“You need to meet the girl. It’s customary,” Rinaldo said.
“It’s also customary that I can refuse her.” Before his father could speak, Enrico added, “Oh that’s right—I
can’t
. I marry her, or Carlo hunts us down like rabbits. Frightened fucking rabbits. Have I got that right?”
Enrico didn’t have time to do more than recoil from the slap to his cheek. “Stop it. Now.” His father’s voice was like iron. “I’m doing this for
you
. So you’ll have a future. Instead of a grave. You think I like this any more than you do?”
The car pulled to a stop, and Rinaldo slammed out before Enrico could answer. He rubbed his stinging cheek, shame overwhelming him. His father had always been a proud man who’d never bowed to anyone. And certainly never to Carlo fucking Andretti. But that was before everything that had happened during the last two years. “I’m sorry, Papà,” Enrico whispered to himself as he got out of the car and followed his father and Livio inside. The four guards who’d accompanied them in another car brought up the rear. Their weapons weren’t drawn, but their alertness spoke volumes. They were in enemy territory.
Carlo’s villa wasn’t nearly as grand as the Lucchesis’ own, but it was well-furnished, as Enrico recalled from the last time he’d visited. Four years ago, before all the trouble had started between his father and Carlo.
They’d come for a wedding—some cousin of Carlo’s had wanted to be married on the lake. It was the first time Enrico had met Antonella Andretti. He’d been fourteen, she twelve. A gawky slip of a girl, all large dark eyes and a mass of black hair. Nothing special. He’d barely taken notice of her. And there’d been that one time at school when some very stupid boys had been harassing her and her twin brother Dario. Enrico had stepped in and stopped it. She’d tried to thank him, but he’d brushed her off. He couldn’t even remember what her voice sounded like.
He’d find out soon enough.
They were shown around back to a large terrace beneath a huge plane tree, its silver-gray bark peeling. Sunlight filtered through the thick green foliage, dappling the figure of Carlo Andretti, who was sitting at a table and sipping from a steaming cappuccino. Breakfast dishes had been set out for six. Carlo’s family, plus Rinaldo and Enrico.
The guards fanned out and took positions around the table. Carlo watched them, but didn’t comment beyond the amusement in his eyes.
He rose when Rinaldo and Enrico approached, a smug smile spreading across his face. “
Prego
,” he said, motioning them to take chairs at the table, playing the gracious host. Enrico wanted to strangle him. A bitter taste rose in his mouth and his stomach churned. How could he be expected to just
sit
there and have breakfast with the man who’d killed his mother, his brothers?
Enrico placed a hand on the back of a chair, but didn’t sit. He was gripping the painted metal so hard his fingers hurt. His emotions must have shown on his face because Carlo’s grin widened. He looked at Rinaldo and said, “So your pup thinks he’s a wolf, yes? He thinks he will challenge me?”
Enrico looked at his father. “Papà,
per favore
—”
“Sit,” Rinaldo said between gritted teeth.
Holding Carlo’s gaze, Enrico took a seat. Carlo chuckled and leaned across the table. “You’ll live longer if you learn to be more like your father. Accept your losses and move on.”
Enrico took a deep breath and looked away. Someday, somehow he’d make Carlo Andretti pay. What he didn’t quite understand was why his father was just
taking
this treatment. Sure, things were bad, but they couldn’t be
this
bad, could they? Something had happened. Something Papà hadn’t told him.
Carlo smoothed a hand over his coal-black hair and took another sip of his cappuccino, motioning for a maid to pour espresso for Enrico and Rinaldo. Nodding at Enrico, he said, “You’ve grown. So where has your father kept you stashed these last two years?”
Enrico looked at his father, who nodded. “England. Boarding school.”
“Did you enjoy their bland food?”
“Would you?”
Carlo laughed. He addressed Rinaldo. “I like your pup.”
“Does that mean you won’t shoot me too?” Enrico asked.
Carlo laughed harder and slapped the table. Rinaldo glared at Enrico, but Enrico didn’t apologize. “You could teach my boy a thing or two about balls,” Carlo said.
The double doors in the back of the house opened, and Enrico turned, his heart speeding up. What did Antonella look like now?
