The Sicilian Surrender
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Sandra Marton
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13
Harlequin
HarlequinCHAPTER ONE
THE sun was a blurred golden orb in a lowering sky as the sirocco blew in from the sea, howling through the ruins of the castello like the voices of the rebellious gladiators who had once defended this bit of Sicily against the power and might of ancient Rome.
Stefano Lucchesi thought of those men as he mounted the last stone steps and stood on the top of the cliff. To the west, Mount Etna slumbered in the humid air. Below, the stormy waters of the Mediterranean pounded the rocky shore.
How many times had a sentry stood in this same place, watching for the enemy? Romans, Greeks, Arabs and Normans had all spilled their blood here in the name of dominion. Pirates had hunted offshore, lying in wait for unwary ships like packs of hungry wolves.
Invader after invader had conquered this land of his ancestors, until, at last, it shook free of its shackles and created enemies of its own, an aristocracy that grew fat on the sweat of those who tilled this rocky soil.
Stefano turned his back to the sea, dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans and surveyed his kingdom. Time had not treated it kindly. All that remained of the castello were tumbled stone walls and a handful of pillars.
Perhaps that was as it should be. There was a certain ironic justice in the way time had evened the balance sheet. What his great grandfather three times removed had built here, what his grandfather had ultimately lost in a feud so bitter it had ended in bloodshed, had long-ago crumbled to dust.
Even the land had been sold. Stefano had ordered his attorney to buy it back, piece by piece, from gnarled old men in baggy black suits who reminded him of his grandfather. Stefano had named a price that was more than fair, but the attorney’s representatives had no success.
All the old men seemed eager to sell land that was basically dry and barren until they heard the buyer’s name.
“Lucchesi?” they said.
One even spat on the ground by way of punctuation.
Stefano was amazed that the name should still evoke violent emotion after more than seventy years. He’d said so to his lawyer, who grinned, shook his head and said that Stefano needed to rent the Godfather movies and watch them from start to finish.
“It’s the Mafia thing,” Jack said. “How can you have Sicilian blood running through your veins and not understand? Those old guys knew your grandpa. They hated him. Why should you expect a welcome from them?”
Why, indeed?
Stefano knew little about the Mafia. He’d grown up in America, where his grandfather had immigrated decades before his birth. His father died when he was a baby and his mother, a New Orleans homecoming queen, dragged him from city to city in a frenzied search for excitement. Stefano was twelve when she died.
His paternal grandparents, who he hardly knew, took him in.
Tough, street smart, hiding his fear behind a mask of arrogance, he couldn’t have been easy for them to handle. His grandmother fed him and clothed him and otherwise washed her hands of him. His grandfather tolerated him, disciplined him and finally loved him with all his heart.
Perhaps his grandfather’s advanced years, coupled with Stefano having come to know him so late in the old man’s life, explained why he didn’t have what Jack called “the Mafia thing” in his blood. His grandfather never told him tales of bloodshed and revenge. He told him, instead, of La Sicilia, of Castello Lucchesi, of the cliffs and the volcano and the sea.
Those were the things that beat in Stefano’s blood, the things he cherished without ever having seen them.
It was only on his deathbed that the old man motioned him close, whispered of honor and pride and famiglia, of how he’d had to abandon everything and come to America to save what he could: Stefano’s father and, by extension, Stefano.
“I will get it all back,” Stefano had vowed.
It took time. Years to work his way through college, though by his senior year, he was impatient. During summer internships, he’d learned to hate the falseness of the corporate life that had been his goal, to despise the “old boy” network that was already working to deny him entry, the handshake that often accompanied the knife in the back.
His college roommate felt the same way. TJ was into computers. In those days, billionaires were made overnight in Internet start-up companies. TJ was going to be one of those billionaires. He had a great idea, he had the skill, the vision…
All he needed was the money.
