by Dana Delamar
“I know. I promise.” She gave him a hug and he returned it. She started to pull back, but he kept her close. “I would like you to do me a favor.”
Uh-oh. “What?” she asked, focusing on the fine weave of his shirt.
“At your birthday party, I want you to spend time with Leandro d’Imperio. Be nice to him. Get to know him.”
“I already know him.”
“You know what I mean.”
Unease snaked through her belly. “No, I don’t.”
He sighed, his breath ruffling her hair. “Must you make this difficult? I’m doing something for you. Can’t you do something for me?”
She planted a hand on his chest and shoved, breaking their contact. “You’re asking me to consider marrying a drug addict!”
“I’m aware of that. I thought perhaps you’d appreciate being a young widow. Then you’d be free to marry who you like. Or pursue a career. I don’t much care. All I want is Gianluca d’Imperio on my side. Give him a grandchild quick, that’s all I ask.”
Her face blazed with heat and her ears buzzed. “I see how much my happiness means to you. All this merda about a happy marriage.”
“Delfina! You will not use such language with me.”
“Stop me.” She folded her arms and glared at him. If he thought she’d been difficult before, he didn’t know a thing about her. “You told me minutes ago that I could say no to any prospective suitors. And I’m saying no to Leandro. Or did you not mean what you said?”
His eyes narrowed. “Do you want the interview with Morelli?”
She did, but she wasn’t going to say so. When she didn’t answer, he said, his voice soft, “You know I can make it impossible for you. I can have Morelli spread whispers about you, make you unhireable.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Would you care to find out?”
He held her in his fist. He always had; he always would. “Fine. I’ll ‘be nice’ to Leandro. But I interview with Signor Morelli, and if he gives me an internship, I keep it. Even if I do eventually decide to marry Leandro—or anybody else. Agreed?”
He shrugged. “That last part is up to Leandro.”
Maybe that was for the best. Leandro had a horrible crush on her. And he was a mess. And that made him easy to manipulate. Far easier than her father. She’d thought she could play the good girl and get what she wanted. She should have known better. But she’d have her revenge.
“Do we have an agreement, Delfi?”
She stared up at her father, making her face and eyes as cool as she knew how. “We do.” She smiled, picturing his expression when he found out she’d invited Antonio to the birthday party. It would be her little surprise.
CHAPTER 4
The doorbell chimed, and Delfina stormed downstairs to answer it, her father right on her heels. Gio was early, but her timing was impeccable. Wait until she heard about her father’s latest trick. Leandro, of all people!
“Delfina!” he called behind her. “You’re still upset?”
“Leave me alone,” she tossed over her shoulder, turning her head to give him one last glare. She sailed off the last step into the foyer and plowed into a hard body. A hard body that smelled delicious, sexy. Two strong hands gripped her arms to keep her from falling.
She gawked at a face that was eerily familiar. The young man standing in front of her wasn’t Enrico Lucchesi—his wavy, tousled hair was a rich reddish brown, not onyx, and his eyes were mossy green, not chocolate. But the strong blade of his nose, the high prominent cheekbones, and the full, generous mouth were all Lucchesi. “Who are you?” she blurted.
“Nick Clarkston,” he answered, his accent British, upper crust. “Who are you?”
“My daughter, Delfina,” her father said from behind her. His hands came to rest on her shoulders, and the young man abruptly released her and stepped away, almost bumping into Orsino, one of her father’s men. He must have brought Signor Clarkston here.
Signor Clarkston glanced from her to her father. “Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Not really,” she said. Could he be…? But if he was, what was he doing here, in her father’s house?
“Delfi, please leave us. We have business to conduct.”
“What business could you possibly have with…” She hesitated, then forced the words out. “Enrico Lucchesi’s son?”
The young man raised a dark eyebrow. He truly was handsome. “How did you know?”
She raked him with her gaze. “You must not spend much time looking in the mirror, Signor Clarkston.”
