The agreement was for Cesare to meet my grandfather on neutral ground, like the hotel I didn’t know the Salvatores owned a massive chunk of on the Lower East Side. Or the Sicilian restaurant Bonafacio believed was owned by a celebrity chef but was in fact fully funded by Cesare’s uncle Pietro’s wife. It didn’t gladden my heart that the Salvatores laughed at my grandfather every time he dined there and probably had something sketchy put into his food, but since I knew to my costhis level of hubris and cruelty, I wasn’t in a hurry to spring to his defence.
‘Hey.’
I moaned softly when Cesare’s hand coasted down my back. God, I loved it when he touched me. ‘Hmm?’
He dropped a kiss at my temple. ‘It’ll be fine.’
It wouldn’t. Not for a while. Not while my mom, sisters and brother believed I’d gone over to the dark side. But I had to be patient, let things play out and settle before I could make my case.
I sighed when his hand dropped and he picked up his keys. ‘You’re leaving already?’
‘If I stay here much longer, you get fucked again. And you need a long bath to relax and rest for when I get back.’
I sighed again, then immediately got distracted by the sunlight refracting through my gorgeous ring. His low, pleased laughter drew me from my bling infatuation. ‘You’re taking Fist with you, right?’
His grin widened, and my heart galloped with pure happiness. The road ahead was all sorts of rocky, but Cesare Salvatore wasmine.
‘I’ll let him know you’re a fan.’
I pouted. ‘He’ll still look through me like I don’t exist.’
‘You exist for me,bedda. That’s all that matters.’
28
CESARE
The meeting with Bonafacio was set at Tero’s in Midtown.
Few people knew about my history with Charlie Nicotero. Even fewer knew the Salvatores were silent partners in all eleven of his world-renowned restaurants.
I had a brief thing with his sister back in the day. He’d been all set for a flashy debut in Formula Two when he’d face-planted in cocaine. His sister begged me to kick him straight before he lost a promising career.
Long story short, he never made it into racing. But in my attempt to help him out, he’d introduced me to the sexiest motor racing on earth. And to the bestbusiate alla trapeneseoutside of my mother’s kitchen.
He got his act together long enough to take my advice about opening a restaurant, then promptly lost it all to drugs. I dug him out of his dark hole a second time with the condition I fronted his business and the threat to slit his throat if he so much as lost me a penny.
He’d made us both millions in the ten years we’d been partners.
I slid into the backseat after leaving Maddelena and met Fist’s gaze in the rearview. It’d been a week, and I still hadn’t spoken to him.
Now was as good a chance as any. ‘You know what’s going on.’ It wasn’t a question.
He hesitated, then nodded. ‘Yes, Boss.’
‘Do you have feelings about it I should be concerned about?’
He’d eyed me for a stupidly long stretch, making my nape itch. ‘No, Boss. You’ll do what’s right, when it’s right,’ he replied in his usual monotone.
One of the many knots in my gut untangled. ‘Good man.’
I slapped him on the arm, eased back in my seat, and texted Rafa.
On my way. 15 minutes.
At his prompt response, I slotted my phone back in my jacket pocket, next to the virtual grenade I intended to win this particular battle with.
I still couldn’t believe what my father had uncovered in Sicily. All for the low, low price of a full refurbishment of an old crumbling sixteenth-century church and direct access to Orazio and me when needed. I agreed immediately. Orazio, being the ornery bastard he was, had held out for a day.
