by Dana Delamar
Dario’s throat went tight. He’d meant to bark out an accusation, to put Cris off-balance, to get him to confess the truth, but seeing his boy lying there, his boy who’d nearly died, his boy who was on the cusp of being a man, undid him.
He swallowed, his hand still on the knob. “I wanted to see how you were.” His voice sounded strained, weak. Not the image he’d wanted to convey at all.
“I’m fine, Papà,” Cris said. He tried to push himself up on the pillows and winced. Orfeo, Cris’s Rottweiler, stirred beside the bed and rose, placing his large head next to Cris’s hand, and let out a gentle woof.
Delfina put a restraining hand on Cris’s chest. “You heard Dottor Beltrami. You don’t want to overexert yourself.”
He shook his head. “I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
Dario’s eyes grew hot and wet at the sound of them bickering, reminding him of when they’d been children. Reminding him of when he’d feared for them, always worrying that something would happen, a kidnapping or a random, stupid accident. He hadn’t worried about Cris and Delfina for some time now. He’d thought those days were gone.
So why did he fear for his children now?
“Bambini, hush and listen to your father.”
They both turned expectant gazes to him. “What, Papà?” Cris asked.
“Tell me the truth, Cristoforo. Tell me everything.”
Delfina jumped in. “Someone tried to steal the car. Nick saved Cris’s life.”
A fire sparked in his gut. A lie. Fuente had confirmed it when he’d checked on Clarkston’s story. Three Russians were dead, two of them Vilanovichs. Of course, Fuente couldn’t say for sure that Cris and Clarkston were involved. But the timing was suspicious. And why else had Clarkston involved his father?
“Let your brother speak for himself. Cris?”
Cris averted his eyes and scratched his nose. Preparing to tell a lie to match his sister’s—the gesture reminded Dario of when six-year-old Cris had tried to blame Delfina for a bit of writing on the dining room wall. “I took Nick to Bellagio. For fun.”
“Do you think me an idiot?”
Cris’s mouth dropped open. “Of course not.”
“Then don’t treat me like one.” He glanced at Clarkston, who was studiously examining Cris’s football trophies.
His son shifted on the bed, twisting the edge of the sheet in his fingers. “I made a deal with the Russians to sell them some cocaine. And they tried to cheat me.” Cris held his eyes without wavering. Perhaps that part was true. But that wasn’t all of it. Dio, he wanted to scream at his son. The Russians!
Clarkston jumped in. “They were acting strangely. I wish I’d been able to get Cris’s attention before the shooting started.”
Dario exploded, at last having a target for his wrath. “What the hell were you thinking? How could you let him do such a stupid thing?”
“I asked Nick to help me—”
“I’m asking him, not you!” he barked at Cris. Turning, Dario stared down Clarkston. “You’re a man, he’s just a boy. Don’t you have a shred of common sense?”
Clarkston’s gaze fell to the carpet. “You’re right. I should have stopped him.”
“Enough, Papà.” Delfina lurched to her feet. “Cris is capo di società—would you expect any of his men to defy him?”
She had a point. However… “Clarkston isn’t one of his men.” And they still hadn’t told him the entire truth. He turned back to Clarkston. “Why did you go to the Lucchesis for help?”
“That was my fault,” Delfina said. “Nick called me, and I called Antonio. I knew you’d be angry.”
“So angry I’d let my son die?”
“No. But…” She paused and licked her lips. “I thought you might do something stupid. Like try to go after the Russians.”
“You do think I’m an idiot.”
“No.” She patted the air in a placatory gesture. “I just worried that you’d overreact. I didn’t want you to start a war over this.”
“And you think I won’t now?”
She shook her head. “You’ve had time to think about it.”
“And you know stirring up the Russians isn’t a good idea,” Cris said.
“A clear case of a rag speaking ill of a cloth.”
Cris reddened and sighed. “I thought I could handle them.”
