by Tamara Lush
She entered his parents’ names into the search tool. One other small article ran two weeks after the fire. Skylar plugged it into the translation website, and she learned it said the Camorra likely set the blaze.
“Camorra,” Emily said. “What’s that?”
A chill went through Skylar despite the oppressive humidity. Hadn’t Luca mentioned the Camorra the first night they met? She couldn’t remember. Luca had said so many things in Italian. She navigated to Wikipedia and read aloud, “‘The Camorra is an Italian Mafia-type crime syndicate.’”
She and Emily looked at each other with huge eyes.
“Whoa,” Emily whispered.
Skylar didn’t say anything.
They found nothing else online about Luca or the fire.
None of this made sense, Skylar decided. Why hadn’t he mentioned this about his parents? Why hadn’t his uncle said anything? Sky tried to categorize the information in her mind and was beginning to realize there was a lot she didn’t know about the Rossi family. Too much.
She said, “Luca said his master’s thesis was about the Mafia.”
Emily sent her a knowing look. “Maybe the fire had something to do with Luca’s father being a prosecutor. Or, what if Luca’s in the Mafia? What if his master’s thesis is bullshit and he’s really a criminal and his parents were killed for retribution? What if he’s like Furio, the sexy guy with the ponytail in The Sopranos who came over to be a Mafia enforcer for Tony? What if he’s starting a branch of the Mafia right here on Palmira?”
Skylar burst out laughing. “Thank God you cover sports and not crime. The Mafia’s not like a fast-food franchise.”
But, maybe Emily had a point. Could Luca be a criminal? It would explain why he was so evasive with details about his past. And Federico seemed a bit shady himself, what with that business about not listing his house under his name for tax purposes.
“Do you think I should see him again?” she murmured. “If he calls, that is. He might not after last night.” She tapped her beer bottle with her nails: index finger, middle finger, ring finger, pinky. Rinse, repeat.
“Do you really think he’s a criminal?”
Skylar’s intuition told her Luca wasn’t, although clearly her gut had been wrong before. And she had read too many true-crime books to know that some men were excellent liars. Sociopaths, even. But Luca didn’t seem like he was lying. He just evaded lots of her questions.
Skylar shivered in the hot Florida sun, as if someone had run an ice cube down her spine, then shook her head.
Emily shrugged. “Dunno, then. Sure. Why not? It’s not like you’ve got anyone better knocking on your door. And he’s really hot. If you want to screw him, do it and don’t get emotionally involved.”
Skylar nodded. Avoiding any emotional involvement with Luca was probably a good plan regardless of who he turned out to be. She didn’t need a complicated guy like this to divert attention away from her career. She needed to get out of Palmira and to a bigger paper. When she’d taken the job she’d given herself two years, max, to get enough clips to move up and out. When her mother was dying, Skylar made her a promise: to not ever languish in a dead-end job in a small-town.
Her friend interrupted her thoughts. “At least we know why he didn’t want you to put him in the paper when you first met him. Because of this Camorra thing.”
Skylar nodded and sipped more beer. Emily was likely right. But now she was even more curious about Luca’s past, and the only way to find out was to get to know him better.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“I do not understand. I thought that all property listings were public record here in Florida. That is what I read on your state website. Why wouldn’t Federico Rossi’s address be public? I know he has a house on Palmira. It said so right in the newspaper.”
Annalisa tried not to let her annoyance show to the bureaucrat sitting across the counter. She had searched online in public records databases for Federico’s address and yet found nothing. After a confusing volley of phone calls to government offices, she’d been forced to drive off-island to the county’s property appraiser in Fort Myers.
The bureaucrat shrugged. “Sometimes people list their properties under a corporation or a business name.”
Annalisa sighed. She needed to locate Federico’s house. It was the only way to find out if Luca was there. She opened her oversized Gucci bag and took out that day’s Palmira Post. She also extracted three, crisp $100 bills from her wallet. This was the way things were done in Italy and worth a try in Florida.
The clerk watched her set the money on the newspaper then fold the paper in half.
“Surely everyone must know where Federico Rossi’s island mansion is,” Annalisa said, her voice softening and taking on a greater Italian lilt. She slid the paper toward the bureaucrat, who took the paper wordlessly.
He rose from his seat, and Annalisa wondered if this little scheme would backfire on her. But, what was the worst they could do? Try to arrest her on bribery charges? She could get out of anything with tears.
After a moment, the clerk returned with an orange sticky note. He handed it to her. It said, The Sanctuary, 100 Royal Palm Drive, Palmira, Florida.
“Thank you, sir.” Annalisa strode out of the office, feeling triumphant.
On her way back over the long bridge to the island, her phone rang. Annalisa recognized the Italian number and answered with, “Mama?”
Her mother spoke in a long string of Italian sentences without pausing to take a breath. “I know you’re in Florida. Please come home. You don’t need to be there. I spoke with your cousin and he’s going to help you again. He wants you to know that everything is taken care of with, with…”
“I’m fine, Mama. Just taking a little rest on the beach. I’m not doing what you think I am.”