One winter day, his hard-earned next semester’s tuition in hand, Stefano climbed into his ancient VW, headed toward Yale—and kept on going north, to a casino where he bought into a game of high-stakes poker. It was the first unplanned thing he’d ever done since the day he’d promised his grandfather to win back the Lucchesi honor, but he didn’t let himself think about that.
He told himself he deserved a day off. He was a good poker player; he played for fun in school. In fact, he’d won his old VW at a poker table at a middle of the night game in his college dorm, when another guy thought he’d been bluffing with a flush showing on the table.
That day at the casino, Stefano won more than a VW.
He won thousands of dollars.
The casino gave him a free room. He staggered to it, showered, slept, ate and returned to the table. Three days later, he drove back to school, dumped a small fortune on his surprised roommate’s bed and watched TJ stare at the bills in disbelief.
“Whadja do, man, rob a bank?”
“There’s your start-up investment,” Stefano said. “I want fifty-one percent control.”
A muscle jerked in Stefano’s jaw. Fast-forward a dozen years.
The start-up had made him wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. Now, even though his money was invested in aerospace companies, in Texas oil, in luxury condos in Manhattan, he’d never forgotten the pledge he’d made his grandfather.
Two years ago, he’d set out to fulfill it, but it had taken the conversation with his attorney to remind him that there were places and people where ancient vendettas still made the blood hot with rage.
The hot sirocco wind beat at Stefano’s back, whipping his dark hair around his lean face. He pushed the strands back and again tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
“Double our initial offer,” he’d instructed his attorney.
“That’s far too much money. The land isn’t worth—”
“No, but their pride is. Make the offer, and make it clear that I have my pride to consider, too. Tell them I’m making them an offer they can’t refuse.”
Jack had met the statement with a long silence. At last, he’d cleared his throat.
“You watched those movies, huh?”
Stefano had laughed. “Just make the offer and get back to me.”
Now it was done. All this—the land, the cliffs, what remained of the castello and the view that stretched on forever—was his. So was the house he’d built, just beyond the ruins. He’d had the architect blend it into the rugged scenery and use stones from the original castle. The result was a handsome home, high-ceilinged, with walls of glass that looked over the volcano and the sea.
Stefano smiled. His grandfather, he was certain, would have been pleased.
Tonight, just after moonrise, he’d come out here again with a bottle of moscato and a glass. He’d pour the wine, lift the glass to the sea and toast the spirit of all those who’d come and gone before him.
And he would try to keep this place invisible to the rest of the world.
If the tabloids got word, they’d have a field day with what he’d done. It would put a sexy spin on the gossip that already swirled around him. He was building an empire, they said. He was a man of mystery. He was uno lupo solo. A lone wolf.
They were right about that, at least. Lucchesi Enterprises had made Stefano a public figure. Because of it, he cherished seclusion in his day-to-day life.
He’d followed his usual practice in building his new house, hiring only those who agreed to sign contracts that contained confidentiality clauses, making it clear his lawyers would be merciless in enforcing those clauses. Word would get out eventually, he knew, but this would give him some breathing room.
A little while ago, a helicopter had buzzed overhead. There was nothing unusual in that; helicopters were part of the twenty-first century. Still, he’d looked up, wondering if somehow the paparazzi had already caught up with him.
“Stef-an-oh.”
Stefano caught his breath. Was it the wind? The sound of that voice, calling his name. No. It had to be the wind.
“Stef-annn-oh. Yoo-hoo. Don’t you hear me?”
He blinked. The wind couldn’t put words into sentences, couldn’t paint the slender figure of a woman looking up at him from the foot of the hill, one hand scooping back her blond hair, the other cupping her mouth.
Carla? His heart thudded. It couldn’t be. She was in New York. He’d left her there one morning last week, tears trailing down her perfectly made-up face, stopping when she realized he meant every word, her voice rising to a shriek as she told him what she thought of him.
The trouble had started when she burst into his apartment without warning and found him sitting at the dining room table, drinking coffee and looking at photos of the island: the windswept cliffs, the old ruins and the new house.