Dario stepped to his son’s bedside and took his hand. “Leave the deals to me for now, capisci?” He leaned down and kissed his son on the forehead. When was the last time he’d done so? Not for a decade perhaps. His heart squeezed painfully, and he rubbed a thumb over the ache in his chest.
“I understand, Papà. And I’m sorry.”
Someone knocked on the open door. Dario turned. Benedetto. His uncle’s eyes lit on Cris, then Clarkston, the look in them troubled.
And suddenly things started to make sense.
CHAPTER 12
After a quick visit with Cris, Benedetto asked Dario for a private word. They headed down to the study, Dario’s gut burning again. This time, his uncle was the cause. How dare he endanger his son?
Dario inhaled deeply, trying to tamp down his emotions. He had to play this carefully. He didn’t actually know anything.
But why else would Benedetto have flown all the way from Calabria? It certainly wasn’t to check on Cris. And how else could he have known? Dario hadn’t called him. The only person he’d spoken to was Fuente. Unless…
Unless Lucchesi had involved him. That could explain Lucchesi’s willingness to let Cris go.
So what deal had Lucchesi made with his uncle? If Lucchesi thought he was getting his boy back, he could rot.
They took seats in the study, Dario choosing two chairs across from each other rather than putting his desk between them. The maid brought in steaming cups of espresso and they each took one from the tray.
Dario watched Benedetto carefully, studying his uncle. He’d never trusted the man, blood or no. He’d always had the sense that people had dollar signs on them in Benedetto’s eyes. Blood or no.
And lately, he felt his worth to Benedetto had gone down to zero. And it was all because of Clarkston.
If Dario hadn’t been the one who’d lured Clarkston in, he’d have sworn Lucchesi had engineered some clever plan against him.
His gut tingled. He’d had such thoughts before and dismissed them. But perhaps he’d been too hasty.
Taking a sip of his espresso, Dario studied Benedetto over the rim. Whatever the man wanted, Dario damn well wasn’t going to make it easy for him. He knew how this worked—the one who made the first request was the one in trouble. Always. It was one of the few useful things his father had taught him.
Benedetto drank from his cup, then set it down. “I’m happy to see that your son will be all right, grazie a Dio.”
“Perhaps we should thank Enrico Lucchesi instead.”
“Certainly.” Benedetto idly ran a finger around the rim of his cup. “I’m glad to hear that your hatred of Lucchesi has abated.”
“I assure you, it hasn’t.”
Benedetto’s mouth pursed. “That is a shame.”
“Why? Are you saying you bear him no ill will? He did kill your brother. My father. Unless you’ve forgotten.”
“I haven’t.” Benedetto sighed. “But let’s be honest. Your father was a thorn in my side—yours as well. I was relieved when he died.”
His uncle was ever the politician. “Died? Lucchesi executed him.”
“A mercy killing. Sooner or later it would have happened. And considering the torture your father inflicted on his, I’d say Carlo got off easy.”
Dario glanced at the floor. He’d played his part in that. He’d wanted revenge on Rinaldo for taking his little finger. He absently stroked the stump on his right hand. But his father had taken it too far. Much too far.
As always.
With a shrug, Dario said, “Perhaps. Still, had you seen my father die, I do not think you’d be so sanguine.”
Made a deal with the devil. “You didn’t fly all this way to rehash the past.”
His uncle smiled. “I have an opportunity to make us both very rich.”
Interesting. “How so?”
“Your grandfather and I have always felt the Andrettis should have a strong role in guiding and shaping the ‘Ndrangheta. La Provincia in its current form was a good first step. Now we are poised to implement the next phase in our plan.”
Very interesting. “Which is?”
“We form a permanent advisory council. A council that will set direction and guide the families. A council that will keep the peace between us. A peace we all enjoy.” He paused. “A peace you endanger if you persist in your dislike of Lucchesi.”
Dario snorted. “Dislike. You always were master of the understatement.”
Benedetto’s voice sharpened. “Sometimes I wonder if my brother was right about you. I always thought you had brains hidden away somewhere. Right now, you’re as clever as a bull charging a red flag.”
