What a Sicilian Husband Wants

by Michelle Smart

  All the material advantages Lily would have being a Mastrangelo would be cancelled out by the disadvantages. And that was without considering what it would be like growing up with a father who was a dangerous gangster.

  While Grace didn’t believe for a second that Luca would lay a finger on either of them, his rages, which in the last six months or so of their marriage had become more frequent, could be terrifying. Especially for a child. She never wanted her daughter to witness that.

  When she returned to the monastery, she carried Lily to the private front door of their wing. Before she could unlock it, Donatella materialised. ‘I thought you would want to know that Pepe will be returning tomorrow,’ she said, referring to Luca’s younger brother who had his own, rarely used, separate wing in the monastery. Pepe was the family firebrand, a playboy rebel without any discernible cause. Yet, despite his outward rebelliousness, he was fiercely loyal to his family.

  Grace was not looking forward to his return. Pepe would know the truth of what had gone on between her and Luca. The last time she had seen him, Pepe and Luca had had a massive argument. She still had no idea what the row had been about but it had been heated enough for her to worry that one of them would get hurt. It still made her blood freeze whenever she recalled questioning Luca about it afterwards and their own subsequent row.

  ‘Thanks for the warning.’ She placed the key in the lock and as she turned it Donatella placed a bony hand on her arm.

  ‘Why did you return?’

  Grace eyed her warily. There was little point in saying it was because of love. The atmosphere between her and Luca was so cold and yet somehow so charged, the entire household had to be aware things were not right between them. ‘What has Luca told you?’

  ‘Luca does not confide with me. All he has said is that he found you and you agreed to try again. He still has not told me why you left to begin with, or what happened to his shoulder.’

  Grace blanched. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog that clouded it every time she thought of it. She could still smell the gun smoke.

  She could also see the poor beaten man whose eyes had widened with terror when he recognised her as Luca’s wife.

  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s for Luca to tell you what happened.’

  Donatella studied her for a moment before digging into her pocket and producing a key.

  Grace stared at it.

  ‘It’s the key for your studio,’ Donatella said, passing it to her. A shadow crossed her face. ‘Luca refused to let anyone in there. He said it was yours until you returned, even if you only came back to collect your belongings.’

  ‘He said that?’

  A sliver of ice shot out of her mother-in-law’s eyes. ‘I am not a stupid woman. I can tell you do not wish to be here. But you are here even if the circumstances are not what you or my son would wish.’

  With those enigmatic words, Donatella walked off.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IT TOOK ANOTHER two days before Grace gave in. Leaving Lily with Donatella, who was delighted to be granted her first official babysitting duty, she headed through the thick forest that surrounded the monastery to her cottage.

  Her cottage. Given to her by Luca on their wedding day.

  She could still recall her excitement when she’d first walked inside and seen the lengths he had gone to to make it into a proper studio for her. The walls of the ground floor had been knocked down to make one enormous room, and painted white to enhance the natural sunlight. Daylight-mimicking light bulbs had been installed for when the muse took her at night. There were easels to accommodate all different sizes of canvas, a hundred different brushes of varying sizes and hair and, best of all, he had bought every shade of paint from the specific brand she favoured. She had been in heaven.

  She had not picked up a paintbrush or done anything as basic as a doodle since she had left. All her creative juices had died when she walked out of the estate.

  Taking a deep breath, she turned the key and pushed the door open. Immediately she was hit with the trace of turpentine and oil paint, scents that had seeped into every crevice of the cottage.

  At first glance it looked exactly as she had left it. The canvas she had been working on was still on its easel, a fine layer of dust now covering it; her brushes all rammed into varying pots, her tubes of paint still scattered randomly across her workbench. Stacks of blank and completed canvases still lay in neat stacks; half-finished canvases she had left to dry before working on them again still lined the walls.

  Someone had been in there during her absence. It was nothing specific she could put her finger on, more of a gut feeling.

  Her stomach tying itself in knots, she climbed the open staircase to the first floor. The sense that someone had been there grew stronger, especially when she entered the bedroom. This was the room she had slept in whenever Luca was abroad or tied up with business until the early hours, something that had dramatically increased throughout the second year of their marriage. Although she’d missed him being around so much, she would take the opportunity to work through the witching hours without guilt and then flop into bed shattered.

  One thing she had always been able to take heart from was that he would always join her if he was in Sicily. Wherever she slept, he would seek her out. Always. She would wake to find herself wrapped in his arms. Invariably, they would make love and she would tell herself that everything between them was fine.

  She was certain she had left the bed unmade.

  The bathroom was dusty but clean, relatively tidy, her toothbrush and other toiletries on display where she had left them. A quick peek in the laundry basket revealed the tatty jeans and paint-splattered jumper she had last worked in.

  Her bittersweet trip down memory lane was interrupted when she heard the front door shut.

  ‘Hello?’ she called, hurrying to the stairs. About to step down, she paused when she saw Luca leaning against the front door staring up at her.

