Malavita (15 page)

Enrico had to act before Carlo did, or else all would be lost.

Antonella floated into the house as if in a dream. Rico had called her his girl, and he’d given her an amazing present: her first taste of what things could be like between them once they were married.

Grinning to herself, she was about to take the stairs up to her room when she heard her father talking in low tones to someone whose voice sounded eerily familiar, and yet was strange.

She paused with one foot on the stairs, straining to listen. And then she heard it again. “
Sì
, Don Andretti,” the man said to her father, his voice a guttural rasp.

Just like the voice of the man who’d so startled Enrico at the car park. It couldn’t be. Could it? And if it was the same man, what did that mean?

She pivoted off the stair and slipped off her shoes before heading toward her father’s study. When she reached the library, she paused, just one door away from her father’s domain.

“You’re bringing in Borelli, Valentino, and Gennaro?” the stranger asked.

“
Sì
. You all work so well together,” her father said with a chuckle. “Any other questions?”

“Just where and when.”

“It hasn’t been settled exactly. I’ll call.”

“
Buona sera
, then, Don Andretti.” The half-open door to her father’s study swung wide, and Antonella slipped into the library and flattened herself against the near wall so the man wouldn’t see her.

As he passed by, she snuck a glance at the back of him—same height and build as the man at the car park, looked like the same clothes and haircut. It had to be him.

What was going on? If this man worked for her father, why did Enrico know him?

And what did her father want this man to do?

Maybe she should just ask. She waited until the front door closed, then she stepped into the hall and went to her father’s study. She tapped on the open door with her knuckles. “Papà?”

Her father looked up from the glass of whiskey he was pouring at the sideboard. “Come in,
dolcezza
.” He finished pouring his glass and carried it over to his desk. Antonella followed, and he motioned to the shoes she was carrying by the straps. “So that’s how you snuck up on me.”

She laughed, playing it cool. “They were pinching my feet. Couldn’t wait to get them off.”

He glanced at the clock on his desk. “Ten fifteen,” he said with a frown.

“We’ve been sitting out front for a while.”

“Doing what?”

She blushed at his scrutiny. “Talking.”

He raised a brow. “Toni.”

“We kissed. A little.”

He sat back in his chair, cradling the whiskey in his hands. “You like him?”

“I do.”

“And he’s treating you properly?”

It took everything she had not to fidget, though heat crept up her neck. “He is.”

“You’re blushing again. So either you’re lying, or—”

“He’s treating me with respect, Papà.”

“He’s a Lucchesi. I’m not sure they know what respect is.”

“Enrico knows. He’s not his father.”

Her father took a sip of whiskey. “No, he’s not. He’s still got some fire in him.”

“And you like that.”

“I respect it.”

She circled to the topic she wanted to discuss. “Who was that man I passed on my way in?” she asked. “I didn’t recognize him.”

“One of my men from Milan.”

“Why was he here?”

“He’s helping me with something I’m working on.”

“What?” she asked, making the question as innocent as she could.

“Something that will make us rich.”

“We’re already rich.”

“Richer then.”

She leaned forward, feigning eagerness. “What is it?”

He pursed his lips and studied her. “It’s a surprise.”

Papà was rarely this cagey about his plans. Which meant he either didn’t trust her or he didn’t think she’d approve.

The last time he’d been like this, Enrico’s family had been gunned down, and her brother had lost a finger.

What sort of scheme was her father planning now?

And what was Enrico’s connection to it? Should she confess about Enrico recognizing the man earlier?

Or was Enrico the one who needed the warning?

With her father, it was so hard to tell. He could be devising some new way to make money, or he could be up to much, much worse.

Antonella’s gut cramped. Without knowing more, how could she choose between Enrico and Papà?

Despite his worries about Carlo’s plans, Enrico couldn’t stop thinking about Toni.
Dio mio
, had he ever been so crazy for a girl? Enrico forced himself to dress instead of attending to his swollen
cazzo
. He’d already done so twice since dropping Antonella off last night, but he couldn’t stop his mind from drifting back to how she’d felt in his arms, the way she’d moaned when she’d rocked against him, the way she’d offered to touch him at the end. Her innocence was beguiling.

Not even Veronica had affected him this way. There was something about Toni. She wasn’t the prettiest girl he’d dated, and yet he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Maybe it was just because he knew he’d be marrying her soon.

Or maybe it had something to do with how she’d soothed his pain last night, the tenderness with which she’d looked after him. She cared about him in a way no one had in a long time.

Veronica wanted him, yes, but her feelings seemed… greedy, compared to Toni’s. Toni didn’t seem to want anything from him, other than that he treat her kindly. Something he’d done inconsistently, at best. He’d fix that from now on.

Tucking away his half-hard
cazzo
, he combed his wet hair and left his bedroom, heading downstairs to join his father at their dock.

They were meeting Romano Marchesi, the banker Giacomo Parini had told his father about, at Parini’s store in Bellagio. Marchesi was understandably nervous; he worried that Carlo would find him out and kill him, so it had to look like they were meeting by chance, in case either party had been followed.

They took the boat across the lake, Enrico’s father at the wheel, neither of them talking beyond the necessities—“You ready?” his father had asked when he’d appeared. And when Enrico had nodded, his father had said only, “Then cast us off.”

The thump of waves against the hull, the splashing of their wake, the drone of the boat’s motor, were the only sounds now, and Enrico’s mind wandered back to what he’d been thinking in the car last night. About how Papà couldn’t bear to look at him. It was true.

And it was horrible. He reached over and cut the engine back to idle. “What are you doing?” Rinaldo asked.

“I don’t know. But I have to do it.”