Dario took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What do you want of me?”
“Your cooperation. I need to bring Lucchesi in line with this plan. He does run the banks, as Gianluca pointed out.”
“I told you at Delfina’s party. I’m already working on a partnership with Lucchesi.”
“Are you?” Benedetto took a gulp of his coffee. “Considering your attitude, I don’t see how you’d ever be successful without my help.”
Adrenaline shot through Dario’s system. “Your help?” Benedetto’s tone raised his hackles. Condescending. Dismissive. Patronizing. Only one person had ever dared speak to him that way: his late father. He didn’t need a new one.
His uncle nodded. “I’ve spoken to Lucchesi. He’ll agree not to oppose us, in exchange for his son back.”
Dario’s ears flooded with the pounding of his heart. Benedetto had been making deals behind his back. Benedetto was trying to cut him out. “And what do I get out of this?”
“My eternal gratitude. And a seat on the council. As head of Lombardy.”
“The pot isn’t sweet enough.”
“Tell me. What is it you want? Did you intend to kill Lucchesi’s boy, or just let him waste away in your guest cottage?”
“I want Lucchesi to suffer.”
“If you’re not going to kill his boy, then how?”
It was time to commit to a particular course. He’d dawdled long enough, trying to determine if Clarkston and Lucchesi were playing some elaborate game with him. In the end, it didn’t matter. He’d play the game his way. “I want the boy to be mine. Not his.”
Benedetto’s brow furrowed. “Yours?”
“Part of my cosca. Mine.”
“You would have him take the vows?”
“Sì.”
Benedetto gaped at him. “I take back what I said earlier. You’re no charging bull. You’re insane.”
Dario smiled. “Having the one thing Lucchesi wants most—next to his firecracker of a wife—and forever denying him it will bring me immense pleasure.” Stealing away Lucchesi’s son was the perfect payback for his father’s death. And for losing his sister to Lucchesi, a man who’d never deserved her love. A man who hadn’t cherished her love, her friendship, the way Dario had. The way only a twin could.
“Lucchesi will never stand for this.”
“His boy won’t be dead. He’ll have to settle for that.”
Benedetto tapped his fingers against his lips. “Lucchesi will go to war against you without some guarantee of a truce. What about a marriage?”
He wasn’t serious. “Delfina is marrying Leandro d’Imperio. It’s already been decided.”
“But it hasn’t been publicly announced. You can still back out.”
“No.”
“Neither Lucchesi nor I will trust you without some other bond to keep the peace.”
“I will not marry my daughter to an illegitimate son. She will have no standing.”
“What if his last name was Lucchesi instead of Clarkston?”
He looked away from Benedetto. As much as he hated to admit it, there were good reasons to agree. They didn’t align with Benedetto’s plans—not entirely—but if he could bottle his anger and bide his time, he could have it all in the end.
The banks. The Lucchesi fortune. An inside man at Interpol.
And power, real power, that his uncle couldn’t take away.
He met his uncle’s eyes. “If Lucchesi makes me a partner in the bank, we have an agreement.”
Had Dario bought their story? And what had Benedetto said to Dario? Nick almost didn’t want to know. He reviewed his early morning discussion with Benedetto. Should he tell Delfina and Cris about Benedetto’s plans for their father? But would they believe him over their own flesh and blood? Delfina, maybe. Cris… it was hard to say. He seemed to trust Benedetto far more than she did. Nick had best keep Benedetto’s betrayal to himself until he had specifics to offer about the attempt on Dario’s life. Maybe then—if they believed him—they could catch Benedetto.
Dario had been gone a little more than an hour before he returned to Cris’s room. His stony gaze met Nick’s first, then shifted to Delfina. “You two come with me.” He turned and left without checking if they were following.
His pulse racing, Nick glanced at Delfina, then followed Dario out the door. Her father led them to the library and gestured for them to take the sofa. He sat on a chair directly across from them. “What is this about, Papà?” Delfina asked.