  ‘What do you want?’ They were alone for the first time since he had found her. Now there was no Lily to temper the tone of her voice for, she made no attempt to hide her hostility.

  The first thing she noticed was his lack of a sling. Dressed in black jeans and a light blue sweater, his arms folded across his broad chest, his jawline covered in dark stubble, he carried a definite air of menacing weariness.

  ‘We’ve been invited to Francesco Calvetti’s birthday party in Florence next Saturday,’ he said without any preamble.

  ‘Why’s he holding it in Florence?’ Francesco Calvetti was as big a gangster as her husband. It was only after Luca had invested in a couple of casinos and nightclubs with him that the cracks in their marriage had appeared and he had begun to change...

  ‘He bought a hotel there. I’ve accepted the invitation for us.’

  ‘It’s far too short notice.’

  ‘I wasn’t asking your opinion on the matter. I was telling you.’

  ‘And what about Lily?’

  ‘I have spoken to my mother and she has agreed to care for her overnight.’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ No way was she going to leave her baby to attend that man’s party.

  ‘I have also seen the local priest about having Lily baptised,’ he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘I have booked her in for the first Sunday of the new year.’

  ‘Well, that’s telling me,’ she said, stomping down the stairs. ‘We can argue about the christening in a minute. I am not leaving Lily to attend a silly party.’

  ‘It is not a silly party. It is an important event that you will attend as my devoted wife.’

  The way his eyes burned into her left Grace with no doubt as to the meaning laced in his words.

  Devoted wife.

  Luca might have abandoned the idea of displaying togetherness in front
of his family but this did not extend to the wider world.

  She would be expected to accompany him and act the docile, dutiful wife.

  She would be expected to play the role of lover to a man she hated with every fibre of her being. The consequences of failure would be harsh. Banishment from her daughter’s life.

  ‘Am I at least allowed a say in the christening? Or is Lily’s entire future to be decided by you?’

  His nostrils flared. ‘That all depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On whether your opinions concur with mine.’

  ‘So that’ll be never, then,’ she threw at him bitterly.

  ‘Consider yourself lucky to be here and able to voice an opinion,’ he said, his tone a low, threatening timbre. ‘It’s a sight more than you gave me.’

  ‘It’s a sight more than you deserved,’ she spat. ‘Now, unless there’s something else you want to tell me, you can leave.’

  * * *

  Luca clenched his fists by his sides at her defiance, at the folded arms crossed over the slender waist, her hair sprouting in all directions. Since they had returned, the red dye had faded, her natural honey blonde coming through.

  He didn’t know if he wanted to wrap his hands around her throat or kiss the defiance from her face.

  She had been home for six days. In all that time he had tried to block her from his mind but she was still there, festering in his psyche. He didn’t want to exchange one solitary word more than was necessary with her. Simply looking at her deceitful face made his stomach clench.

  ‘I am not yet ready to leave. You owe me some answers.’

  Her striking features contorted into something feral. ‘I don’t owe you anything.’

  Every sinew in his body tightened. When she turned her back on him and walked to her workbench, he had to fight the urge to wrench her round and force her to look at him.

  ‘You damn well do. One minute you were there, the next you were gone. No letter, no phone call, nothing to let me know if you were dead or alive.’

  She turned around, leaned against the bench and rolled her eyes. ‘Steady on, Luca—you make it sound as if you were worried about me. Surely a heart is needed to feel worry?’

  It was the dripping cynicism that did it for him. The sheer lack of remorse. The implication that her selfish, unrepentant behaviour was somehow his fault.

  All the rage he had been smothering since he found her exploded out of him, consuming him in a fury that accelerated when he found his tongue to speak.

  ‘Worried about you?’ he said, his words coming out in a raging flow. ‘Worried about you? I thought you were dead! Do you hear me? Dead! I imagined you lying cold on a verge. I pictured you cold in a mortuary. For two weeks I could not sleep for the nightmares. So no, I wasn’t worried about you. It was much worse than that.’

  For a moment he thought he caught a flicker of distress on her face before her now familiar insouciance replaced it. ‘I apologise if I caused you any distress...’

  Slam!

  Without conscious thought, the desperate need to purge the storm of emotions acted for him and he punched the wall.

  ‘You haven’t got a clue, have you?’ he raged. ‘I thought we were happy. When you went missing, I thought you’d been kidnapped but when I received no ransom I thought you had been killed. I called your mother, I called Cara—neither of them had heard from you. Or so they said. It never crossed my mind you would do something so wicked as to up and leave without a word.’ He threw his arms out, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, ignoring the throb in his fist. ‘You didn’t just leave me, you left everything, all your work, all your clothes...’

  In the midst of his fury he saw how white she had become, how she clung to her workbench as if she depended on it to keep her upright.

  Taking a deep, ragged breath, he fought for control and forced his voice to adopt a modicum of calm. ‘Two weeks after you went missing, your bank statement arrived. I opened it and found every euro had been transferred into a new account the same day you disappeared. Do you know how I felt then?’

