Luca’s father.’ He looked at her intently and Fia’s fingers tightened on the bottle.

  ‘When I meet a man I’m interested in, I’ll say yes.’ But she knew that wasn’t going to happen. There had only ever been one man in her life and right now he despised her. And worse, he thought she was an unfit mother.

  Barely able to think about that, she focused on her grandfather and felt a flicker of worry as she saw him absently rub his fingers across his chest. Impulsively, she reached across the table and touched his hand. When he immediately withdrew, she tried not to mind. Her grandfather wasn’t tactile, was he? It was silly of her to even try. He didn’t hug her and he didn’t hug Luca. ‘What’s wrong? More pain?’

  ‘Don’t fuss.’ There was a long silence while he glared at her and something in his gaze made her stomach clench.

  Was it just her guilty conscience or did he—?

  ‘You weren’t going to tell me, were you?’ The harshness of his voice shocked her and she felt as if the earth had shaken beneath her feet.

  ‘Tell you what?
’ Her heart was suddenly pounding like a drum in a rock band.

  ‘He was here tonight. Santo Ferrara.’ He said it as if the name tasted bad on his tongue and Fia put the bottle down before it slipped from her hand.

  ‘Nonno—’

  ‘I know you banned me from mentioning his name but when a Ferrara walks onto my property, that gives me the right to talk about him. You should have told me he was here.’

  How much did he know? How much had he heard?

  ‘I didn’t tell you because I knew this would be your reaction.’

  He thumped his fist on the table. ‘I warned that boy not to step onto my land again.’

  Fia thought about the width and power of those shoulders. The haze of dark stubble accentuating that hard jaw. ‘He’s not a boy. He’s a man.’ A wealthy man who now ran a global corporation. A man with the power to shake up everything she loved about her life. A man who had gone off to talk to lawyers and think about the future of her son.

  Their son.

  Oh, God—

  Her grandfather’s eyes glowed bright with rage. ‘That man walked into my home—my home—’ he stabbed the air with his finger ‘—with no respect for my feelings.’

  ‘Nonno—’

  ‘Did he have the courage to face me?’

  ‘Calma! Calm down.’ Fia was on her feet; the emotion was a burning ball at the base of her ribs. If her grandfather was this upset now, how much worse was it going to be when he found out the truth? It was starting again, only this time Luca would be in the middle of it. ‘I didn’t want him to see you and this is why! You’re getting upset.’

  ‘Of course I am upset. How could I not be upset after what he has done?’ His face was white in the flickering light from the candle and Fia was sure that hers was equally pale.

  ‘You promised me when Luca was born that you would let the past go.’

  He gave her a long, long look. ‘Why are you defending him? Why is it that I’m not allowed to say a bad word about a Ferrara?’

  Fia felt the heat pour into her cheeks. ‘Because I don’t want Luca growing up with that animosity. It’s horrible.’

  ‘I hate them.’

  Fia breathed deeply. ‘I know.’ Oh, yes, she knew. And she’d thought about that every day since she’d felt the first fluttering low in her abdomen. She’d thought about it as she’d pushed her son from her body, when she’d first looked into his eyes and every time she kissed him goodnight. There were days when she felt as if she couldn’t carry the weight of it any more.

  Her grandfather’s eyes were fierce. ‘Because of Ferrara, you will be alone in the world when I’m gone. Who will look after you?’

  ‘I will look after us.’ She knew he blamed Santo for her brother’s death. She also knew it was pointless to remind him that her brother had barely been able to look after himself, let alone another. It had been his own reckless irresponsibility that had killed him, not Santo Ferrara.

  Her grandfather rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘If Ferrara dares to come back here again and I’m not around you can give him a message from me—’

  ‘Nonno—’

  ‘—you can tell him I’m still waiting for him to act like a man and take responsibility for his actions. And if he dares set foot on my property again I’ll make him pay.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  SANTO sat and waited in his office at the Ferrara Beach Club—an office hastily vacated in his honour by the manager of the hotel. If he needed an indication as to why this hotel was less successful than the others in the group it was right there on the desk. Lack of discipline and organisation was visible everywhere, from the scattered papers to the dying plant that drooped sadly in the corner of the office. Later, he’d deal with it. Right now he had other things on his mind. Mocking him from the wall was an enlarged photograph of the hotel manager, posing with his wife and two smiling children.

  A typical Sicilian family.

  Santo stared moodily at that picture. Right now he felt like tearing it down. He’d never considered himself idealistic, but was it idealistic to assume that one day his family would look much like the one in the picture?

  Apparently it was.

  He glanced at his watch.

