A Baby to Bind His Innocent
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Michelle Smart
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PROLOGUE
‘WE MUST FIX THIS.’ Ciro Trapani drained his bourbon and fixed his eyes on his brother’s shattered face.
The past four days had seen Vicenzu age by a decade. The ready smile had been lost, and the always amused eyes were now dank, murky pools of grief. And guilt.
They both shared the grief and guilt, but for Vicenzu the guilt was double.
After a long pause, in which Vicenzu drained his own drink, he finally met Ciro’s stare. His features twisted and he gave a sharp nod.
‘We have to get it back,’ Ciro stated. ‘All of it.’
Another nod.
Ciro leaned forward. He needed to be certain that whatever they agreed today, Vicenzu would stick to it.
The family business was gone. Stolen.
The family home was gone. Stolen.
Their father was dead.
Ciro had looked up to his brother his entire life and, while their personalities and temperaments differed, they’d always been close. The man sharing a table with him in this Palermo bar was a stranger. He knew Vicenzu thought they should wait for a decent mourning period to pass before they did anything to avenge their father but the fury in Ciro needed to put plans into action now. And Vicenzu needed to play his part. What had been stolen would be recovered by whatever means necessary. Their devastated mother needed her home back.
‘Vicenzu?’
His brother slumped in his chair and closed his eyes. After another long pause, he finally spoke. ‘Yes, I know what I have to do, and I’ll do it. I will take the business back.’
Ciro pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. Cesare Buscetta, their father’s childhood tormentor, the thief who’d legally stolen their parents’ business and home, had gifted the business to his oldest daughter, the inappropriately named Immacolata. Right then, Ciro did not believe Vicenzu had the wits about him to take her on and win. Vicenzu had always been closer to their father than Ciro. His sudden death four days ago and the subsequent revelations of everything that had been stolen had all contributed to mute his brother’s natural exuberance and turn him into this lost ghost-like person.
Vicenzu must have recognised the cynicism in his brother’s expression for he straightened. ‘I will get the business back, Ciro. This is my responsibility. Mine.’
‘You are sure you can handle it?’ A question he would never have needed to pose four days ago before their world had been ripped apart. Getting the family home back would be a much easier task. Cesare had gifted the house to his younger daughter. From what Ciro had gleaned about the reclusive Claudia Buscetta, she was a spoilt, pampered princess with a brain that compared unfavourably to a rocking horse.
His brother’s nostrils flared, a glimmer of the old spark flashing from his eyes. ‘Yes. You get the house back for Mamma and leave the business to me.’
Ciro contemplated him a little longer before inclining his head. ‘As you wish.’ He caught a passing bartender’s eye and indicated another round of drinks for them before addressing his brother again. ‘You must stop blaming yourself. You weren’t to know. Papà should have confided in us.’ That he hadn’t was something they would both have to live with.
‘If I hadn’t borrowed all that money from him he would never have been forced to sell.’
‘If I’d made more visits home I would have been on hand to help,’ Ciro countered grimly. This was the guilt that lay so heavily in him. He hadn’t been home to Sicily since Christmas. The sabotage against his father had started in the new year. ‘Papà should have told you—told both of us—how precarious the family finances were but what’s done is done. The only person to blame is that bastard Cesare. And his daughters,’ he added, his top lip curling with distaste.
Fresh drinks were placed before them. Ciro raised his glass aloft. ‘To vengeance.’
‘To vengeance,’ Vicenzu echoed.
They clinked their glasses and knocked back the fiery liquid.
The plan was sealed.