His forehead wrinkled in confusion. Ignoring his silent question, she scowled at her father. “We’re not done, but I’ll leave you to your guest.” The clatter of her heels echoed on the marble as she stomped off down the hall.
No, they weren’t done. Not at all. What could her father be up to now? Nothing good, that’s for sure. Did Signor Clarkston—Nick—did he know who her father was? Was he aware of how much her father hated his? She ducked into the library and waited for them to pass by. Her father’s study was two doors down. She wished there was some way she could listen in. Why was Enrico Lucchesi’s son here?
Nick watched Delfina Andretti strut away, her black hair swinging behind her, the long strands brushing the small of her back. Good God, he wanted every fiery inch of her. She was gorgeous—large dark eyes, full red lips, an exquisitely shaped nose, high cheekbones, her face a near perfect oval. She could be a model, or whatever the hell she wanted. Her low voice purred in his skull. You must not spend much time looking in the mirror. The resemblance to Enrico Lucchesi must be as obvious to others as it was to him. Damn, he hoped word didn’t get back to the man that he’d come to Italy. That could ruin all his plans.
“Shall we?” Dario Andretti started down the hall in his daughter’s wake. When they passed the room she’d disappeared into, Nick couldn’t help peeking in. Delfina was paging through a book and glanced up. He smiled, but she didn’t return it. Instead she mouthed something—maybe “Go”?—and shook her head, her eyes a warning.
Okay, he got the message. She didn’t like him. He didn’t usually have that effect on women, but maybe it had something to do with his father. Maybe she wasn’t a fan.
He snapped his gaze away and followed Andretti into a nicely furnished study. A wall of windows faced Lake Como, a strong wind whipping waves across it. The other walls were taken up mostly with books. A large globe occupied one corner, and a massive cherry wood desk sat in front of the far wall, its legs carved to suggest the paws and claws of a large savage animal. Symbolic? His pulse rate kicked up; he hadn’t liked the whole idea of coming to Andretti’s home, and now he downright hated it. But he was trapped, for the time being. And by his own arrogance.
Dario stepped behind the desk and gestured for Nick to take a seat before it. “So signore, what brings you here?”
“You said you had information about my father.”
“I did.” The man said nothing further. Seconds ticked by while he contemplated Nick, a curious expression on his face.
“Well, do you?”
The door behind them opened, and a huge man, a big meaty Tony Soprano-type, with a smashed nose, stepped inside. At the nod that passed between the men, adrenaline licked down Nick’s spine. The giant’s eyes were flat, dead. And so was Nick, to judge from the man’s impassive face and the bulge under his arm. Fuente was right—he shouldn’t have come. Dario was going to eat him, even though it was well past breakfast.
The reassuring weight of his Glock was no longer with him. Andretti’s driver had insisted on taking the gun and his knife when he’d picked Nick up in Milan. He’d resisted giving up the weapons, but the man had made plain he was getting nowhere near Andretti with either one. He’d finally caved, against all his better judgment, judgment that was screaming at him now. Fool. Idiot. Fucking moron. Cretin. Imbecile.
Before his brain exhausted its thesaurus of intelligence-related insults, the large man pushed his suit
jacket back, revealing the butt of a gun, large caliber from the looks of it. Nick’s heart thrashed in his chest. Jesus Christ, he’d done it now. There was only one shot, and he took it. With every ounce of self-possession he could muster, Nick turned his back on the large man and gave his attention to Dario Andretti. “You surprise me, signore.”
“How is that?”
“I hadn’t thought you’d be so crude as to kill me. At least not straight away.”
“Why not?”
“You’re a smart man. If I’m dead, you won’t get to take advantage of what I have to offer.”
His brows lifting, Andretti held up a finger to the brute behind him. “And what is that?”
Nick sprawled back in the chair, opening his hands wide. “Why, the resources of Interpol, of course. I knew this was quid pro quo going into it. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.”
