The police had told them to sit tight while they contacted Olivier, and an hour later, Olivier had called them.
“He’s obviously been planning this for months,” Olivier said, sounding as desolate as they did. “He emptied his accounts and sold most of the stuff from the house. When they went there tonight, it was on fire. It was gutted …the house is gone, man. All dad’s stuff. Enda, he’s got unlimited funds. He can hide anywhere in the world and he won’t stop until Ama’s in his grip.”
“Not going to happen,” Enda said grimly. “He’ll kill her the minute she goes to him.”
“Agreed. Look, my suggestion is to stay there. It’s too dangerous here, even though I don’t think Jackson is even in the States anymore. He’s gone underground. Someone, somewhere surely will have to see him sometime, right? I’ve already sent out a team to scour California.”
Enda sighed. “Good. I’ll do the same here. Listen, Tommaso Winter said the same thing. We need to cover the globe. He spoke to Raffaelo—you can imagine what he said.”
“How is Inca?” Olivier’s voice was soft; he loved Inca as much as the rest of them.
“Not good, brother. Not good at all. God, poor Raff.”
“What is this, now? The fourth or fifth attempt on her life? That’s way too much for any lifetime.”
Enda tried not to let the tears in his eyes fall. He pinched them shut with his fingers. “Let’s hope we can still say it was only an attempt when this is all over. Raff won’t survive if Inca dies.”
There was a heavy silence on the other end of the phone. “Enda …when we find Jackson,” Olivier hesitated, then sighed. “You know what I’m going to say.”
“Yes,” said Enda in a hard voice. “And to answer you …yes. I want that fucker dead. I know he’s your brother, but …”
“He’s no brother of mine,” Olivier said. “Live or die …he’s dead to me now.”
Enda heard the heartbreak in Olivier’s voice and felt the weight of responsibility. His older brother had always been the peacemaker—the steadying hand. Enda hated that he was alone in San Francisco, dealing with all this. “Come to Italy,” he urged. “Be with us.”
Oliver gave a short, sad laugh. “Believe me, I’d like nothing better …but someone needs to be here. Besides, Selima’s boyfriend could still give us some information.”
Chase, Selima’s boyfriend of a few weeks, had been shot and critically wounded when Selima was abducted. He had been trying to defend his girlfriend and took a bullet to the chest.
“Fuck,” said Enda, “What a mess.”
Olivier sighed. “Yeah …and right now, I just don’t see how it could get any worse.”
A week later and nothing had changed. Ama stared out of the window at the heavy security around their villa and felt like a prisoner. Not just here in Italy—but of Jackson’s. He hadn’t contacted her again after that first call, when he’d sounded so triumphant.
“I told you there would be no limit to what I could do if you defied me, Amalia …now say hello to your little sister.”
Selima’s sobs—her cries of pain—as Jackson obviously inflicted harm on her, wherever he was holding her. Ama had screamed at Jackson, but he’d merely laughed and told her to wait for his next call.
A week. Doing God knows what to Selima …fuck.
She went to look for Enda, who was in his office with Tommaso Winter and their respective chiefs of security.
She nodded at Tommaso. He looked desolate. Inca was in a coma, still hovering on the brink of life, and Ama knew Tommaso was trying to keep it together and support his brother as Inca fought to recover. Tommaso smiled at her, his eyes tired and heavy. Ama touched Enda’s arm.
“Baby, can I talk to you for a minute?”
Enda nodded and followed her out of the room. She led him into their bedroom and closed the door. Enda opened his arms, and she went into them. He kissed her tenderly. “Are you okay, Piccolo?”
She shook her head. “No. I just needed alone time with you. I can’t bear all this worry and sadness. I think I’m going mad.”
Enda sighed and hugged her tightly to him. “I know.”
Ama tilted her head up to kiss him again. “Let’s just make the world go away for a few minutes.”
“You sure?”
She nodded and his fingers pulled at the belt of her wrap dress. Pushing back the fabric and letting the dress fall to the floor, he kept his hands gentle on her skin as he lay her down on the bed. He pulled her panties down and found her wet for him already. “Don’t wait,” she whispered.