Rinaldo’s brows came down low over his eyes. “You’re not making sense.”

Words lodged in Enrico’s throat, painful words, and his heart beat in a staccato rhythm. “I miss them too.”

Rinaldo stiffened and looked away. He cranked the throttle, and when Enrico tried to stop him, Rinaldo batted Enrico’s hand away. “We’re not talking about this,” he said gruffly over the engine noise.

“Not now, or not ever?” Enrico shouted over the motor.

Rinaldo didn’t answer, just kept his eyes trained on their destination.

Enrico lifted a hand to touch his father’s shoulder, then let it drop to his side, his throat clamping shut. What did he expect? That two years would cure his father’s grief? It certainly hadn’t cured his own.

Neither of them said anything until they docked. Finally Rinaldo broke the silence. “I will talk when I am ready. Now is not the time.”

It wasn’t what he wanted, but it was a glimmer. Perhaps they’d someday be able to break through the ice that had formed between them.

He had to hope.

“With Marchesi, let me do the talking,” Rinaldo said. “At least to start.”

“
Sì
.” Enrico followed his father up the hill toward Parini’s shop. “So what’s our cover? Maybe I should get something for Toni.”

Rinaldo stopped and gave him a look. “We’re picking up her rings today.”

Madonna
. He’d forgotten he’d be presenting an engagement ring to Antonella in a little over a week. He hadn’t even thought about it. Had been avoiding thinking about it. Thank goodness his father hadn’t.

But how it must have hurt Papà to do so. What had he been thinking as he’d picked out a wedding set for the daughter of the man who’d killed his wife?

They’d never discussed it, but Enrico had privately vowed that no Andretti would ever wear Mamma’s ring. Her beautiful ring with the enormous pink diamond that had been the talk of the lake. “Now there’s a man who loves his wife,” people would say when they saw it.

Mamma would say it was too much, truly, but Enrico could tell that she hadn’t meant it, that inside she’d beamed at how much her husband had spent on her. Most people lived in homes that cost far less.

That ring hadn’t been the one Papà had given her at their wedding; that one had been far more modest, what he could afford at the time.

The new one, the one he’d given her five years ago, that had been a ring a king would give his queen.

Perhaps the kind of ring Enrico would give Antonella someday. But it would never be that particular one. Not the one that had been drenched in Mamma’s blood.

They reached the door of Parini Jewelers and stepped inside. The small shop was neat and clean, all dark woods and shining glass cases, the carpeting beneath their feet as plush as any in their villa. The walls were crammed with old masters, and Enrico could immediately see one of the connections between his father and Parini—they had the same taste in art.

The man in question greeted them effusively, his balding head shining under the overhead lights. Enrico looked around, but no one else was in the shop. Marchesi apparently hadn’t arrived yet. Well, all the better to make their meeting appear unplanned.

“Let me get the rings,” Parini said and hurried into the back of the shop. He reappeared moments later, a small midnight blue velvet box in his hand. He opened it for them and set it on the counter.

“May I?” Enrico asked before touching them.

“Of course. They are yours.”

Enrico took the rings from the box, conscious of Papà’s eyes on his face. While not nearly as spectacular as his mother’s ring, Enrico thought this set suitably impressive. A large emerald-cut diamond graced a delicate band with half a dozen more diamonds inset on each side. The wedding band likewise contained a half circle of inset diamonds. They would look beautiful on Toni’s slender finger. “Stunning,” he murmured.

“It should be enough to please Carlo,” Papà said.

Enrico had been picturing only Toni’s reaction, but Papà was right—the thing that mattered most was how Carlo felt. Too small a ring, and he’d be insulted.

“How much are they?” Enrico asked. Parini didn’t answer the question, so Enrico directed a glance at his father, who shook his head. “Tell me,” Enrico said.

“It’s none of your concern.”

Enrico shoved the rings back in the box and snapped it shut. “None of my concern? These are the rings I’m giving to
my
fiancée.”

Papà raised a brow. “You didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in the rings—or their necessity—until just now.”

“How much?” Enrico demanded.

“More than the Ferrari you’re driving.”

Enrico was about to apply directly to Parini again, when the door to the shop swung open, the bell attached to the door giving a pleasant jingle.

A well-dressed man in his forties, with slicked back hair and a long thin nose, stepped inside. A look passed between Parini and his father. That must be Marchesi then.

The man glanced around the shop, as if checking for other patrons. Parini went to Marchesi and greeted him. The two of them conferred for a moment, then slowly made their way over to the counter where Enrico and Rinaldo stood.

Up close, Enrico could see that the man looked tired—dark purple half-moons cupped Marchesi’s eyes, and lines of tension creased the man’s forehead and bracketed his mouth.

“So you have decided to help me,” Marchesi said, while facing Parini as if he were talking to the jeweler instead of Rinaldo.

“I think we can help each other,” Rinaldo replied, also not looking directly at the man.

“How can
I
help
you
?” Marchesi asked, glancing at them from the side of his eye.

“Tell me about your situation with Carlo Andretti.”

Marchesi’s shoulders rose and his knuckles whitened where his hands clutched the glass case. “He is ruining me,” Marchesi said, his voice low and desperate.

“How? I need specifics.”

“Not in front of the boy.”

“He stays. He’s in this business too.”

Parini made a show of pulling several rings from the case and setting them in front of Marchesi, who picked them up one at a time and examined them as he spoke. “The boy can keep his mouth shut?”

Enrico bristled, but let his father answer. “He’s my son.”

Marchesi said nothing for a moment, instead shaking his head and handing one of the rings back to Parini. He pointed to another in the case.