“Your future. Both of yours.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I have made a decision.”
“About what?” Nick asked.
Ignoring Nick, Dario focused on his daughter instead. “You will not be marrying Leandro.”
Relief washed over Nick. “Why not?” Delfina asked.
“Because you will be marrying someone else.”
Nick’s heartbeat ratcheted up. He tried to catch Delfina’s eye, but she wouldn’t look at him. “Who?” she asked.
Dario nodded in Nick’s direction. “What?” Nick asked, his voice sharp. “What game is this?”
“You would refuse my generous gesture? My mercy?” Dario leaned forward, picking up a heavy crystal tumbler half-full of liquor, weighing it in his hands as if he were going to throw it. The glass looked like it could leave a sizable dent in the wall—or in Nick’s head.
“Of course not. But—”
“But what, Signor Clarkston? You told the d’Imperios that you’d bedded her twice. Surely you have no objection?”
“I thought forced marriages went out with the Middle Ages.”
“I am giving you an incredible opportunity. An opportunity that no one of your station has ever been offered.”
“My station?”
“You are illegitimate. But you won’t be for long.”
Nick’s gut twisted. “Stop talking in riddles.”
With a smile, Dario sat back in the chair. “Your father will legally recognize you. You will take the Lucchesi name. But you will join my cosca. You will be an Andretti, part of this family. And you will work for me, be my eyes and ears in Interpol.”
Fuck that. “I will never take his name.” Nick wanted to punch something. “I came here to ruin him. You promised to help.”
Dario spread his hands and shrugged. “My plans have changed.”
“I refuse.”
“You’d prefer to take a ride with Flavio to the countryside?” Dario stared at him, his eyes going dead.
Delfina gripped Nick’s knee. “Don’t fight,” she whispered.
He brushed her hand aside and stood up. She was right, but he just couldn’t do it. He paced over to the far wall, sucking in air. Then he realized he had a reason for refusing that Dario couldn’t ignore. He turned to face Dario. “If I am legally recognized, I can no longer be in Interpol. That’s not
what you want.”
Dario pursed his lips. “I can give that up if I need to.”
“But I can’t. I won’t. I will do the rest.”
“For someone disloyal to Interpol, you seem awfully interested in staying part of it,” Dario said.
Uh-oh. He’d almost given himself away. “I’m much more valuable to you if I’m in Interpol. Call me suspicious, but I think that improves my position with you.”
Dario’s brows rose. “What makes you think we are negotiating?”
“You want this for a reason. And you need my cooperation. I’ve given you my terms.”
“And I’ve given you mine. You have an hour to decide.” Dario rose. “I will leave you to talk.” He stepped out, closing the door behind him.
As soon as her father was gone, Delfina was by his side. She placed a hand on his forearm. “You need to pick your battles carefully, Nick,” she said, her voice low and firm.
Of course she’d say that. He jerked his arm out of her hold and stepped over to the window. Breathing in deep, he tried to slow his racing thoughts and quell the anger that threatened to swamp him. Dario was right about one thing. Part of this was an incredible opportunity. If he took Dario’s offer, he’d be inside the ‘Ndrangheta. He’d have access to information that would be impossible to get any other way. He could blow the lid off the organization, expose the rats to the light.
But the price Dario was asking…. The name change and legitimation aside—and those he was never going to agree to—there was the marriage to Delfina to consider. If her heart were pure, he could fall for her—would fall for her. Maybe he already had. But she seemed just as self-interested as everyone else in this twisted, tangled life. How could he be happy if he was constantly questioning her motives?
She touched his shoulder, shaking him out of his thoughts. He turned to snap at her, but stopped when he saw the tears streaming down her face. Damn him, but he couldn’t yell at her when she looked so miserable. “What?”
“Just listen to me. For five minutes. Please.” Her voice sounded broken. She should be happy. So why wasn’t she? He gestured for her to go on.