Malavita (13 page)

“Yes,” Antonella said, unsure of where this was going.

“How did he seem then?”

She thought back to the way he’d looked at her, the way he’d held her. “He was focused, intent.”

“And how did you feel?”

She couldn’t help smiling. “Beautiful.”

“Did he seem false to you in any way?”

“No.”

“Did he seem like he wanted to be anyplace else?”

“Just the opposite.”

“Then trust
that
. Trust how
you
made
him
feel, how
he
made
you
feel. You can’t fake that.”

“But what about the rest of the time? He’s shutting me out, and that’s not a good thing. How can I get him to open up to me?”

“How do you get Dario to do that?”

“I wait him out.”

“And now we circle back to what I said before.” Ilaria gestured wide with her open hands. “Problem solved.”

“I wait?”

“You wait.”

“Hmm. Doesn’t seem very… active.”

“You wait for the right moment. Then you nudge. Not push.”

“That
is
how I handle Dario and Papà.”

“And Enrico Lucchesi is no different.”

Maybe not. But getting to the heart of him, figuring out how he worked, what moved him, would be as tricky as defusing a bomb.

And possibly as dangerous.

Enrico replayed his phone conversation with Antonella over and over in his head as he hiked through the hills of his family’s estate. She’d been trying to be nice to him—to apologize—and he’d been rude. Mean, even. He was little better than those boys at her school. Just because he was in an intolerable situation didn’t mean that he had the right to inflict his anger on her.

The more he reviewed his words, the more he cringed inside. What was wrong with him? He had so little self-control sometimes. He needed to keep his head, keep his cool, if he was going to avenge his family. He needed to play by the rules while circumventing them at the same time.

And one of the rules was that he had to be nice to his fiancée.

Besides that, he didn’t like how he’d behaved. He was better than that.
Cristo
, did he want to turn out to be Carlo Andretti, a man who thought only of himself and his own selfish desires? A man so focused on hatred he couldn’t think straight anymore? A man willing to hurt others again and again?

No. That was not who the Lucchesis were. That was not who Enrico was.

And Toni deserved his very best.

He owed her yet another apology. A big one.

Winding his way through dusty shrubbery and tall grasses, he headed from the untamed wilds of the hills back to the manicured perfection of the gardens surrounding the villa. It was time to swallow his pride and beg forgiveness.

Sweaty and disheveled, he beelined straight for the phone and dialed the Andrettis without pausing for so much as a glass of water.

When Antonella came to the phone, he plunged into what he wanted to say. “Toni, please forgive me. I was in a terrible mood when you called. I had no right to speak to you like that. I’m sorry.”

She said nothing, and he stumbled on, his heart lurching in his chest. “I know I don’t deserve forgiveness, but please give me another chance.”

Finally she spoke. “You do realize this is the third second chance you’ve asked for?”

Relief trickled over him. She didn’t sound angry. Almost amused. “I do. Believe me, I do. I need to work on my temper. I’m trying.”

“Try harder,” she said with a chuckle.

“I promise.” He blotted his sweaty forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “Will you let me make it up to you? The
passeggiata
tonight, and then dinner?” Walking along the promenade together, him showing her off to the town, would make her happy.

“Let me ask Papà first.” The phone clunked down on some surface and he waited for her to return, jingling the coins in his pockets and scuffling his shoe along the tiles in the kitchen. Nonna Drina, their cook and boss of the household staff, bustled away behind him, preparing him a snack. She pressed an icy glass of water into his hand and patted his cheek before going back to her chopping.

His mind whirled as the minutes dragged by. Where was Toni? What was taking so long? Was Carlo saying no? At least Toni didn’t seem furious with him, though she had every right to be. Unfortunately, he couldn’t explain about Nico.

Finally she came back on the line. “He said I could go. But you have to have me back by ten.”

And just for that, he’d keep her until 10:01. “Pick you up at six?”

He could practically hear her smile. “I’ll see you then.”

Now all he had to do was be good to her, keep his cool, and hide any signs of negativity.

Her father was a bastard, but Antonella was a princess.

And Enrico needed to play the role of prince.

Enrico waited for the wrought iron gates of the Andretti estate to open. They slowly yawned apart, and a shudder rippled down his spine as he drove through them. He’d come alone, unaccompanied by guards this time.

Surely Carlo could be trusted to follow through on the wedding at this point, given the terms of the contract. Carlo thought he had the upper hand; he could afford to be generous. Even magnanimous. Yes?

After following the circular drive up to the house, Enrico stopped the car at the base of the steps leading to the front entrance. To his surprise, there stood the man himself in an immaculate cream-colored jacket and linen trousers, smoking a cigar. Carlo descended the stairs, his pace unhurried, as if he were on a leisurely stroll.

Enrico got out of the Ferrari and met him, doing his best to keep a leash on his temper. “Signor Andretti,” he said, deliberately being polite, but not using the “Don” that Carlo would expect. Carlo was no true
capo
, and Enrico would be damned if he’d treat him like one.

Carlo grinned and tapped ash from his cigar onto the gravel drive. “The pup bares its teeth again.”