Enda stripped quickly and lay on top of her. “No matter what …I love you,” he said softly, and she nodded, tears in her eyes, as his cock pushed into her.
They made love slowly, rocking gently as his thrusts grew more intense. They gazed at each other, as if drinking each other in, and both their orgasms were mellow, shivering things. When she came, all her suppressed emotion flooded to the surface and Ama began to cry hot, silent tears.
She cried herself out in Enda’s arms, and finally, thankfully, fell asleep.
Raffaelo stroked the hair away from his wife’s face. “Her color is a little better.”
Bo Kennedy, his brother’s partner, couldn’t see any improvement. It made her sick to see Inca so still and pale. Her usually glowing honey skin was yellow and gray, tubes stuck in her arms, and the breathing apparatus filled her throat. Jesus …how the hell had this happened? Why? Some sick psycho’s way of getting revenge on his wife was to kill her friend?
Bo sat down heavily in the chair opposite Raffaelo and took Inca’s cold hand. She couldn’t die …could she? Not after everything she’d gone through to get to the happy life she had with Raffaelo.
“Whoever this Jackson Gallo wanker is, I’d like to kill him. What a fucking coward. Send two men to kill a defenseless woman? For what? Spite. Fucker.”
Raffaelo, his green eyes heavy and exhausted, nodded. “I know …that’s what gets me …the sheer spite of it. Inca had nothing to do with Ama’s decision to leave Jackson.” He smiled briefly. “Although, Inca did knee him in the balls.”
Bo half-smiled. “Still …deciding to have her killed for that?”
“Sadly, Jackson is that vengeful and that psychotic. He only went after the women. Idiot thinks they’re the weaker sex.”
Bo was incensed. “Yeah? Then come at me, bro, I’ll show you different.”
Inca gave a low moan and they both sat up. Raff leaned over his wife as Bo pressed the button for the nurse. “Inca? Cara mia? I’m here. Please, open your eyes. Wake up, baby. I love you, please …”
He was rambling, and Bo was saddened by the desperation in his voice. The nurse came in and looked at them questioningly. Bo suddenly felt stupid.
“She moaned …we, um, we thought maybe she was waking up.”
The nurse smiled at her sympathetically. “Let’s hope. Excuse me, sir. I just want to check Mrs. Winter.”
Raff moved, looking discombobulated. “Of course, sorry.”
She patted his arm warmly. “Let’s just hope,” she said again. She took a small flashlight from her pocket and checked Inca’s eyes, then checked the machines keeping her alive, and her blood pressure. “Okay, well, I’ll just get the doctor and we can make a determination.”
Raffaelo and Bo waited impatiently for the doctor to complete his examination. Raff stared at Inca’s hand. He was sure her fingers had briefly squeezed his as he held them, but he was so dog-tired and grief-stricken that he told himself he might have been hallucinating.
The doctor stepped back and smiled at them both. “Mrs. Winter does appear to be coming out of her coma.”
The relief hit Raff like a sledgehammer and he gave a low gasp of release. Bo went to him and held him up. The doctor patted his shoulder.
“Now, listen, this is very good news—very good news, but, Mr. Winter, your wife has a long way to go. A long way. Her injuries …remember, we had to remove her kidney and her liver was lacerated. The
re’s still a high risk of infection. The hysterectomy will have taken a toll too. So, long haul. But this is a great positive step forward.” He smiled kindly at Raff, who couldn’t stop the tears from flooding down his cheeks. “Now, the thing to remember is that it could take days or even weeks, for Inca to emerge fully from the coma. So, be patient. I’ll come back later and run some more tests.”
Bo hugged Raff to her. “This is good news, bro. Good, good news.”
Raff nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He smiled at her and extracted himself to go and sit by Inca.
“I’ll go call Tommaso,” Bo said softly, “Tell them all the good news.”
