by Sadie Black
No.
Ciara located the long banquet table at the back of the room and helped herself to a glass of champagne. All that mattered was that Luka loved her and stood up for her. He was smart enough to rise above the senseless hate that older generations clung onto. He was transparent enough with his emotions that she knew he didn’t have a hidden agenda when it came to her heart. Ciara lingered by the table for a moment, tipped the glass of champagne to her lips, and savored the taste. She could trust Luka. Why would a man playing games save her life from the mafia? What they had was real, and with hard work and open communication, it would last forever. It didn’t matter that Luka hadn’t given her a ring, or that they weren’t allowed to live together in Gracie Mansion — their relationship spanned beyond petty little things like that.
Didn’t it?
Champagne in hand, Ciara moved away from the table as several of Luka’s relatives approached. All this doubt was a product of anger, she told herself. When the anger was all worked out, the doubt disappear, and everything would be okay again. All she had to do was stay strong. Luka was worth the effort, even in hard times.
Gracie Mansion was huge, and Ciara occupied herself by moving through its downstairs rooms. A velvet rope sectioned off the upstairs, encouraging guests to remain in the designated area.
On her way through the entrance way, the doorbell rang. No one else moved to get it. Luka was probably quelling his temper after Aunt Ernesta’s honesty, so she made her way to the front door and opened it. On the porch, dressed in a fine suit, was a tall, slender man with dark hair, a large nose, and cunning eyes. The cold had chased his hands into the pockets of his suit coat.
“Hello,” she said cordially. To her surprise, her words were light and airy, as though she hadn’t just been degraded. “Thank you for coming out. It’s so good to see you.”
The man’s lips narrowed as though displeased, but Ciara didn’t think the expression odd. Every guest in attendance had been struck with a sudden loss, and some took it harder than others. The man at the door was likely dealing with Marcello’s loss in the only way he knew how.
“You must be Ciara,” he said. The mild Italian accent in his voice made each syllable smooth and musical, and Ciara found herself swayed by it. Sharp blue eyes locked with hers, and familiarity gripped her. Hadn’t she seen those eyes before? Why was it she couldn’t remember his name?
“Guilty as charged,” she said with a smile. “Why don’t you come in? It’s cold out there. We have drinks available, and there’s plenty of conversation to be had.”
The man kicked the snow from the grooves of his fine leather shoes, then stepped past the threshold. His hands remained in his pockets, and he glanced left and right as though taking inventory of the house. Ciara had also been impressed by Gracie Mansion the first time around, and she was glad to see she wasn’t alone in her astonishment.
“I’d like to speak with Luka, please,” the man said as his blue eyes returned to her. An elderly couple, unrelated to the Belmontes by the looks of them, made leave of the house and brushed by them. The woman looked back over her shoulder at the young man, eyebrow hitched. Ciara noticed her gaze. Was he someone famous? The way she looked at him suggested awe and respect, and although Ciara recognized his eyes, she couldn’t place them. The holes in her memory were infuriating. “Would you be able to show me to him?”
“Of course.”
The front door closed, and the swirling vortex of cold air went with it. The warmth was appreciated; the lace arms of Ciara’s dress did little to defend her against plunging temperatures.
“Thank you.”
He was so formal. Ciara gave him one last curious look, then turned and led him through the entrance hall. Designer heels, a gift from Camilla, clicked across the floor as she went. Red soles added a pop of color against the otherwise somber room. The man followed.
Luka hadn’t gone far. One arm hooked over the top of the chair his mother sat on, mother and son conversed with an elderly gentleman. Since the funeral, Camilla’s mood had improved; the social interaction did her good. The black dress she wore had once made her look deathly pale, but now suited her. A glow had returned to her features that bode well for her health.
Ciara laid her hand on Luka’s shoulder and at that he turned his head. When he laid eyes upon her, some of the harshness slipped from his face, and the intensity of his gaze softened. Love. She’d worked herself up for nothing — a man who looked at her like that would never hurt her. Luka had proved himself in the past, and she had no reason not to trust him.