Dario stepped out first. He’d filled out some since Enrico had seen him last. He was followed by his mother, Romola, who stopped just outside the doorway and spoke to someone still inside. Her voice was pitched low, and he couldn’t hear what she said.
Was something wrong? Did Antonella not like this idea either? If so, maybe she’d refuse him, and he and his father could make some other arrangement with Carlo to end the feud.
And Enrico could go back to England and his son.
Finally Signora Andretti walked toward them, and her daughter stepped outside. Antonella’s head was down, her eyes staring at her feet, her mass of black hair shielding her face. She was wearing a light, flowery sundress with simple sandals. She was quite tan, her legs and arms shapely, her body willowy. Not much in the way of breasts, but that was all right—
She looked up and straight at him, her eyes locking with his.
A pang of disappointment hit him. She was plain, so plain. And she had the “Andretti beak.” That overlarge nose that looked fine on the males, but that overwhelmed the faces of the women. Perhaps “plain” was being kind.
Her step faltered.
Merda
. She’d seen what he was thinking. He forced a smile, but she looked away and stalked to the other end of the table where she wouldn’t have to talk to him.
He wanted to crawl under his chair. He was a worm. An insect. He’d just upset this poor girl. She’d been teased plenty at school—the taunts had reached even his ears. He’d been among the popular crowd, but despite their wealth, the Andretti twins had been outcasts. As far as he knew, Antonella had ignored the taunts and Dario had remained silent, speaking to no one but his sister.
Well, she’d apparently
pretended
to ignore the insults. Obviously they’d made their mark.
And here he’d gone and made her feel them all over again.
The only good thing was that she was sure to reject him now. And then he’d be free.
Breakfast—an assortment of cold cuts, fruit, and pastries—was served, no one chatting much. Dario kept his right hand in his lap, eating awkwardly with his left. Had Carlo told him to do that, or was the boy ashamed? Enrico’s cheeks heated. Here was another Andretti he’d wronged. He should’ve argued harder with his father. Maybe he could’ve spared Dario that pain.
But maybe—if he was honest—maybe he hadn’t wanted to.
Maybe he’d wanted his vengeance. And maybe he’d taken it in the wrong place.
He pushed his plate away, suddenly not hungry. Perhaps his father was right, and he needed to get a better handle on his feelings. At least when it came to the Andrettis. He couldn’t seem to do anything right when it came to them.
His throat clogged, an apology lodged in it. But how could words ever make up for what he’d done to Dario?
“May I be excused?” Antonella asked. Her voice was a lovely, husky contralto, and Enrico found the courage to meet her gaze.
“You may,” Carlo said.
She tossed her napkin down and rose, heading up the hill toward the olive grove.
“I’d like to talk to her. If I may,” Enrico said, not stopping to second-guess himself. He was going to apologize for something today. Carlo nodded, and Enrico sprang up from his chair, loping after her. She was surprisingly fast, and he had to put in a little effort to catch her. “Antonella,” he called as he came up behind her.
“Spare me,” she said, not looking at him. He placed a hand on her shoulder and she shrugged away. “Don’t touch me.”
“
Per favore
—”
“I should’ve known better. To think I thought you were nice!”
His steps faltered, but hers continued. She split off her present course and veered for the hedge maze to their right.
For a moment, he stared after her. Maybe he ought to leave her be, let her reject him—
But he couldn’t stomach the idea of her thinking that he hated how she looked. That he was rejecting her.
Even though he had.
His face hot with shame, he trailed her into the maze, and she broke into a run, sprinting away from him. He charged after her, following her around turn after turn, soon utterly disoriented.
Exasperated, he put on some speed and grabbed her left arm. She stopped and whirled on him, her eyes blazing. “I told you not to touch me!”
The tremble in her voice signaled how close to the edge she was. “Antonella,
per favore
. I just want to apologize.”
“For
what
?” she asked, stepping closer to him, her arms crossed over her chest.
His cheeks flamed hotter. What could he say that wouldn’t make her feel worse? “For my behavior.”
She stepped closer. “For what
exactly
?” she asked.