  Slowly, she shook her head.

  ‘Elated. Suddenly there existed the possibility you were alive. Until then it hadn’t even occurred to me to check the safe for your passport.’ When he had discovered it missing, the relief had been so physical he had slumped to the floor and buried his head in his hands, sitting there for minutes that had felt like hours, his usually quick brain taking its time to process the implications. But once he had processed them...

  He had dug up all her bank statements and read them in detail. Apart from the odd splurge on painting materials, Grace had hardly touched the allowance he gave her. Over a two-year period she had accumulated more than two million euros.

  Had she been planning her escape from the start?

  Whatever the reason, his wife had saved enough money to start over.

  From then, it had been a case of following the money trail. Luckily for him, money—his money—was able to lubricate the tightest of lips and within a day he had been in Frankfurt. Unluckily for him, he had been a week too late. She had already gone. It had taken another four months for him to find her latest location but he had been too late then too.

  In the meantime, Pepe had come up trumps with Cara’s phone, through which they’d determined what they had good reason to believe was Grace’s number. That same number had remained inactive until barely a fortnight ago.

  ‘You put me through hell,’ he said flatly. ‘I would have gladly traded my life for yours and you let me believe you were dead. Now tell me why I don’t deserve some answers.’

  ‘I was going to leave you a note,’ she said. For the first time he detected a softening in her voice. ‘But I couldn’t risk you coming home early and finding it before I had a chance to leave Sicily. I knew you would never let me go.’

  ‘What kind of a monster do you think I am?’ he asked, throwing his arms back in the air. ‘That argument we had before you disappeared? Was that the cause of it?’

  ‘No! That row—as horrible as it was, I would have forgiven it in time...’

  ‘So tell me! When, exactly, did I frighten you so much that you believed I would stop you doing anything?’

  ‘That’s just it! You never let me do anything.’ She threw her own arms in the air. ‘You promised I could exhibit my work in Palermo and it came to nothing—every time I found the perfect venue you found the perfect excuse to keep me from buying it. I wasn’t allowed to drive my own car, I had to travel everywhere with armed guards—I couldn’t even buy a box of tampons without one of your goons hovering over me. I would insist he stay outside the shop door but I couldn’t be certain he didn’t have his binoculars out spying on me, ready to report back to you.’

  ‘My men were assigned for your own protection, not to spy on you,’ he roared. ‘They were there to keep you safe. This isn’t England. You knew when you married me that you were marrying into—’

  ‘I most certainly did not! I took you at face value. I thought everyone in Sicily carried guns for their personal protection. If I had so much as suspected the kind of monster you really were...’ Her vicious tongue suddenly stopped, her eyes widening, fixing on his shoulder. ‘Luca, you’re bleeding.’

  Sure enough, when he followed her line of sight down to his shoulder, a dark stain had appeared. Immediately he became aware of the accompanying ache.

  Now he was aware of it, his knuckles throbbed too.

  Grace stared for a moment longer, then turned and dragged a paint-splattered chair over to him. ‘Sit down and take your top off,’ she ordered in short, clipped tones. ‘I’ll get the first-aid kit.’

  ‘Stop trying to change the subject,’ he said. With all the bitterness and acrimony flying around, a sour taste had formed in his mouth. ‘You were about to e
xplain what you find so abhorrent about me.’

  White-lipped, her jaw clenched, she sank to her knees in front of a small cabinet. ‘You’re hurt,’ she said as she rummaged through it. ‘My home truths won’t mean a thing if you bleed to death. Let’s sort your wound out first.’

  Yes, he was hurt. Heartsick and nauseated with a chest so tight it was difficult to draw breath. ‘You are the last person I want tending to any of my injuries, now or ever.’

  A small green bag with first aid written on it whipped over and landed by his feet.

  ‘If you want to bleed to death like a stuck pig, be my guest. Or, if you want to be an adult about it, let me take a look at your wound.’

  She stood before him, hands on hips, glaring at him. He had always known she had proper backbone but its strength had only become fully apparent since he found her.

  An image flickered in his hammering brain of his wife facing off against their teenage daughter. Would Lily inherit her mother’s independent streak? How often would he have to step in as peacemaker when they faced off to each other?

  That was if they lasted that long. At the rate he and Grace were going they would be lucky to see the new year in without killing each other. He could feel the fury that resided in her as clearly as he could feel his own.

  He inclined his head and then carefully removed his sweater and shirt.

  With brisk efficiency, Grace picked up the first-aid kit and brought another chair over to sit opposite him.

  She tilted her head and studied him. ‘You’ve torn the stitches.’ Unzipping the kit bag, she removed a square foil package and ripped it open with her teeth. ‘Keep still.’

  Her head bowed in concentration, she used the antiseptic wipe to clean the blood with her right hand, her left hand resting lightly on his thigh to steady herself.

  His senses filled with the fragrance of her shampoo tickling his nose. The trace of turpentine that had become more elusive the longer she had been gone was there too, more pronounced than it had been in months.