“You doing any better?” he asked in a low voice. “I made sure she left. I told her to forget my name and number and take a hike. We don’t need that kind of negativity in our lives.”
And he just proved himself again. Ciara smiled, and pressed a kiss against his cheek.
“I’m feeling okay. Thank you for taking care of that; you have no idea how much it means to me.”
“Of course.”
Ciara gestured toward their newest guest.
“This gentleman wanted me to find you. He said he wants to talk.”
But the recognition she’d felt didn’t register in Luka’s expression. Instead, he furrowed his brow as his eyes took in the new guest. This was no family member — at least, not one that he’d met before. All of a sudden, Ciara felt uneasy. She turned to look at the man, whose hands were still tucked into his suit coat pockets.
“It’s really less of a talk,” the man said, “and more of a listen. I’ve been told you’re not good at listening, so I’m going to give you a second to clean out your ears and get ready for what I have to say.”
The unease turned to dread. Beside her, Luka tensed. The muscles of his arms tightened, hands clenching into fists. His posture changed, back more rigid and neck stiff.
“Who are you?” he asked, the tone of his voice a shade darker than it usually was.
“Who I am isn’t what’s important,” the man replied. “What’s important is the message I have to deliver, and I’m only going to say it once.” The babble of conversation persisted around them, and even Camilla, who sat not three feet away, seemed oblivious to the moment at hand. The man’s posture was relaxed, but he still hadn’t taken his hands from his pockets. Ciara had a sinking feeling that he was concealing something that spelled bad news.
“I’m listening,” Luka said stiffly. He took a small step forward, placing himself between Ciara and the man. The suspicions she fostered were his as well; the guest had a weapon, and Luka put himself in harm’s way to shield her. Ciara remained mute. If she made a sound, if she drew attention to what was going on, how many people would the man kill before he was detained? At once she remembered those eyes, but it was already too late—
They were the same striking blues that Vittore had stared her down with at Luka’s condo.
“Vittore sends his condolences, and apologizes that he can’t attend your gathering in person. His sincerely hopes that he doesn’t need to attend any more memorials for such highly preventable tragedies again as the two of you move forward with your arrangement.”
Framed behind him as she was, Ciara saw the tremor run through Luka’s body, the fabric of his suit coat bunched as he held back a punch.
“Luka, baby, who’s that?” Camilla had turned around in her chair, her eyes settling on the young man with the blue eyes. “Is he a friend of yours?”
“No, mom.” Luka’s voice was just as stiff as his posture. He did not turn to face her as he spoke, eyes glued on Vittore’s messenger. “He was just leaving.”
“You have my condolences, Mrs. Belmonte,” the young man said with a slight bow of his head. His gaze darted past Luka and to Ciara, narrowed and dangerous. All Ciara found she could do was stand in place behind Luka, cold terror washing through her from head to toe. It was the kind of look that spoke more than words ever could. It was the kind of look that told her that nothing was safe anymore, and that the Don hadn’t forgotten about her
.
“Thank you, dear.”
But before Camilla could ensnare him with further conversation, the young man slipped into the crowd and out the front door.
“Ciara, you look tense. Do you need a drink? Luka, get Ciara a drink. She’s been through a lot today.” Camilla twittered from where she sat. Company had benefited her mood beyond any other creature comforts; she had no idea what had just passed between her son, his fiancé, and the stranger.
“Yeah,” Luka murmured, “a drink sounds good. I think I need one, too.”
No amount of champagne could curb the dread a few seconds of conversation had instilled in her. Ciara’s creeping suspicions had come true; Marcello had been murdered to teach Luka a lesson. If his messenger’s eyes spoke the truth, it seemed very likely she would be next.
* * *
Luka
Rubber squealed against pavement as Luka rounded the corner. The roar of the Corvette’s engine cut through the silence inside the car, but did nothing to cut through his rage. Did Vittore really believe he’d sit down and take this kind of shit? That he wouldn’t retaliate? Luka gripped the steering wheel, jaw clenched so tight that his back molars ground against each other. If the Don didn’t have the balls to come deliver his little message in person, Luka would go to him.