Her mother sighed. “Bruno wants me to tell you that he’s on top of the situation in Florida and there’s no need to interfere. He didn’t want me to say anything to you, but I can’t help it. Please come home.”
“Mama, I’m not interfering in anything.”
“Bruno says he’s sending someone.”
What the fuck? Annalisa’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Here? To Florida?”
“Yes. Now come home.”
“No. I’m enjoying myself on the beach. Please. Trust me. Remember, the doctor said I’m fine as long as I take my medicine, and I’m taking it. How’s the kitty?”
Her mother chattered on in a nervous voice. Annalisa didn’t care about the family cat and she refused to ask about her stepfather. In fact, fuck her mother and the entire family. Her mother hadn’t protected her from her stepfather, so why should Annalisa tell her the truth about anything?
As she came close to The Sanctuary and Federico Rossi’s house, she hurried her mother off the phone with more lies. “I have to go, Mama, my spa appointment is coming up. I love you, Mama. I’ll send you a postcard.”
Annalisa hung up then slowed the car. But, dammit, there was a guard at the gate. One more obstacle.
She pulled into the nearest public beach parking lot and climbed out. Walking down a wooden path between the dunes, she spotted a long gate and the mansions of The Sanctuary behind it. Which one was Rossi’s house? It was difficult to tell the addresses from outside the complex. She considered talking to the guard at the gate, maybe bribing him. That would have to be a last resort, in case Luca’s uncle was with him, or if there were others in the house. Somehow, she had to get Luca alone. And soon.
What did her mother mean when she’d said that Bruno was on top of the situation? He wouldn’t send someone here to kill the man she loved, would he? Annalisa’s heart dropped to her stomach. Yes. Her cousin would. So Annalisa needed to find Luca and protect him. To take him away. To make him understand that she was his only hope for safety.
She leaned on the wooden rail of the walkway, and a hot breeze made her short sundress flap against her thighs. She slipped into a daydream, the sun lulling her into a fa
ntasy world. This was a beautiful beach, and she knew Luca would want to kiss her here at sunset.
Also, if Bruno was sending someone to Florida, she didn’t have much time left.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Later that night, after Skylar napped, read The New Yorker cover to cover and researched more about the Camorra in Naples, she met up with her coworkers at the Sloppy Iguana. Every Friday was ’80s night, which meant it was packed with those who had actually lived through the 1980s and the handful of younger people on the island who wanted to dance to cheesy music.
The Iguana was the newsroom’s bar of choice for celebration, usually when someone at the paper had a birthday or was leaving. That evening’s party was for a copy editor who’d been hired on at The Tampa Bay Times, and everyone at The Post harbored a mixture of jealousy and happiness at his departure.
Skylar walked in to the strains of an old Madonna song. She didn’t much like ’80s music because it made her think of her mother, who’d played the decade’s songs all during Sky’s childhood. She remembered riding in the family Subaru, signing all the synth-pop hits in unison with her mom on their way to and from school. That was one of her favorite childhood memories. Favorite, but painful.
Tonight she had agreed to be the designated driver for Emily, who wanted to drink but didn’t want to get stopped by her boyfriend’s cop buddies. It would be a long night, therefore, and Sky wished she was home. Usually she liked hanging out with everyone from the newsroom, but tonight she wanted to be alone in bed so she could think about Luca. She couldn’t shake the image of his parents dying in a horrible, suspicious fire, leaving him all alone. Who’d even told him that his parents died? Had he seen their bodies in the morgue? Had the case been solved?
She wondered how he’d coped with the funeral. It reminded her of her own mother’s slow death from melanoma. Sitting alone in the funeral home she had silently and miserably realized she was supposed to be picking out a prom dress and not a casket. Then she’d felt guilty for even thinking that way. A big part of her wanted to hold Luca tight and talk about their parallel, painful lives. Another very small part wanted to entice him to tell her his story because she was so damned curious.
Somehow, in the years after her mother died, she had developed an ability to read, listen and talk about tragedy without getting too emotional. She occasionally wondered if her mother’s death had shocked her feelings into stasis, which in turn had made her an even-tempered, balanced journalist. She figured her balance also had something to do with her upbringing at her mother’s yoga studio. Yin/yang. Inner peace. Equilibrium. To James, that inability to get too passionate had made her a cold bitch.
“Why don’t you call your Italian stallion?” Emily shouted in her ear.
Skylar rolled her eyes, smirked and shook her head. That would be too awkward. No way would she call him first.
“The people-watching is good tonight,” her friend called out. She gestured around them at the bar.
Sky sipped her iced tea and laughed. “I was just thinking that. It’s the best thing about being a journalist. You just learn to kick back and watch people. Humans are so funny.”
They both looked around and enjoyed the show, giggling.
To Skylar’s left, a fifty-something guy in a black Ed Hardy T-shirt tried to chat up the bartender, who was wearing a tight white T-shirt and black nylon shorts. In front of them, a group of women about their age, tourists probably, drank shots.
“Five more blowjobs!” yelped a tiara-wearing woman, and her friends all laughed.
“I’m never having a bachelorette party,” Emily vowed, downing a fireball shot. She grinned. “But you can hire a male stripper for me anytime.”
“Fuck that. I’m never getting married,” Skylar responded with a laugh.