Oh
Dio
. She was going to make him say it aloud. He couldn’t do that.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered.
“Sorry for
what
?” Her voice could cut glass. He took a step back as she advanced. “Afraid to say what you were thinking?” she asked, motioning to her face.
“No, I—”
She snorted. “Go ahead,
lie
. Because you’re too
kind
to say what you were thinking. How disappoin—” Her voice grew thick and she turned away.
He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry I caused you pain. Truly.”
“Papà says I’m beautiful. But I know the truth.” She wiped her eyes and sniffed, still not looking at him.
“You have beautiful eyes, and your voice—”
“Stop. Just
stop
.” She rounded on him. “Life’s been easy for you, Enrico Lucchesi. Have you ever even had a pimple?”
He scratched his chin. “A few.”
She laughed. “And how long did that phase last? A week?” She gestured up and down his body. “You’ve always been a god. You don’t know what it’s like to realize you have a face only a parent could love.”
He didn’t know why he did it, but he reached out and tweaked her nose. Her mouth dropped open in rage. “What are you
doing
?” she yelled.
“Making you stop feeling sorry for yourself. Your being angry at me is better.”
She placed her hands on her hips. “You need me, Enrico Lucchesi, whether you realize it or not.”
“I don’t need you.”
“Ask your father. I did this for
you
. For Dario. For my own father.”
“You sound like this was your idea.”
She crossed her arms again. “It was the perfect solution.” After a moment she added, “It
was
.”
“What do you mean?”
“My father wouldn’t stop the
faida
until your family was ground to dust. But he didn’t realize what this war was costing him. The men were weary, the merchants were sick of being caught in the crossfire, and the
carabinieri
wouldn’t keep looking the other way, no matter how much money he threw at them. The war had to be stopped, and in a way that let both sides save face.”
She honestly thought she’d stopped the feud? “Wait a minute. Your father took advice from you? A girl?”
She nodded. “I suggested it, and he listened.”
“But… why?”
Her face darkened. “Because he loves me. I was afraid for Dario. Especially after we got his finger in a box.”
“
Madonna
,” Enrico murmured. What must that have been like for her? “I’m sorry about that too.”
“You might tell Dario that.”
“I don’t think he wants to hear it.”
She shrugged. “Maybe not.”
They stood there in silence, both of them looking anywhere but at each other. Finally he said, “Can we start over?”
Her eyes snapped to his. “I will
never
forget the look on your face.”
He groaned. “I was caught off-guard.”
“No. It was an honest reaction. The last thing I want from you now is lies.”
He threw his hands in the air. “
Basta
!” Enrico wheeled away from her and tried to retrace his steps but ended up in a dead end. Even though the mid-May day was just pleasantly warm, he was broiling in his suit jacket, so he whipped it off. Then he surveyed his surroundings, searching for anything that looked familiar. Turning around, he saw her standing a few feet away. She’d trailed him, probably having a good laugh at his expense.
“Follow me,” she said. They’d gone a few meters before she stopped. “You honestly want another chance?” she asked, her voice low, her eyes darting toward him then away.
Strangely, he did. “Yes.”
She smiled. When she wasn’t scowling, her face lit up, and her curved lips caught his eye. They were soft, kissable. Plump. She was… passable. Even almost cute. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said to me today.”
How had they gotten to this point? She’d been ready to reject him—she’d been ready to do what he’d
wanted
—and he’d begged her to reconsider?
The smile left her face then, and she pressed a palm into the center of his chest. “But I want to be clear—I’m no pushover, Enrico Lucchesi.”
He nodded, letting a hint of a grin touch his lips. “Believe me, I’ve figured that much out.”
They returned to the table in silence, Carlo’s eyes on them. “All is well?” he asked, his eyes sliding from Enrico to Antonella. She nodded, but all Enrico could think about was how miserable his father looked. Just what had Carlo been saying to him while they were gone?
This wasn’t how it was going to end. He—they—weren’t just going to roll over for Carlo. Not if Enrico had his way. His family needed to be avenged.
There was only one problem. Carlo Andretti was a nearly impossible target.
Then a crazy thought struck him: perhaps the men who’d pulled the triggers weren’t.