The Lombardo mansion was fenced off, the high iron gates closed as Luka slowed to a stop. Inside a booth at the side of the gate sat the same guard as before, his heels kicked up upon his desk as he reclined in his chair. A slow day at the Lombardo residence was about to get kicked the fuck up. Luka killed the engine, swung the car door open, and stormed toward the booth.
“I need to see Vittore,” he seethed. Whatever it took to get inside, he was going to do it. Vittore was not going to get away with murder unscathed.
“Is Mr. Lombardo expecting you?” the guard asked. He pushed back from the desk and stood, peering at Luka from behind his plexiglass window. “Visitation with Mr. Lombardo is by appointment only.”
That shit wasn’t going to fly. Luka scowled, his brows knit together in anger and his lips pulling back to expose teeth, as though he were a wolf about to pounce on it’s prey. The guard looked unimpressed.
“I’m the fuckin’ mayor of New York City,” Luka spat. The Italian accent he fought so hard to suppress broke free of the shackles he kept it in. “If Vittore doesn’t let me in, I’ll have the entire NYPD down here tearing this place to shit.”
The threat had the guard purse his lips and narrow his eyes. At long last he broke the silence by pushing a button. “Proceed,” the guard said. This time around he didn’t check Luka’s car, or even exit the booth.
As incensed as he was, Luka didn’t care. A note, hidden in his condo in the fridge beneath the carton of milk, would tell Ciara where he’d gone if he didn’t come back. News of Vittore and his crimes would spread faster than a whore’s legs, and he’d be done. Even that wasn’t punishment enough for what he’d done. But before Luka could proceed with his plan, he needed some face time to set the record straight.
In a blind fury, Luka returned to his car and drove up the long driveway to Vittore’s estate. The grounds were empty, Vittore’s goons absent. It only made matters easier.
Luka parked, exited the car, and headed for the front doors. It was only when he had his hand on the knob that he knew he wasn’t alone. An oversized hand grabbed him by the shoulder and wrenched him around, and Luka stared down one of the men who’d roughed Ciara up. His brother was still out of sight.
“What the fuck you think you’re doing, little man?” the thug grunted, slamming Luka back against the front door. Vittore’s security was nothing to mess with.
“I’m here to see Vittore,” Luka snarled, squaring his shoulders, preparing for a fight he’d never win. “And you’re not going to stop me.”
A gust of heated air blasted Luka from behind, and pair of hands grabbed his shoulders. The thug’s brother appeared from inside, and wasted no time slamming Luka into the wall by the open door. Against the cold December air, Luka felt his warm blood stream from his nose across his lips.
“If he won’t, I will.”
“You’d best be getting back in your frilly fucking car, Belmonte, and leave this place for good. You keep fucking up, you’re going to get fucked up.”
Blood rushed over his lips and down his chin, and the first crimson dot sank into the snow dusted on the porch. Luka’s palms pressed flat against the wall, wincing as he fought against the pain. The goon’s hands kept him pinned.
“I’m not going anywhere until I talk to him!”
“Then you’re going to have a long fucking w—” The ringing of an old fashioned telephone cut him off, and both men fell silent. The call came from the man’s pocket, and he fished his cell out of his jacket and answered immediately.
“Boss?”
Silence. Pressed up against the wall, Luka was unable to see the thug’s expression. When the man behind him eased his grip and pulled away, Luka knew that the call had gone in his favor.
“Boss says you’re allowed to come inside, and that he’ll see you, since you came all the way down here to see him. Says it must be an emergency, if you’re showing up uninvited.”
As soon as he was able, Luka spun around to face the men, not yet sure it wasn’t just a trick to get him to ease up. Both men had gone from aggressive and cruel to casual; Vittore had them well trained.
“Then take me to him,” Luka said. “I don’t wanna waste any more time.”
Blood still dripped from his nose, streaking his face red. Luka made no effort to stop the bleeding or clean up — battle scars were to be worn with pride. He wanted Vittore to see just how serious he was. Getting roughed up wasn’t enough to get him to stop.