Raffaelo nodded, his entire focus on Inca now. When they were alone, he leaned over and kissed the side of her mouth, next to the breathing tube. “Amore mia,” he said, his voice breaking. “Please come back to me. I don’t know how to live in a world without you. Fight, Inca, my beautiful Inca. You’ve done this before. Fight. Fight to come back to me.”
He picked up her hand and brought it to his mouth. God, when she awoke …he would have to tell her that she had been targeted yet again by a psychopath and that there had been no good reason, other than malevolence, behind her stabbing. That they’d had to fight to save her life for hours in the operating theater.
That the baby she hadn’t known they could have, and that she had been carrying for a month, had been murdered in her womb. Their child. Their only child. They’d told them years ago that she wouldn’t be able to carry a baby to full-term, even if she could conceive it, to begin with. And that now, they would never get the chance to try again. The killer’s knife had sliced through her womb and they had to remove it. Inca would never be pregnant again.
Mio Dio …Raff closed his eyes and fought against the scream in his throat. Never again. He didn’t care if he had to keep her in a fortress. No one would ever touch her again—never hurt her again.
And he, Raffaelo, would never fail her again.
Ama woke in the late evening, as she heard raised voices somewhere in the villa. She pulled a t-shirt and a pair of jeans on and went to find out what was going on. She pushed her way into the kitchen and saw Enda arguing furiously with someone. When she shifted position, she saw him and gasped.
Her father had come to Italy. He saw her and rounded on her, his face a mask of rage. “You. This is your fault. My daughter is abducted and I find out about it on the news? This is your doing, Amalia, and …”
He never finished the sentence, as an incensed and raging Enda punched him out.
Her uncle, her beloved Omar, who had come with Gajendra to Italy, put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple. “Your father will calm down, Amalia. Give him time.”
Exhausted, Ama leaned against him. “I don’t want him here, Omar, but I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you. I just wish …god, Omar. She’s been gone a week. Who knows what horrors he’s putting her through.” She lowered her voice. “Omar …I don’t want Enda to know this, but if Jackson will swap me for her, I’ll do it. I’ll do it right now.”
Her uncle looked pained. “Sweetheart, let’s not even consider that as an option yet. Or at all. We’ll get Selima back. I have spoken to Olivier Gallo, and now to your Enda and his friend. Between us, we can cover the globe to find your sister. And we will.”
Amalia rubbed her eyes. “Dads right about one thing—this is my fault. All of it. Selima, Christina …Inca. God.” She felt sick.
Omar tightened his arm around her and spoke in a low, fierce voice. “This is not your fault. Your father is lashing out because he feels the guilt keenly. The guilt for using his daughters to save his business, when he could have come to me. His pride put you both in harm’s way. He knows that marrying you to Jackson Gallo was the catalyst. He fed Jackson’s obsession and sense of entitlement.”
Ama heard his words, but could not shake the guilt anyway. “Omar, could you take dad back to the hotel? I need some time with Enda.”
Omar kissed her cheek. “Of course, darling. I will be just a phone call away if you need me.”
Enda looked tired, but when she joined him in the kitchen, he kissed her and smiled at her. “Inca’s coming out of her coma,” he told her, and Ama felt her heart lift.
“Really?”
“Tommaso just called. She’s still critical, but it’s a good step forward.”
Ama slumped against him. “Some good news, at last.” She felt like crying, but this time for good reasons. Could this be the tide turning?
“Have they found anything out about Selima’s whereabouts?”
Enda hesitated, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, baby. Chase is still unconscious, and the California team has had no luck. Look, we have the house to ourselves tonight. Just for one-night …let’s try and relax and spend some time together. I know it will be difficult, but I’m worried that if we—and I mean you, Piccolo—keep this level of stress up, we’ll make bad decisions. Forget why we did this.”
Ama was silent, considering his proposal. Could she relax, knowing what was happening to her sister? Even if it wasn’t happening—and she didn’t think there was any chance of that—she still had the visions of what Jackson could do to her sister.
But she looked up into the eyes of the man she had sacrificed everything for and knew she would make the same decision over and over again. Enda was right. They needed to reconnect properly, remember that they were in this together, and that there were more people on their side than on Jackson’s.
