Lazzero’s mouth thinned. “He baited me.”
“Which appears to be your Achilles’ heel,” his brother observed. “Perhaps food for thought as you do some damage control here.”
* * *
Chiara claimed her wrap, practically floating on air. A sharp bite of anticipation nipped at her skin as she made her way back through the crowd to where Lazzero was waiting for her at the bar.
Her progress painfully slow, she looked up to catch his eye. Noted he was deep in conversation. The tall, dark male he was talking to shifted to pick up his drink. Antonio, she registered. Which would have been fine. A social chat perhaps. Business. Except for the expression on Lazzero’s face.
Oh, my God.
Heart pounding, she quickened her pace, desperate to intervene. But the crowd was too tightly packed, her high heels allowing her to move only so fast. By the time she made it to the bar, Santo was hauling Lazzero away from Antonio after some type of an altercation. Antonio, who looked utterly unruffled, straightened his suit, said something to Lazzero, then melted off into the crowd.
She came to a sliding halt in front of the two brothers. Santo said something to Lazzero, a heated look on his face, then stalked off. He looked just as furious as his brother. Or maybe not. Lazzero looked livid.
“What happened?” she breathed.
Lazzero’s face was a wall of concrete. “We are not talking about it here.”
She didn’t argue because the rage coming off him in waves was making her knees weak. Clutching her purse to her side, she practically ran to keep up with his long strides as they found Carolina and the other organizers of the party, thanked them, then walked the couple of blocks back to their hotel.
When they entered their suite, Lazzero peeled off his jacket and threw it on a chair. Whipping off his bow tie, he tossed it on top of his jacket and walked to the bar to pour himself a drink. Carrying the glass to the windows, he stood looking out at a shimmering view of a night-lit Milan.
Chiara kicked off her heels and threw her wrap on a chair. Her throat too tight to get words past it, her brain rifled through the possible scenarios of what had just happened. Which were too varied and scary to consider, so she stood, arms hugged around herself, and waited for Lazzero to speak. Which he finally did.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Fabrizio?”
She blanched. Felt the world fall away from beneath her feet. “I didn’t think it was anyone’s business but my own,” she said, managing to find her voice as he turned to face her. “Antonio and I were over months ago. It was history to me. I didn’t see the point in bringing it up.”
“You didn’t see the point?” His voice was so quiet, so cold, it sent a chill through her. “Because you had an affair with a man who belonged to someone else?”
The blood drained from her face. “I didn’t have an affair with him. I didn’t know he was engaged, Lazzero. He lied to me. I told you what happened last night.”
“You didn’t tell me it was Antonio Fabrizio!” He yelled the words at her with such force she took a stumbling step backward. “Fabrizio is one of Fiammata’s largest stakeholders, Chiara. There are three, equally strong deals on the table for Volare. That son of a bitch told Gianni to take the British offer over ours.”
Oh, good God, no. The blood froze in her veins. She had known Antonio was angry. That he wasn’t one to concede defeat. But she’d been so sure the fact that she was engaged to Lazzero would have driven the point home that she was unavailable. Which, she admitted numbly, had been a gross miscalculation on her part.
“I’m so sorry,” she said dazedly, sinking down on the arm of the sofa. “I can’t believe he did this.”
His gaze glittered like hard, polished ebony. “What were you two talking about by the lake, then? If it’s over?”
She sank her teeth into her lip. “It’s complicated.”
“Enlighten me,” he growled.
She pressed her palms to her cheeks. Dropped her hands to her sides. “I met Antonio at a party last summer in Chelsea. It was a sophisticated crowd—I was completely out of my league. Worried about my father. You know what it’s been like. Antonio—he pursued me relentlessly. He wouldn’t give up. He swept me off my feet, made all sorts of promises and within weeks we were living together.
“I thought we had something. That he loved me. Until one morning when I was leaving the penthouse for work, I bumped into his mother. She’d come to surprise Antonio for his birthday—to do some Christmas shopping. She told me Antonio had a fiancée in Milan. That I was just his American plaything.”
