by Dani Collins
Why? It was a fair question. One Vito couldn’t answer. At least, not without admitting to himself that he was a very weak man.
“I want to explain why I sent you away,” he said. Even though he had walked out on Lauren that day, telling himself she was wrong. Better to break ties cleanly, to let Gwyn move on with her life without knowing what kind of a near miss she’d had.
Why had he decided, after seeing her with another man, that he should let her know why she couldn’t be with him? It was flawed logic.
He had wanted to see her again was the real answer. He could say that he wanted to talk and her to listen, but that was a lie. He wanted her to talk. He wanted her to relay every detail of the minutes she’d been away from him, the way she might have given him the highlights of her day visiting a museum, or conveyed a funny conversation she’d overheard on the street or simply traded views with him that might be more liberal than his own, but were always well thought out and left him with a broader view of the other side.
“I thought we were going to dinner,” she said as he turned into the underground parking lot of the Donatelli International building.
“You said it was too early,” he reminded, pulling into the spot reserved with his name, right next to the elevator. She scowled so mistrustfully at him, he had to chuckle. “I’m not going to kill you and eat you, cara.”
No promises against licking and nibbling, of course.
It was all he could do not to pounce on her after he punched in the override code to get him to the floor he wanted. She had come out of her workplace with her jacket slung over her arm. Her black skirt was of a modest length, but narrow and stretchy, clinging to her hips and thighs. She wore a light green top that was so plain it was unremarkable, but the narrow belt at her waist gave it some traction across her bustline, emphasizing her hourglass figure. And those shoes with straps as narrow as her belt were positively erotic.
He hoped like hell he had paid for them, unsure why it mattered, just wanting to know she was still allowing him some place in her life.
She flicked her hair behind her shoulder, affecting cool composure, but her mouth was pulling at the corners as she said, “I know why you sent me away. It was an affair, nothing more. Like you said, it was always going to happen.”
“Sì,” he agreed, and the word moved up from his chest like gravel. “But for different reasons than you think.”
The elevator opened into the private residential floor, where he and Paolo had suites and guest accommodations were made available to other family members. There was a private gym and indoor pool here, a dining lounge with views to the ocean that was closed because he was the only one here. Paolo’s suite, where he had taken Lauren the night he’d told her that her husband was dead, was on the far side of the oversize foyer. Vito’s was here, to his left, but before opening his door, he paused in the foyer and indicated the portrait on the wall.
It was a print of the original that had first hung in the old bank in Milan and now occupied the main lobby of the new tower.
“My great-grandfather,” he said, looking at the man who’d been painted in his middle-aged prime wearing a brown plaid suit and a bowler hat.
He felt Gwyn’s gaze touch him, questioning why this might be important, but she gave the portrait a proper study.
“He had two sons and five daughters, but only his sons inherited.” He nodded at the two brothers who had cemented the foundation for what Banco Donatelli would become. “This one is my grandfather. His brother only had daughters. We’ve become more progressive and all share in the dividends now, but my uncle, Paolo’s father, was recognized as his successor.”
He moved to the photo of his grandfather with his wife and five children. It was a formal color photograph with the family posed for posterity, the fashions laughably dated. His grandfather had long sideburns and his pointed collar jutted out like wings against his tan suit and gold tie. His grandmother wore a floral print dress and Paolo’s father, nearing twenty, was dressed like a newsboy. The four teenage girls wore identical dresses in a truly horrid purple.
“You Donatelli men get stamped out with the same mold generation after generation, don’t you?” She glanced from his great-grandfather, to his grandfather, then to his uncle and then to him. “The girls take after your grandmother. Except this one.” She pointed at Antoinietta, barely twelve.
“Sì,” he agreed, giving himself one last moment for reservations, but he had none. “That’s why I look so much like a Donatelli. She is my actual mother.”
* * *
Gwyn didn’t know what to say, and Vito’s profile gave nothing away as he moved to unlock a door and hold it for her.
She entered a private suite that was much smaller than his penthouse in Milan, but had such a similar decor, was stamped so indelibly as his, she felt as though she had come home.
“I don’t understand,” she told him, and the phrase covered many topics. Why had he told her that; why did it matter?
He moved to a photo on the wall in his lounge. The midnineties fashions weren’t quite as painful as the seventies had been. A stout man wore a dark suit with a narrow tie that made his barrel chest seem more pronounced. His wife wore a black dress with a scoop neck. Young Vito actually pulled off the red suspenders over his white shirt, but his sisters’ hairstyles, all wisped to look like a sitcom star’s, were priceless.
She studied his image, realizing he looked...unlike the others.
Maybe she wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t told her this was not his biological family, but he was taller, leaner, more intense as he gazed into the camera while the rest of them beamed warmly. They seemed relaxed the way a family should when they were together, but he had that smoldering personality that never stopped emanating danger.
“Mia famiglia. I love them. My parents taught me generosity and acceptance. They love me every bit as much as they love their daughters. I would die for any of them. But my sisters have never been told,” he said, making her swing her attention to him in surprise. “Paolo knows, but he’s likely the only one in our generation or lower who does. He hasn’t even told Lauren. I know some of my great-aunts and uncles have suspicions, but none has ever breathed a word...” He shook his head and shrugged. “This is something that was put in the vault and meant to be left there.”