“Omygod,” she’d said breathlessly, “darling, what is this?”
There’d been no sense in saying he didn’t know. The architect had put together a handsome final portfolio, and each photo was neatly labeled.
Castello Lucchesi, Sicily.
“A house,” he’d said indifferently, as if that were all there was to it.
“Your house,” she’d said, in that breathless way he’d once found charming and now found irritating. “And it’s perfect for the cover of the premiere issue of Bridal Dreams.”
“No.”
“Now, Stefano,” she’d said, slipping into his lap, “you know I was hired to make Bridal Dreams the best magazine in the world. The first issue can make me or break me.”
No, he’d said again, and she’d changed tack, twisted around so she was straddling him, put her hot mouth to his.
He should have thrown her out right then. Their relationship had grown stale; it was over and he knew it. He’d lost interest in Carla—she was self-centered and superficial, and she wanted things he had no intention of giving her—a place in his life, a future with him.
He’d been with a dozen women who’d wanted the same things and he was no more interested in permanent commitment to Carla than he’d been with the others. Carla had known that, going in; she said her life was her career, but somewhere along the way, she’d decided to change her game plan.
So he’d lifted her from his lap, told her “No” again, and as she began to weep, his phone rang. It was his pilot, saying his Learjet had been serviced and was ready whenever he was.
“Where are you going?” Carla cried as he started for the door. “You have to do this for me, Stefano. You have to!”
When he didn’t answer, she’d gone from crying to cursing and screaming…
And now she was here. On his land. His island. Scrambling up the hill toward him like something out of a bad dream.
He felt his insides knot into a ball of fury at her temerity in violating this place. He told himself he was being ridiculous, that this wasn’t a shrine. The only thing he had the right to be angry about was that she’d followed him on this trip without being invited, but that didn’t keep him from jamming his hands even harder into his pockets and balling them into fists.
“Darling,” she squealed as she reached him. “Aren’t you surprised to see me?”
“How did you find me?” he said curtly.
“That’s not much of a hello.”
“You’re right. It’s a question. Please answer it.”
She smiled as she rose on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his unmoving mouth.
“It wasn’t that difficult. I’m sure you think I have a bubble for a brain, but even a child could have—”
“I’m sorry you made such a long journey for nothing, Carla.”
“Is that all you have to say to me after I’ve come so far to be with you?”
His mouth twisted. She had come for her own reasons. Being with him had nothing to do with it. He knew that, and she knew he knew it.
“—such a magnificent place, darling, and to think you didn’t intend to share it with—”
“Was that helicopter yours?”
“Yes. Yes, it was. It landed in a field just a little way from here and then a taxi—”
“Go back to it and tell the pilot to take you back to the airport.”
Carla blinked. “What?”
“I said—”
“I heard you. I just can’t believe you’d send me away.”
Tears glinted in her eyes. She was good at this, he thought grimly. Very good.
“Carla.” He spoke quietly, feeling the anger inside him approaching critical mass and determined not to let her know it. He valued self-control as much as privacy. Explosive emotion was the one thing Sicilian he didn’t admire. It had led his grandfather to ruin. “You’re not staying here.”
“You mean…” Her mouth trembled. “You mean, I’m not welcome.”
He almost laughed. Did she really think a show of injured feelings would work?
“I mean,” he said carefully, “I didn’t invite you.”
“You didn’t have to. We’ve been together a long time.”
“Four months.” His voice turned cold. He knew it, but all at once, he didn’t care.
“Four months,” she repeated, making it sound like a lifetime, “and now, just because I asked you a simple favor—”
“I gave you a simple answer. No one is putting my home on the cover of a magazine.”
“Then, it is your home?” she said with a sly little smile. “You’re not developing this property into a resort?”
Stefano cursed himself for being a fool. “Goodbye, Carla,” he said, and started past her.
She reached out and caught his sleeve.