“You try to pull a fast one,” the man who’d restrained him growled, “and I’ll tear that pretty little face off your head.”
“And for fuck’s sake, if you think you’re gonna take Vittore down, you’re wrong. That man’s been shot at more times than a target at a firing range, but he’s never gone down.”
Vaguely, Luka recalled a time when these two had joked with him and playfully given him a hard time. One of them was named Alex, he recalled. Which one of them it was had been lost to memory. Since they’d busted into Ciara’s apartment and tried to mess her up, his impression had changed. If Vittore turned on a man, so did his henchmen, and Luka knew he was far from the Don’s favorite individual.
Without another word, they entered the Lombardo mansion and headed to the second floor. Vittore’s office was the same, only this time Vittore was joined by a young, beautiful girl. Little more than eighteen, her flawless breasts were uncovered, and the micro skirt she wore did little to hide the rest of her body. She sat on Vittore’s knee, arms wrapped loosely around his neck, as his fingers stroked the creamy skin of her upper thigh.
“Alex, Anthony, stand outside and close the door,” Vittore ordered.
“But boss—”
“You don’t trust my judgment?” Not a beat passed before he shut disobedience down. From the sudden silence and tension in the room, he knew they’d no longer be an issue. The blonde on Vittore’s lap clicked her tongue scolding them playfully. Her saccharine innocence turned Luka’s stomach. How had he wasted so much time chasing girls like her? The wild days of his past were so distant and foreign now.
“No, boss. We’re leaving. Call us if you need us; we’ll be waiting just outside the door.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Vittore praised, and the girl on his lap giggled, kissing his cheek. She whispered something into his ear, and the Don shook his head. “You stay, Gattina. You’re just fine.”
When the door closed behind them, Luka encroached upon Vittore’s desk. The blonde looked up at him and smiled, offering him a wink. Was Vittore’s strategy to distract him? It wasn’t going to work, not now that he had Ciara.
“It’s a good thing you’ve come, Luka,” Vittore said before he had a chance to tear in
to him. “I’m so sorry for your loss; Marcello was a good man. A fine man. Always listened to what he was told, always did what was right and looked away when it was best to look away. Few men are so sensible. I’m happy that you’ve decided to take a page out of your father’s book and come to your senses. I knew we’d get our fine professional relationship back on track.”
The anger of a bull branded with a white hot poker would be nothing next to Luka’s wrath. He slammed both palms down against the Don’s desk, and the pretty girl on Vittore’s lap gasped.
“Are you fucking retarded?” Luka barked. “You have to be the most fucking dim-witted moron I’ve ever met if you think that I’m here to get back on track.” The hitch of his voice rose at the end of his sentence, scathingly saccharine and sarcastic. “This isn’t some fucking disagreement; you killed my father. You murdered him.”
“Did you do that, Vittore?” the girl on his lap asked, burrowing against the man’s strong chest and pouting her lips. “That’s not very nice.”
“I didn’t do that, Gattina. Marcello was in a motor accident. I was at home the whole time. I would never harm a friend as good as Marcello with my own hands.”
The soft sigh that parted her lips turned to a shriek as Luka slammed his fist against the desk.
“You’re a fuckin’ loon, Vittore. A no good, pompous, fuckwad of a loon. You know full well you’re the one who did this. My dad died because of you! And you’re even more fuckin’ bent if you think I’m ever going to work with you again. You mark my fucking words, Vittore, you’re gonna pay for what you did to my dad!”
“Oh my god, did you even hear what he said?” the blonde asked, turning her gaze to Luka. She set her lips and furrowed her brow, dilated pupils partially masked beneath hooded eyelids. “He was at home when your dad was hit by a car, okay? So stop being so angry at him. Maybe if you used your ears, you’d be less angry, god.”
“It looks like my little Gattina has claws,” Vittore remarked with a wry smile. “Don’t you think she’s beautiful, Luka? Full, heavy breasts held up against gravity by the sheer will of God, wide hips to fill with a child, and a tiny waist to hold as you do it.”