“Because your mother was young? Unmarried?” she guessed. His grandfather might have progressed to including his daughters in his will, but illegitimate babies had still been a scandal for a man in such a lofty position. It wasn’t a big deal now, though. Was it? Why continue to hide it?
“My mother was eighteen. I’m a bastard, yes. And I won’t tell you the name of my father, but that’s for your own protection as much as mine. He was mafioso, cara. A truly dangerous and reprehensible man.”
She blinked, shocked, and moved blindly to sit on the edge of the sofa. “How—?”
“—does the daughter of a banker get mixed up with a thug? He singled her out. I’m sure he had his moments of charm. I’ve seen photos and I imagine any woman would call him attractive. According to my uncle, my mother might as well have been the youngest daughter of a church minister, rebelling at her father’s attempts to keep her cloistered. My grandfather was ready to disown her, but my uncle kept fighting to bring her home. I mean that literally. He had scars. She went back, regardless. Again and again.”
“Got pregnant.”
“Indeed.” He pushed his hands into his pockets, rocked on his heels, scowl remote and dark. “Even though she came away bruised at different times. I will never understand—”
His profile was hard and sharp.
“She was late into her pregnancy when he bashed her around and she left for the last time. She called my uncle to come take her to the hospital, but she was far into labor when he got there. He caught me and held her as she died. She begged him to keep me from my father. If you could have seen his face when he told me these things...”
“Oh, Vito,�
� she breathed, rising to go to him, hand reaching for his arm, but he was a statue, unmoved by her touch, barely seeming to breathe, face still and harsh as though carved into marble.
“This is what I am, cara. A mixture of impetuous Donatelli rebellion—have you met Paolo? I have that same cursed need to dominate and it is a monumental task to hold all of that back. Then I have this streak of brutality on top of it. My father killed people. And the dead ones are the victims who got off easy. His other son turned out as conscienceless, trafficking in women and drugs, winding up dead in the gutter outside his own home, like a rat. I even have a nephew. He’s already been arrested for assault. There but for the grace of the Donatelli family go I.”
“Vito,” she chided. He didn’t really think he would have turned out like that, did he? She frowned, hurting for him, feeling how tortured his soul was by a bloodline he didn’t want and couldn’t escape.
He ran his hand down his face. “I cannot perpetuate that sickness into another generation, not into the very family that took me in, kept me this side of the law and out of the hands of a man who would have turned me into himself. I won’t risk it. Do you understand? Do you see now why I can’t marry you and give you that dream I see in your eyes every time you rock a baby or hold a child’s hand?”
She lowered her eyes, aching inside. He saw through her every single time.
“When your brother came to Milan that day,” he said heavily, “all I could think was that it was better to let our separation happen then, before you were pregnant with an abomination—”
“Don’t say that!”
He held up a hand. “But it tortures me, cara, that he made it sound like you were only a convenience to me. Our affair served many purposes, not all of them romantic, sì. That’s true. But to let you think that was all it was is a lie. We are honest with one another if nothing else, are we not?”
“Are we?” she asked, mind reeling from all he’d told her, which made certain suspicions rise that were so sweet and fragile she barely let herself touch them. But why would he tell her all this, with that tortured look on his face, if he didn’t care for her, trust her, not just a little, but a lot.
“Does some part of this sound made-up to you?” he asked, voice chilling and shoulders going back.
She made a noise. “Well, it is quite a story. But I do believe you. No, I’m questioning why you’ve told me.”
She thought back to that day in the elevator when he’d been so angry at what she hadn’t been able to see in him. All this time he’d presented her with the thick wall of the vault that fronted the man inside. Of course she’d had trouble seeing his true thoughts and feelings.
But now, now she thought she saw very clearly. It wasn’t just wishful thinking, was it?
“I just explained,” he said testily. “I didn’t want you hurting unnecessarily.”
“So I’m supposed to not hurt when you leave again? Secure in the knowledge that your rejection is for my own good? You know I love you, don’t you?” There. She flung her own vault wide open, crashing it into the wall.
He flinched, dragging in air like he’d taken a knife to the lung. “I hoped that you didn’t,” he said through his teeth.
“Oh! Another lie!” she charged, stabbing a finger at his chest, hard enough to hurt her fingernail.
He grabbed her hand and glared, dark brows a fierce line. “I’m not lying!”
“You knew I was in love with you and you sent me away to get over it, but the minute you thought I might, you came back to see exactly how deep my feelings went. This—” she pulled free of his grip and pointed wildly to encompass all the photos he’d shown her “—is a test.”
“Untrue. I’m explaining to you why I can’t marry you and give you the family you’ve always wanted.”
“Fine. I accept,” she said, crossing her arms.
He grew cautious. “Accept what?”
“That we’ll never marry and have children. Maybe we can talk about adopting someday, but that’s not a condition. I’ll accept simply living together without all those picket-fence trappings I always wanted.”