“And just how were you prepared to ‘scratch’ me?”
Nick sat forward. “I take my father out for one. Him in jail and out of the way—that would help you, yeah?”
“I need more than that, signore.”
“How about advance intel on every move the carabinieri is planning? How about your men never being in the wrong place at the wrong time? How about knowing when your enemies are about to fall? I’m sure it would be advantageous to know when the Russians are about to lose a cocaine shipment or when Cosa Nostra is about to be plunged into chaos by a major raid.”
Dario nodded, looking speculative. “Such information would be useful. But how do I know you are a man of your word? You seem quite willing to turn your back on those you have taken an oath to.”
“What would reassure you, signore?” Blood pounded in Nick’s veins as he stared at Dario Andretti, his mouth full of sand. Would Andretti take the offer, or was he about to find out how cold and deep the lake was?
“I am not sure I can ever trust a Lucchesi.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. “My father’s blood may flow in my veins, but I assure you, I am no more a Lucchesi than you are.”
“And why is that?”
“He killed my mother.”
Andretti scratched his chin. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Well, not directly. She killed herself because he left us.”
“And when was this?”
“When I was eight.”
Andretti flushed dark red, his fingers forming into fists. “Do you know why he left you?”
Though he knew, Nick shook his head, curious as to what Andretti would say.
“He was married to my sister. My twin, Toni.”
His twin sister? No wonder he hated Lucchesi. “I’m sorry. But I’m not surprised. The man’s a bastard.”
Andretti smiled. “On that, we agree.”
Nick uncurled his fingers from the armrests. Maybe he wouldn’t end up in that lake after all. “We have a deal, then?”
Andretti sat back and studied him. “Perhaps.” He made a flicking motion with his hand. “Flavio, you may go.”
Nick watched the mountain that was Flavio lumber out the door. He swallowed. So far, so good.
“You will stay here, in the guest house, while I decide what to do with you.”
“What to do with me?” When had he turned into a bloody parrot?
“I am not sure you are trustworthy. Until I know, I want you where I can watch you.”
“My things are in Milan.”
“No, they are not. They are on their way here.” Andretti smiled. “And before you ask, your bags have been thoroughly searched and anything of interest has been confiscated. And now”— Andretti held out his hand, a hand that was missing a bloody finger—“your mobile, please.”
Fuck. Fuente’s number was on it.
“Do not worry. I know you met with the carabinieri today.”
“How?”
Andretti’s smile widened. “You think I do not have people watching Sottotenente Fuente? Where he goes, who he meets? One must keep an eye on the enemy.”
Well, at least now he knew Fuente was clean. If he could ever get to the man again, that is. He dug the phone out of his pocket and handed it to Andretti, his stomach leaden. His last link to the outside world, gone. His eyes flicked to Andretti’s desk phone. Perhaps…
Andretti chuckled. “If you try to leave or contact anyone, I will know it. And Neil and Sharon Clarkston of Belsize Road, St. John’s Wood, will be dead in minutes.”
A cold sweat broke out over his body. His grandparents. He kept his shoulders rigid as the room began to swim. “I understand.”
“I hope you do, signore. Their lives depend on your actions.”
Nick nodded, swallowing hard. Idiot, idiot, idiot. It was one thing to play with his own life, but theirs? Never. He could almost feel Dario Andretti’s fine Italian loafer pressed firmly into the back of his neck, waiting to crush vertebrae and sever his spine.
Delfina waited until it was full dark before she put a leash on Zeta and took her for a ‘walk’ around the grounds. But her true goal was to sneak out to the guest cottage and see Nick Clarkston. The cottage was a miniature copy of the great house; it had been built years ago to house her great-uncle Benedetto when he came up north to visit. He’d wanted more privacy than the villa could afford, all so he could see his Milanese mistress on the sly. Her grandfather had fixed the privacy problem though—he’d had bugs planted in the guest cottage so he could keep abreast of his brother’s doings. They were that kind of family.