The taunt was designed to anger him, and it did its job perfectly. But he wouldn’t give Carlo the satisfaction. “You are not my
capo
,
signore
.”

This time Carlo laughed. He stared Enrico down, his gaze unwavering. “You still owe me respect, boy. As a member of our society.”

It was true. And yet… Enrico met Carlo’s gaze square on. “I have not been rude,
signore
. That is the best you can expect of me.”

Carlo stepped a little closer, and Enrico steeled himself not to give ground, not to react. Not so much as a blink. Carlo’s dark eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Enrico, no doubt studying him for weakness. “Treat my
daughter
rudely again, and you will owe me much more than politeness.”

Enrico gave him a stiff nod. At least the man loved his daughter. “That won’t happen again.”

“I heard about what happened at the school,” Carlo said. Enrico hid his surprise. “That’s the only reason I’m letting this go.
Capisci
?” Carlo took a draw on his cigar and let out a stream of smoke, directing it away from Enrico. “I won’t have my little girl hurt. Not by them, and not by
you
.” Carlo punctuated that statement by jabbing a thick forefinger into Enrico’s sternum.

“Understood.”

“
Davvero
?” Carlo asked.

“My word is good.”

“Your father’s isn’t.”

A bolt of heat slammed into Enrico’s chest and boiled up into his face. His hands balled into fists, and he dropped back onto his right foot so he could deliver a punch straight to that lying bastard’s jaw.

Except that Andretti was telling the truth.

Enrico’s father
had
lied to Carlo. He’d broken their deal. He’d double-crossed Andretti.

And didn’t the truth sting?

Carlo’s eyes dropped to Enrico’s fists momentarily before coming back to his face. “Well?”

Antonella saved Enrico from having to respond. Her quick jog down the stairs caught their attention, and the way her eyes darted between them showed she hadn’t missed the tension in the air. “
Ciao
, Papà,” she said and lightly kissed Carlo on the cheek before closing a hand over Enrico’s right fist and tugging him toward the Ferrari.

His cheeks still burning from having his father’s shame shoved in his face, Enrico was all too glad to escort her to the car.

“Have her back by ten,” Carlo called.

Not a minute before ten-oh-fucking-two
. Enrico didn’t acknowledge Carlo’s words as he shut Antonella’s door. He crossed to his own side and looked up just before getting in and caught a grin of triumph on Carlo’s face.

Just you wait
, Don
Andretti. I will soon have my vengeance
.

“What was that all about?” Antonella asked as Enrico forced himself not to stomp the accelerator into the floor. He looked back in the rear view mirror at Carlo receding in the distance.

“Your father being his usual charming self,” Enrico said. “Did you tell him what happened at your school?”

“No. Why?” Before he could answer, she said, “Did he disapprove?”

“He approved. He made quite clear that was the only reason he wasn’t kicking my ass from here to Calabria for the way I spoke to you.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh no,” she muttered.

“What?”

“Arturo had a huge black eye today and he was all scraped up. He said some guys had mugged him.” She paused. “But that’s not what happened, is it?”

“Doubt it.”

“This is why I didn’t want him to know.”

“Apparently your brother doesn’t share your scruples.”

“He had no right—”

“He’s your brother. He probably thinks I did his job. And he’s not happy about it.”

“You’re right. He still shouldn’t have told Papà.”

Enrico downshifted as they headed up a hill toward town. “I hope this doesn’t sound strange, but your brother is awfully attached to you.” He tried to keep his voice light, but he was sure she heard his real question: How attached are you to him? He glanced at her, but her face was smooth and blank as stone.

“Dario and I have always had each other. Always. He would say we have a common enemy in Papà, but that’s where he’s wrong. Papà and I have always gotten along. Dario hasn’t been so lucky.”

“I’m starting to like your brother.”

She gave him a sour look. “I know this is impossible, but could you please understand how I feel? I love my father. Just like you love yours.”

But mine didn’t kill most of your family
. He exhaled slowly. “Okay. I get it.”

He pulled into a car park near the promenade, where the townspeople were already strolling about, everyone enjoying this evening’s
passeggiata
—whole families, young couples, old couples, groups of laughing kids racing past the rest, gravel crunching beneath everyone’s feet.

Enrico remembered coming down here with his family, he, Primo, and Mario cutting up, pushing and shoving each other, telling jokes and laughing, until Papà would raise his voice and tell them to behave. Which they would do, for about ten minutes. Then it would start all over again and wouldn’t end until—

His eyes misted over and he paused with his hand on the lever to open the car door. He hadn’t cried for them. Not then. Not ever. Not even at the funeral. So why did the tears threaten to fall now?

“What is it?” Antonella asked and placed a hand on his arm.

He jerked away from her touch, then shook his head.
She
wasn’t the enemy. “Nothing.”

“It isn’t nothing. What’s bothering you?”

Taking a deep breath, he let his head fall back against the headrest, the leather of his seat creaking with the movement. “Can we just have fun?” He gestured around them. “I brought you here to apologize and show you a good time.”

She stroked his cheek. “I want to know you, Rico.”

A wave of longing strangled his throat. She’d hit upon the very thing he wanted most—someone to talk to, someone who understood. Someone who could know everything about him.