I fight down a sob. Since Mom died, Andy’s been my only source of comfort. Sometimes I feel so alone. I can’t let Sophie know how hard things can be. Dealing with the never-ending expenses, the fallout from my father’s fucked up life choices, the medical bills run up during my mom’s final days fighting cancer… My sister sees the world through rose-tinted spectacles, and I want to keep it that way. When we’re together, her happy chatter brightens my day, but I can’t turn to her when I’m struggling. Besides, college keeps her so busy, we seldom manage more than phone calls. Half the time, I think I take on extra nursing shifts just to have human contact. Of course, the money helps, too.
There’ll be no shifts now. I’ve given notice at the hospital, telling them I need to take a sabbatical for personal reasons. It was a relief when the administrator told me my job would be open if I ever wanted to return. I pray that will happen.
“Babe…it’s gonna be alright, I’m sure of it,” she murmurs, stroking my hair.
“Really?” I whimper. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because he’s so hot, dollface. Men that hot are never evil,” she replies.
I make a choking sound. “What about Ted Bundy?”
“Oh, I think he was just misunderstood, babe,” she says firmly, chucking me under my chin. She’s trying to boost my mood with her banter. “Now, let’s get these bags zipped up.” She reaches into my drawer and extracts the bunny she’d been admiring. “And maybe take this along, just in case. Though somehow, I think that man’s gonna have all your bases covered. If you get my drift.” She winks.
I snort out a laugh. “Oh God, Andy, what would I do without you?” Then I pull a face. “You do know where that’s been, right?”
“Of course, darling. I’m a doctor. And I plan to wash my hands.” She gives my shoulder a squeeze, then lugs the heaviest of my bags through my bedroom door. I know her cheery attitude is for my benefit. When I’d first told her about all of this, she’d been determined to go to the police. I’d convinced her to let it go. I don’t want to go through life being the woman who took on the mafia. I’m certainly not going to throw my baby sister to the wolves. I’m praying that somehow this will all work out.
As I shut my door behind me, I give a last glance around my apartment. Dario’s office assistant has told me the rent will be covered in my absence. A driver will be arriving in fifteen minutes. It didn’t surprise me to learn that he’d been on standby all along. When I’d called Dario’s office to tell him of my decision, he hadn’t even taken my call. I’d spoken with his secretary, who’d advised me that Mr. Caraldi had already made arrangements for my arrival. Clearly the apartment had been part of that. He’d been so sure of me.
Ass.
But I guess it didn’t take a mindreader to anticipate my decision. What else was I going to do? Throw myself on the mercy of Edoardo? That animal would eat me alive. I didn’t need Dario’s hints at the man’s capacities for brutality.
I shudder.
And then I shudder again when I remember what Dario had done to me. I’m betting that was just the tip of the iceberg.
By the time the limo pulls up at the gates of the address I’ve been given, my mouth is hanging open. I don’t know why, but I’d expected to be taken back to the penthouse we’d spent the night in. Right now, I’m staring up at a mansion in a gated estate that had more security to get through than Fort Knox. Green wrought-iron gates swing silently shut behind us, and the car cruises to a halt. We’ve rounded a central courtyard and stopped at the foot of a sweeping staircase. It leads to an entrance flanked by three-story pillars, with a double doorway that you could drive a bus through.
I swallow hard.
The driver has hopped out and opened my door, tipping his hat politely as I emerge from the vehicle. I’d feel like a celebrity if I wasn’t crapping myself right now. A moment later, the door swings open, and a figure steps out. Tall, broad-shouldered; I feel a swirl of nerves until I realize I’m looking at Mateo Ricci.
“Ms. Love,” he says politely as we meet halfway up the stairs. “I’ll show you to your room.”
My room?Thank God! I’d half expected I’d be sleeping in some sort of dungeon. Though I’m still anxious. I glance behind me, but Mateo presses a hand behind my shoulders. There’s no turning back.
“Otto will see to your bags,” he says, guiding me up the stairs. I nod and gnaw on my lip as I step through the doors into a hallway that leaves me equally overwhelmed.
The double-volume entranceway is cushioned by a soft, powder-blue carpet flecked with gold. Above me, a vast chandelier glitters, drawing my eye up to a staircase that curves up three levels. Guilt-framed artwork lines the walls, with giant urns containing drooping palms on every landing. The stair rail is chrome and glass with frosting on the panels – a twisting pattern that mimics the gold pattern of the carpet.
There’s no doubt that some interior designer has made a mint out of this place. But what strikes me most is that it looks nothing like the home of a mobster. Though I don’t know what I imagined that would look like. A barred fortress with armed guards at every door?
To the right of the entrance hall, a wide corridor lined with pillars leads into a formal reception area. More chandeliers sparkle over a sitting area overlooking a tinkling fountain surrounded by a rose garden. I want to shake my head in wonder, but I have little time to dwell on it. Mateo is walking briskly up the stairs and leading me down a hallway on the second floor. Three rooms down, he opens a door, and I follow him into a haven of air-conditioned bliss.
Normally, I’d focus on the huge bed that dominates the one wall of the room. But what draws my eye now is the expanse of glass that gives a sweeping vista of the mountains in the distance.
“Wow, what an amazing view!” I exhale, stepping closer. Mateo steps up beside me. I can also see out across a golf course that’s part of the estate. And closer, within the gardens, is a huge, sparkling pool.
“The windows are triple-glazed,” he says, “for insulation. And, of course, the room is soundproof.” I shoot a look at him as he swings the glass doors open. There’s suddenly a swirl of noise from outside. A child’s laughter, along with that of a man. A man whose voice I know, though never in laughter.
Beyond the glass doors, I step onto the wide veranda that runs along the length of the house. It’s beautiful outside. Nearing 6 p.m. and the heat of the day is dissipating. The golden hour has turned the sky a hundred shades of sunset tones. And the warm light is gleaming off the broad shoulders of the man in the water below.
“Hey, boss!” Mateo calls down. Dario twists to face us. I step quickly away from the railing, once again filled with trepidation. He raises an arm and waves up at us, wading to the edge of the pool. The child paddles along with him, and they both clamber out of the water together. Dario towers over the small boy. In matching black swimming trunks, they’re both tanned and glistening with water. They make a striking pair.
The boy reaches for a towel on a nearby lounger, and his father stoops to wrap it around his narrow shoulders, briskly toweling his wet hair. He’s carefully dabbing the area on his forehead where the stitches had been. It’s a picture that’s so sweetly innocent that I’m shaken.
“Let’s head down,” Mateo says the words I’ve been dreading. Though the picture before me has settled me somewhat.He’s a good dad…he can’t be all bad, surely?