Those bugs made her task tonight more difficult to keep secret, but not impossible. She tapped on the door and had the piece of paper she’d prepared ready. She held it in front of her face so it would be the first thing Nick saw. It read: “Silence. The guest house is bugged. We must talk. Follow me.”
Nick opened the door, parting his lips as if to speak, but said nothing as he read the paper. She lowered it after a moment. His eyebrows shot up when he saw her face. She held a finger to her mouth, then made a “hurry up” motion with her hand. He went back inside and returned in a well-cut tan suede coat. He stepped out, shutting the door behind him.
Delfina led Nick along the side of the guest house, keeping to the shadows afforded by the line of cylindrical cypresses that separated the cottage from the adjacent garden. They’d have some privacy in the hedge maze.
It was hard going in the dark—the night was cloudy and the moon was new. She tripped over a tree root, and Nick caught her about the waist and pulled her back against his hard chest. She gasped at the jolt of adrenaline his touch roused in her. When he spoke, his voice, low and velvety, was so close to her ear that she shivered. “All right?”
“Sì, grazie.” Her heart slammed against her ribcage as he held her, his large warm hands on her hips. She had a sudden, entirely insane, desire for him to kiss her. She turned her head toward his and felt his breath, warm against her cheek. Every inch of her skin danced with electricity. She waited, the only sound the rush of blood in her ears. Was he feeling the same way? He seemed to be breathing a little fast. She angled her mouth toward his. Would he…? His hands fell from her waist and he released her.
“Where are we going?” he asked. His voice sounded even. Heat flooded her face. Her imagination had gotten away from her. Cristo.
“The maze. We’re almost there.” She inhaled deeply and motioned to her left with her chin as she led him past another cypress and then along a high hedge. When they came to a break in the greenery, she stepped inside the maze and Nick followed. Zeta trotted obediently by her side, the chain clipped to her crystal collar jingling. Delfina tightened up the leash to minimize the sound.
She took several turns she knew by heart, Nick close behind, every molecule of her body aware of him. When they came to an alcove with a stone bench, she stopped. “Here,” she said, taking a seat and patting the stone beside her. “We need to keep our voices low. The guards don’t patrol the maze itself, but they pass by at intervals.” She took a mini flashlight out of her pocket and checked her watch, t
hen laid the flashlight on the bench between them to shed a little light. “We’ve got fifteen minutes before the next guard comes by.” Zeta circled a couple times, then curled up at their feet and let out a soft exhale. She snuffled at Nick’s shoe, and he offered her his hand to inspect.
After the dog had accepted his touch, he turned to Delfina. “Why did you want to talk to me?”
She blurted out her purpose, too rattled by her body’s reaction to him to play games. “Why are you here?”
“I’m a business associate of your father’s.”
She laughed, and the tension leaked out of her. This game—this thrust and parry—this she could handle. “You must think me a fool. What business could he possibly have with you?”
“He needs someone to run an operation in London for him.”
“And so he turns to Enrico Lucchesi’s son—the son none of us knew about until recently—for help? How did he even find you?” She held up a finger. “And don’t tell me it was a coincidence.”
He sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
What could she say to make him trust her? “Listen. I’m here because I’m concerned. Do you have any idea how much my father hates yours?”
“About as much as I do, I suppose.”
That was about the last thing she expected. “You hate your father? Why?”
“I’d rather not say.” Silence fell between them. After a while, he said, “I thought you disliked me for some reason. Earlier, when you were in the library, you were telling me to go.”
“I was telling you it isn’t safe for you here. My father is up to something.”
“I can handle myself.”
She gave him a smirk. “What do you know about my father and yours? You weren’t raised here, you don’t know these men. How they think, what they’re capable of. The way they can stretch grievances into vendettas and then into wars.”