Her stomach curled at the memory. “I was crushed. Devastated. I gave Antonio his key back that night and told him I never wanted to see him again. He was furious. Refused to take no for an answer. He kept sending me flowers, theater tickets, jewelry. Kept calling me. I sent it all back, told him I wanted nothing to do with him. Finally, a couple of months ago, he stopped calling.”
Lazzero watched her with a hooded gaze. “And last night?”
“Antonio followed me when I went to the washroom. He said he hadn’t given up on me. That he thought I’d be over Amalia by now and he was going to come and see me in New York the next time he was in town.”
“Because he wants you back.”
A statement, not a question. One she couldn’t refute, even with the recrimination written across Lazzero’s face. “Yes,” she admitted. “He wants me to be his mistress. He asked me what I wanted—if I wanted him to leave Amalia, because he couldn’t. I told him I was engaged to you. That I loved you. That I wanted him to forget we ever existed, because I want nothing to do with him.”
“He said you disliked playing second fiddle to Amalia. That you, in effect, had given him an ultimatum—it was her or you.”
Her breath left her in a rush. “That’s a lie,” she rasped. “He is on a seek and destroy mission. If he can’t have me, no one will.”
“Why bother?” Lazzero murmured. “I get that all men love you, Chiara, but Fabrizio is a powerful man. He could have any woman he wants.”
Her stomach curled at the insinuation she wasn’t worth pursuing. That she had somehow invited Antonio’s attention last night. That she was in some way responsible for what had happened.
“Antonio is entitled,” she said quietly, fingers clenching at her sides. “He does think he can have anything he wants. I think you forget you’re the one who walked into the café and threw that insane amount of money at me to come with you, Lazzero. You’re the one who wouldn’t take no for an answer. I never wanted to be any part of this world.”
“Because he is here.”
“Yes,” she snapped back at the look of condemnation in his eyes, “because he is here. I put him out of my life, Lazzero. I had no idea he was married to Amalia. I was in complete shock last night at the dinner party. But never once did I give him any encouragement that there might still be something between us. You know how I feel about you.”
“I don’t know anything,” he lanced back. “I have no idea what the hell to believe, because you lied to my face, Chiara.” He pointed the Scotch at her. “I gave you every opportunity to tell me what was wrong last night. Every opportunity you needed. And you told me you were tired. That nothing was wrong.”
Her stomach dropped, like a book toppling off a high shelf. She should have told him. She had known he had trust issues. Had known he’d let down his walls for her. Had known she’d been playing with fire by not telling him. And still, she had done it.
“I was afraid to lose you,” she admitted softly. “Afraid you wouldn’t understand.”
A choked-off sound of disbelief ripped itself from his throat. “So you did the one thing guaranteed to make that happen? Maledizione, Chiara. You know my history on this. I thought we had something here. I thought we were building something together. I thought we were different.”
; “We are,” she blurted out, her heart in her mouth. “I’m falling for you, Lazzero. You know that.”
“How would you even know who you’re in love with?” He waved a hand at her. “A few months ago it was him. Now it’s me. Do you just turn it on and off at will? Like a tap?”
Her stomach contracted at the low blow. At the closed-off look on his face, getting colder by the minute. “I was never in love with him,” she said evenly, her chin lifting. “I thought I was. How I feel for you is completely different.”
He shrugged that off. “Trust was the one thing that was nonnegotiable in this. You knew that.”
“Lazzero,” she said huskily, “it was an error in judgment. One mistake.”
“Which could bury me.” He raked a hand through his hair. Eyed her. “Is there anything else I should know? Any other powerful men you have slept with who can annihilate my future?”
Her breath caught in her throat. “You did not just say that.”
He pushed away from the bar and headed for the study. “I need to go research the competition. See if I can salvage this.”
The finality of it, the judgment written across his face said it all. Whatever she said, it wasn’t going to be enough.