Her phone vibrated in her purse. She pawed around and checked the text message.
Ciao, cara bella. How are you?
Skylar grinned despite herself. Her pulse quickened whenever he used those little Italian pet names.
Bored. I’m at the Iguana. Want to join me?
“Em.” She waved her phone in the air. “It’s him.”
Nope. I don’t do bars. Are you safe to drive? How much have you had to drink? Who are you with?
Hmm. Was he actually jealous?
I’m the designated driver. Not drinking tonight. I’m bringing my friend from sports home later.
Skylar wondered whether she should explain that Emily was a woman, then decided not to. She didn’t owe Luca anything. He hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with his life.
Text me later, when you get home, he wrote. Please be careful.
Her heart stirred from his little show of concern and she responded, Ok. TTYL.
He probably thought the sports reporter was a guy. She wasn’t going to explain the truth right then, though. And toying with Luca and his Italian male sensibilities might not be a terrible idea.
Emily elbowed her arm. “Is he coming here? I wanna meet him.”
Sky shook her head. As much as she wanted Em to see how hot Luca was, she wasn’t ready to introduce him to her newsroom friends. Not in any personal setting. She wanted to make sure it wouldn’t be awkward or weird.
After dancing with Emily and enduring a couple more hours of bad music, she drove her drunk friend home. Finally back at her condo, Skylar showered to get the nasty smell of cigarette smoke out of her hair and off her skin, slipped into a camisole and underwear and nestled into bed with the lights off. There was nothing better than cranking down the air-conditioner and getting under her puffy comforter. At last, phone in hand, she scrolled to Luca’s number and sent him a text.
Hey. I’m home.
He replied immediately. Skylar. It’s been three hours. Are you okay?
I’m fine. It took us a while to leave and I had to shower.
How’s your friend? What sports does he write about?
Oh, Luca was definitely jealous.
SHE is fine, and SHE covers high school sports. HER name is Emily. You thought it was a guy, didn’t you? ;)
Skylar’s phone rang a few seconds later. She grinned despite herself.
“Uh, I did think it was a guy.”
Luca sounded embarrassed. Hearing his voice was so much better than texting, and she laughed. “Jealous?”
“Hmm. Maybe a little. How could I not be when lots of guys are probably after you?”
Ignoring his remark, Skylar changed the subject. “What are you doing?”
“I’m in bed.”
“Oh. Me too.”
“So, I wanted to see if you’d like to come over tomorrow. Watch a movie with me. Have dinner.”
“Will your uncle be back?” Federico had emailed a quick note saying he liked the article, and Skylar wondered how much he knew about her and Luca. And how much time he spent in Palmira.
“No. He’s still in Miami.”
“Okay. Yeah. I would like to come over.”
“Excellent. I’ve been thinking a lot about you. And thinking more about what you said. I think it makes sense to take things slow. I’m kind of a complicated man, Skylar.”
“It’s okay. I don’t mind,” she said. For a moment she was reminded what she’d discovered about his parents and considered raising the subject, but that didn’t feel right, not over the phone. “I mean, I don’t want you to think that I’m not…”
“Not what?”
“Not attracted to you. Because I am. Obviously.”
He laughed, a low, sexy sound. “Well, I’m obviously attracted to you, too. If I could, I’d teleport you here and have my way with you.”
“Oh really? Can you elaborate?” she teased.
“I could, but I’d prefer you tell me what you want. What do you desire?”
Skylar paused. She hadn’t ever had phone sex before. She hadn’t even sent sexy pictures to James because she was too worried that they would be leaked somewhere and her life would be ruined. But indulging in erotic chat with Luca s
eemed fun. Casual. Hot. And very safe, since at least two miles separated them.
Better yet, this was different and unexpected. She had been so used to James orchestrating their sex life that she rarely took the reins. When she’d tried to be on top, or talk sexy, or tell him what she wanted, James laughed at her for being inept and inexperienced. Now, with Luca on the other end of the phone, it seemed like an interesting way to explore her fantasies. Or embarrass herself. She wasn’t sure which.
She took a breath. What did she desire, anyway?
“Hmm. I need some information first. This is a cliché, but here goes. What are you wearing?”
Luca chuckled. It was a genuine sound, and it put her at ease. “Nothing.”
“Oh.” Her heart skipped a beat at the thought. “Where are your hands?”
“Where do you want them to be?”
She laughed but stopped when an image of his strong hand resting on the hard planes of his stomach came into her mind. She pictured his hand shifting lower, between his legs. Wrapping around his erection.
“I’ll do whatever you ask.” His voice was playful, low.
“Can you describe your, your…how do you say it in Italian?”
“My what, Skylar?”
She hesitated, grinning into the phone and feeling bold. “Your cock.”
He growled a little. “Let’s see. Cock. Il Cazzo. That also has other meanings, like—”
“I don’t need a thesaurus,” she interrupted.
“You’re getting stern. And I’m getting harder.”
She gasped then laughed more. “Describe your cock.”
“Well, let’s see. It’s, um. Do you want me to measure it? I don’t think I have a ruler handy.”
Skylar cooed playfully, and he continued.