  Not for one moment did he doubt that she would come. Not because he had faith in her sense of justice but because she knew that if she didn’t, he’d come and get her.

  His face expressionless, he waited as darkness gave way to the first fingers of dawn; as the sun rose over the sea, showering light across the smooth glassy surface.

  He’d sent the text in the early hours, at a time when most people would have been asleep. It hadn’t occurred to him to try and sleep. There had been no rest for him and he knew there would have been none for her, either.

  Exhaustion fogged his mind and yet his thoughts were clear. As far as he was concerned the decision was clear. If only the emotions were as simple to deal with.

  He checked his phone again and found a message from his brother, another person who had been frequenting the early hours. Just four words—

  What do you need?

  Unconditional support. Unquestioning loyalty. All those things that a family should offer, and which his did. He’d been raised with that support, surrounded by love. Unlike his son, who had spent his early years in the equivalent of a pit of vipers.

  Sweat beaded on his brow. He could barely allow himself to think about what his son’s life must have been like. What was the long-term impact of being raised in an emotional desert? And what if the abuse hadn’t just been emotional? Although he’d been young, he still remembered the mutterings and the rumours about the Baracchi family. Remembered seeing Fia sporting bruises almost all the time.

  The knock on the door was the most reluctant sound he’d ever heard.

  His eyes narrowed and he felt a rush of adrenaline, but it was only a young chef from the kitchen, bringing him more coffee.

  ‘Grazie—’

  The rattle of the cup on the saucer and her nervous glance told him that his black mood was visible on his face although they’d probably all misinterpreted the cause. Everyone in the hotel from the top down was jumpy about his visit. Normally they’d have reason. They had no way of knowing that his current mood was caused by something different. That a reorganization of the hotel was the last thing on his mind right now.

  She melted away but moments later there was another tap on the door and he knew instantly that this time it was her.

  The door opened and Fia stood there, those fierce green eyes glittering like jewels in a face as pale as morning mist. One look at her white face told him that she hadn’t had any more rest than he had.

  She looked washed out and stressed. And ready for a fight.

  Across the room their eyes clashed.

  They’d been lovers.

  They’d shared the ultimate intimacy, but that wasn’t going to help them navigate the treacherous waters they now found themselves in because they’d shared nothing else. They had no relationship. Essentially they were strangers. All they’d had were a few chance encounters and one stolen night, one delicious taste of the forbidden. None of that was going to help them through this desperate situation. And it was desperate; even he could see that.

  ‘Where is my son?’ He snapped out the words and she leaned her back against the door and looked at him.

  ‘Asleep in his bed. In his home. And if he wakes, Gina is there, and my grandfather.’

  The anger rushed at him like a ravenous beast ready to snap through the last threads of his fragile self-control. ‘And that is supposed to provide me with comfort?’

  ‘He loves Luca.’

  ‘I think we have a very different idea of what that word means.’

  ‘No.’ Her e
yes were fierce. ‘No, we don’t.’

  Santo’s mouth tightened. ‘And will he still “love” him when he discovers the identity of his father? I think we both know the answer to that.’ He rose from his chair and saw her hand shoot towards the door handle. His mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed in a warning. ‘If you leave this room then we will be having this conversation in public. Is that what you want?’

  ‘What I want is for you to calm down and be rational.’

  ‘Oh, I’m rational, tesoro. I have been thinking clearly from the moment I saw my child.’

  The atmosphere thickened. The air grew overly warm.

  ‘What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry? That I did the wrong thing?’ Her voice was smoky-soft and that voice drew his eyes to the smooth column of her throat and then to her mouth. It had been just one night but the memory of it had left deep scars in his senses. He knew how she’d taste because he remembered it vividly. He knew how she’d feel because he remembered that too. Not just the smooth texture of her skin, but the softness of her gorgeous hair. Now released from the clips that had restrained it during cooking, it fell down her back like a dark flame, reflecting the sunrise back at him. He remembered the day her father had cut it short in a blaze of Baracchi temper, hacking with kitchen scissors until she’d been left with a jagged crop. A horrified Santo had witnessed the incident and had tried to intervene but the sight of him had simply inflamed the situation.

  She’d sat still, he remembered, saying nothing as hunks of long hair had landed in her lap. Afterwards she’d hidden in the boathouse, her fierce glare challenging him to say one word about it and of course he hadn’t because their relationship didn’t encompass verbal exchanges.

  And it had been in the boathouse, on that one night that had ended so tragically, that their relationship had shifted from nothing to everything.

  Santo hauled in a deep breath, resisting that savage, elemental instinct that had him wanting to flatten her to the wall and drag the answers from her. ‘When did you find out you were pregnant?’