“Why did you try and hit him?” She tossed the question after him because she had to know.
He turned around, mouth twisting. “He suggested you were almost worth a four-carat ring. I was defending your honor, fool that I am.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHIARA DIDN’T SLEEP. She lay awake all night in the gorgeous four-poster bed, numb, frozen, as she waited for Lazzero to join her. But he never did, pulling one of his all-nighters in an attempt to salvage the deal. And what, she conceded miserably, staring up at the beautiful crystal chandelier, would she have even said to him if he had?
She should have told him about Antonio. She could never have predicted what Antonio had done—was still in utter shock that he’d done it. But she had known about Lazzero’s trust issues. And instead of believing in what they had, in what they were building together, she’d reverted back to her old ways. Had allowed her insecurities to rule. And in doing so, she’d destroyed everything.
Sleepless and bleary-eyed, she boarded the jet for their flight home to New York the following afternoon. Lazzero devoted the entire journey to his effort to discredit his British competition, which left such a sick feeling in her stomach, she hadn’t slept there, either.
If she hadn’t known it was over the night before, she knew it was when Lazzero bid her a curt farewell on the tarmac, he and Santo en route to a sports fund-raiser, not one speck of that warmth he usually reserved for her in his gorgeous, dark eyes. She gave him back the ring, unable to bear wearing it a moment longer, only to have Lazzero wave his hand at her and tell her to keep it. He couldn’t take it back and she needed the money.
It had been all she could do not to throw it at him. She told him instead that she couldn’t be bought, that she’d never been for sale and shoved the ring in his hand. Then she’d allowed Gareth, whom Lazzero had handed her off to, to shepherd her into the Bentley for the drive home.
Her carpe diem moment seemed foolish as the car slid smoothly off into the night. She had told herself it was a mistake to accept Lazzero’s offer. To allow herself to fall for him. Then she’d gone ahead and done it anyway and fool that she’d been, she’d started to buy into the fairy tale. Of what she and Lazzero could be.
Her chest throbbed in a tight, hot ache as the headlights from the other cars slid across her face. She’d opened herself up exactly as Lazzero had challenged her to—had shown him who she truly was—had taken that leap—only to have him walk away as if what they’d shared had meant nothing. As if she wasn’t worth the effort. Which might hurt the most of all.
The sun was sinking in a giant, red-orange ball when she arrived at her apartment in Spanish Harlem, bidding the city a sultry, crimson adieu. Gareth, a gentleman to the end, helped her up the three sets of stairs to her door and made sure she was safely inside before he melted back into the sunset like the former special agent he likely was.
The apartment was hot and stuffy, empty with Kat working the closing shift. She dumped her suitcase in the living room, too exhausted to even think about unpacking, because then she would have to look at all those beautiful clothes and the memories that came with them. About the man who’d just walked away from her without a backward glance.
She called her father instead as she made a cup of herbal tea, anxious to talk to him after a week of trading messages. Only to find him bubbling over with the news of a visit by the Five Boroughs Angel Foundation the previous afternoon, in which Ferrante’s had been the recipient of an angel investment that would cover the bakery’s rent for the remainder of the year.
He’d been so happy and relieved, he’d gone over to Frankie DeLucca’s to celebrate. It was almost enough to peel away a layer of her misery as she signed off and promised to see her father the following evening.
She carried the tea into the living room, intent on numbing her brain with one of her dancing shows. But the stiflingly hot room felt like a shoebox after the palatial suite at the Orientale, the sound from her downstairs neighbor’s TV was its usual intolerably loud level and the window box air conditioner refused to work.
As if nothing has changed. Except everything had. And maybe that’s why her chest felt so tight. Because she’d gone to Italy as one person and come back another. Because of Lazzero.
The tears came then, like hot, silent bandits slipping down her cheeks. And once they started, they wouldn’t seem to stop. Which was ridiculous, really, because, in the end, what had Lazzero been offering her? The same no-strings-attached arrangement as Antonio had? A few more weeks of being starry-eyed while she fell harder for a man who had a questionable ability to commit?