“No!” he growled. “That’s not what I’m saying. You deserve those things, Gwyn. Your brother is right. That’s why—” He cut himself off with an impatient noise, palm scraping up his cheek, creating a raspy sound.
“So I should go marry another man and have his babies?” she confirmed.
“No! Damn you, no. I hated seeing you with that man. It made me sick. No. And damn you for forcing me to admit that.” He stalked away a few steps, hand raking into his hair. “I’m trying to think of you, Gwyn, but I keep acting for myself. That is who I am. Greedy. Selfish.” He pivoted. “Don’t you see that’s what I’m trying to protect you from? I want that deal you’re offering. I want to take you into my home as my lover and shortchange you on all the things you have a right to. What does that make me? How could you love someone like that?”
“What kind of man are you really?” she cried. “One who blames himself for his mother’s death?”
He jerked a little in surprise, said, “No,” but without conviction. Then hitched a shoulder. “Perhaps. A little. Everyone, the aunts and uncles who knew, always looked at me as if... I used to fight with Paolo. A lot. But then my uncle told me about this and I knew I had to contain this part of myself. Stamp it out as much as possible.”
“And you have,” she told him. “Are you likely to hit me, Vito?”
“No,” he said, his contempt for men who would do such a thing thick in the word.
“What if I provoke you? What if I push you?” she asked, coming across to give him a light shove in the middle of his chest.
He caught her hands and easily twisted her arms behind her back, hauling her close in such a swift move they both released a little, “Ha,” as their bodies lightly slammed together.
She tested his hold. “Now what are you going to do to me?” she said, but softly. Knowingly. She was never frightened here, only eager with anticipation.
“Kiss you,” he answered. “Make love to you.”
“Love me?” she suggested. Begged.
He lowered his head with a groan, capturing her mouth in a way that instantly owned, but gave at the same time. Anointed. Worshipped. His kiss was almost chaste in its sweetness, but so carnal they couldn’t help running their tongues together and opening to deepen the kiss until they were both breathless.
Then he released her arms and tucked her head against his chest where his heart slammed, his strong arms enfolding her to him.
She stroked his sides, soothing the beast.
“I could never hurt you, Gwyn. I wanted to carve out my own heart when I saw the way you looked at me that day you left Milan. The thought that I’d left you feeling anything but confident in how very lovable you are was intolerable. I do love you.” He touched his lips to her ear. “I love you in ways I didn’t know it was possible to love, with my body, with my breath. I ache with love for you every night and every day.”
She closed her eyes, savoring the sting of joyous tears. Threading her arms around him, she held on to him and the moment. The strength that had sustained her and protected her and would be hers. Because she would fight for this.
Him.
“Vito, how did the Donatellis keep you this side of the law?”
“I don’t know,” he muttered, digging his fingers into her hair, petting her like he was comforting himself. “A million ways, I suppose. Redirection, distraction, love.”
“I love you,” she drew back to say.
His hold on her flexed and he swallowed. “She loved him. He didn’t change.”
“Look what she was starting with,” she said wryly. “What makes you think a child of yours couldn’t be molded the way you were? Especially if he or she started out loved, the way you did?”
“Cara—” It was both protest and longing.
“It’s not a deal breaker, I swear. I’m just saying you shouldn’t write off your genes as
all bad. Either way, I’m yours. You’re stuck with me, understand?”
“Your brother is never going to— Screw it,” he muttered, ducking abruptly to scoop her legs out from under her and give her a toss, catching her in the cradle of his arms, high against his chest. “We’re getting married. Maybe we will adopt, but I’m not having you walk around without my ring. No one will call you anything but my wife.”
“Was that a proposal? Because I missed the part where I was asked,” she said, but it was hard to sound tart when she was grinning and his neck smelled good and she wanted to crawl inside his clothes. Under his skin. “I missed you,” she said against his Adam’s apple, voice thready with need.
“I’m half a man without you,” he said as he strode into the bedroom and placed her on his bed. “I’m only the worst parts of myself. Angry, jealous, miserable.” He yanked his shirt open as he pulled it from his pants. “You understand what kind of possessive bastard you’re consigning yourself to, don’t you?”
“I’d like to say it’s my choice, but I don’t think I’ve ever had one.” She lifted her hips to reach her zipper, then working her skirt down, enjoying the way his chest swelled at the sight of her bared legs. He hurried to finish undressing. “It has to be you or no one,” she told him.
“Are you still on the pill?” he asked.
She nodded while she released the belt that she’d worn over her shirt, but she caught the little something that passed over his expression. It was a brief hesitation, words that rose but were second-guessed. One day, she knew from that tiny moment of betrayed thought, one day he would be ready to think about children. It was okay that today wasn’t that day. She wanted him to herself for a little while, anyway.
He skimmed her undies away and settled his hot body over her, his hips between her legs. One arm reached to help her finish pushing off her top. “This is pretty,” he said of her bra, tracing the edge of the blue-green lace. “It can stay for now.”
He leaned to kiss her, but she drew back, needing to know.
“Does it bother you that so many men have seen me naked?”