She nodded up at him. “Yes, okay …for tonight …me and you.”
“Good.” He kissed her forehead. “Let’s start by getting some proper food into you. You haven’t eaten for days.”
They cooked a meal together, a hot and spicy curry that they washed down with a cold beer each, then sat watching TV. Ama couldn’t help her mind drifting to her sister, and at ten p.m., Enda looked around at her, studied her expression, and sighed. “Miss Rai …I think I need to distract you more …” He stood up and pulled her to her feet. He nuzzled his nose to hers before pressing his lips against hers. “The house is empty except for us. We’re totally alone …listen how quiet the night is.”
He led her to the window and pushed open the shutters. The stone window sill was wide enough for them both to sit on. “Look at that,” Enda said softly. The moon was full over the Bay of Naples, Vesuvius casting a long shadow. The cities of Naples and Sorrento lay beneath them. The lights of the fishing boats bobbed out at sea, the soft glow from the cities’ streets. “There is only one thing I consider more beautiful than this view,” Enda said in his low, growly accent, “And that is you, Piccolo. You are the love of my life and the reason for my being. There is absolutely no way I would give you up for anything. I know what you think—that you hold Selima’s life in your hands. You don’t. But you hold mine, and I hold yours. There is no you and me. There is only us. And we, together, will fight this and we will win.”
Ama had tears in her eyes and they spilled down her cheeks as he finished speaking. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t tell this wonderful man just how much she loved him. Instead, she kissed him, her mouth hungry against his. He pulled her onto his lap and began to peel her dress from her shoulders until he could dip his head and take her nipple into his mouth. Ama sighed and closed her eyes, not caring if any of the security guards patrolling their grounds could see them. This is what matters, she thought. Love. Enda picked her up and carried her to the couch, pushing up her skirt and snagging his fingers in her panties to pull them off. Ama pulled her dress over her head and then helped him strip, running her hands over his broad shoulders, wide, muscled chest, and flat stomach. He covered her body with his, seeking her lips.
“Ama …” he murmured, in the way that always made her weak, and as she curled her legs around his hips, feeling his erection nudging at her, she opened up to take him in as deep as she could, wanting and needing that connection.
Enda moved in slow, measured strokes, kissing her, murmuring
her name over and over, and sending thrills through her entire being. Ama gazed up into his green eyes and wondered how she had ever existed without this man. She could believe him, in moments like this, that everything would be okay—that everything would turn out right.
He was so controlled that her orgasm built and built, and every time she thought she would reach her peak, Enda would hold back, until she was quivering mass of anticipation. When her orgasm hit, it made her mind whirl, her skin vibrate, and all she could see was him, smiling down at her, groaning as he too came, his seed shooting deep into her belly.
“I love you. I love you,” she whispered, and he laughed softly.
“And I’m not even halfway done tonight …”
They made love until dawn began to spread its fingers across the sky, then fell asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms. When they woke, Ama felt stronger than she had in days. Then, in the evening, the news came that Inca was awake.
Inca awoke sometime in the afternoon, and of course, it was in the five minutes that Raff, who had been at her side constantly, went to take a coffee break. Alone, Inca blinked, trying to get the smeary glaze from her eyes, moving her limbs, feeling the stiffness of her body, and the numbness that she recognized as morphine coursing through her system. It was a heavy dose too, she knew of old—from the last time she’d been stabbed. How the hell had it happened again? Here, in her beloved Naples, where all she had found was love. Had it been part of a robbery? Somehow, she couldn’t see it. It was personal. She remembered the man who had stabbed her so viciously …he had looked her in the eye as he plunged the knife into her. The expression she would never forget …enjoyment. He meant to kill her. Inca was sure of it. She wasn’t a random victim.
Could it have been Edgar Winter, her husband’s psychotic father who had tried to kill her twice before, just to make Raffaelo suffer? He was rotting away in prison now for his crimes, but he could have just as easily hired someone to do it. After all this time, though? It had been years that he had been incarcerated.
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