She staggered to bed, flattened by jetlag. Rose the next morning with a renewed sense of determination. She was tougher than this. She wasn’t going to let Lazzero Di Fiore crush her. She was going to go to this coffee with Bianca and crush it. Because if there was one thing Lazzero had taught her, it was that she couldn’t depend on anyone else to make her dream happen. That had to come from her.
She met Bianca at the Daily Grind before her shift began. A tall, Katharine Hepburn–like bombshell, Bianca was as tough as Lazzero had described, but also inspiring, brilliant and full of amazing ideas as they looked through her portfolio. When Bianca glanced at her bare left hand for what seemed like the fiftieth time, Chiara waved it in the air. “We broke up,” she said shortly. “It was all my fault.”
It was the same line she used with the girls at the café when Bianca disappeared out the door with a promise to get back to her with the committee’s decision. When a week passed with no sign of Lazzero and his habitual order of a double espresso, her heart jumping every time the bell on the door rang, because maybe he would change his mind. Maybe he would apologize. But it never happened.
* * *
Eyes trained on his computer screen, Lazzero pulled the coffee that his PA, Enid, had just delivered within striking distance while he scanned the contents of the email he’d just gotten from Gianni. Only to discover the wily Italian had changed the rules of the game. Again.
His mind working a mile a minute at the implications of what the Fiammata CEO was proposing, he lifted the espresso to his lips and took a sip. Almost spit it out.
It was the final straw.
“Enid!” he bellowed, pushing to his feet and heading out to Reception, cup in hand. “What the hell is this?” He arched a brow at her. “Do we not have an espresso machine and do you not know how to use it?”
His exceedingly young, ultraefficient PA, who couldn’t be more than twenty-five, gave him a wary look as if considering which angle with which to avoid this new threat. “We do,” she agreed evenly, “and I do.”
“Then maybe you
can try again,” he suggested, dumping the cup on her desk. “Because this is filth. F.I.L.T.H.”
Enid calmly got to her feet, scooped up the cup and headed toward the kitchen. Santo strolled out of his office, a football palmed between his hands. “Jet lag getting to you?” he asked pointedly.
“Gianni,” Lazzero muttered. “He just got back to me.”
Santo followed him into his office. “What did he say?”
“‘After much consideration,’ he’s decided to split the global rights for Volare. Supersonic is to receive the North American license, Gladiator, the rest-of-world global rights. Provided we are agreeable with the price tag he has attached to the offer.”
“Which is?”
Lazzero named the figure.
Santo blinked. “For the North American rights? That would stretch us.”
More than stretch them. It would eliminate other growth opportunities he wanted to pursue. Close doors. On a bet that Volare would move heaven and earth for them.
He walked to the window. Looked out at a glittering Manhattan, the sun gilding the skyscrapers the palest shade of gold. If America was the land of opportunity, New York was the epitome of the American Dream. He’d seen it from both sides now—knew what it was like to live one step away from the street with a paralyzing fear as your guiding force and what it was like to have it all. How easily it could flip—in the blink of an eye—with one wrong move.
With one mistake.
He locked his jaw, ignoring the pain riding beneath his chest, because they were over and he was better off this way. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t made him think.
“We’re not doing it.” He turned around and leaned against the sill, his eyes on Santo. “We take the reputational hit. We tell the analysts it’s going to take us a bit longer than we anticipated to make it to number two, and we do it ourselves. The way we do it best.”
A wealth of emotion flickered through Santo’s dark eyes. “There will be a storm. You know that.”
He nodded. The investment community would crucify them for missing their targets for the first time in the company’s history. There would be that analysis their star had risen too far, too fast. But he hadn’t created this company to have it ruled by a bunch of number crunchers in their high-priced offices.
His Million-Dollar Marriage Proposal Page 16