“I don’t want it for a cover, Stefano. I want it for the entire issue.”
He laughed.
“It’ll be the most incredible magazine anyone’s ever seen!” He tugged his arm free of her hand and began walking down the slope. Carla hurried alongside him, slipping a little in her stiletto heels. “Just listen, okay?”
He didn’t answer.
“The way I’ve planned things will protect your precious privacy as much as it heightens the intimacy of the shoot.”
They reached the bottom of the hill. Stefano looked around for her taxi. The road and the driveway were empty.
“Here’s my plan, Stefano.” Carla moved in front of him, face glowing under the soft lights that had just come on in the rear of the house. “One of everything. One world-class photographer, one incredible makeup artist, one unbelievably gorgeous model—”
She cried out as he cupped her elbows and hauled her to her toes.
“No! Are you deaf? There will be no shoot. No model, no photographer, no anything.”
“You’re hurting me.”
He probably was. Carefully, he took his hands from her and stepped back.
“Where’s your cab?”
“I sent it back.” She smiled. “I sent the helicopter back, too.”
“Wait here. I’ll have someone drive you to the airport,” he said, and walked away from her for what would surely be the last time.
“Stefano.”
Her voice was soft; it held something that made the hair rise on the back of his neck, but he kept going.
“Which magazine would you rather see these photos in, Bridal Dreams…or Whispers?”
He came to an abrupt stop.
“You have a minute to reconsider that threat,” he said as he swung toward her, “and then I’m going to pick you up and throw you off my land.”
Carla’s face was white. She was frightened. But she was determined, too. He could see it in the tilt of her head.
“I’ve already made all the arrangements. The model, the makeup man, the photographer…They’ll all be here tomorrow.”
He felt his jaw drop. Dimly, in a part of his mind that was observing all this with dry curiosity, he wondered what the world would think if it knew that one sentence, spoken by one woman, could have such an effect on il lupo solo.
“Excuse me?”
“I said—”
He moved quickly, grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her until her teeth rattled.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Let go!”
“Damn you, explain yourself!”
“I’ll sue you for assault if you don’t let go!”
It wouldn’t be assault, it would be murder. He was a heartbeat away from it. Stunned by the intensity of his rage, he let her go.
“Explain yourself.”
“I did, but you wouldn’t listen.” She wrapped her arms around herself and looked up at him. Her voice took on timbre; excitement flashed in her eyes. “You think you know all about making money? Maybe, but you don’t know squat about magazine publishing. You debut a new magazine or relaunch an old one, what you need is to produce an issue that’ll set the country talking. Just one issue, and the magazine will be so hot it’ll sizzle. And so will I.”
“Sizzle some other way. No one is setting foot here without my permission.”
“We’ll be here three days, no more than that. I won’t insult you by offering you money for the right to do the shoot here.”
He laughed, and her cheeks reddened.
“Don’t make me force your hand, darling.”
“Force it?” he said through his teeth.
“You want to keep your life a deep, dark mystery, don’t you?” She smiled slyly. “Offhand, I can think of half a dozen tabloids that would love an exclusive interview with the great Stefano Lucchesi’s mistress—along with aerial photos of his new hideaway.”
In the ensuing silence, Stefano could hear everything. The pound of his heart. The distant boom of the surf and the sharp cry of a bird far over the rolling sea. He could feel the shadows behind him, the ghosts of the wild warriors who’d done whatever was necessary to protect this place.
“I could kill you,” he said softly. “No one would know. All I have to do is drag you to the top of the cliff and throw you off. By the time your remains washed up, the crabs would have eaten their fill.”
Carla’s smile trembled but she moved closer to him.
“You’re a heartless bastard when you want to be, Stefano Lucchesi, but killing women? Never.”
Stefano stared at his former lover for long moments. Then he spat at her feet, brushed past her and headed for the house.
So much for his dreams.
She had defiled this place.
Maybe his grandfather had been wise to have left the island behind.
