The Commanding Italian's Challenge
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Maya Blake
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CHAPTER ONE
FLY WITH THE ANGELS, mio dolce.
Maceo Fiorenti brushed a kiss over the petals of the single long-stemmed white rose, one of the specially cultivated ones imported from Holland that his wife—his late wife—had adored.
Carlotta had indulged in that extravagance, despite his gardener vowing he could recreate the genus right here in their Napoli home. She’d smilingly refused, insisting there was something special in having the flowers flown in twice weekly.
Of course Maceo had indulged her little whim. In their nine years of marriage he could count on the fingers of one hand the occasions when he’d said no to Carlotta Caprio-Fiorenti.
Those occasions had been triggered by her misguided attempts to make him into someone other than the man he saw in the mirror every day. A futile exercise to try to sway him from the path his actions had dictated for him. From a future that should rightly exact just penance for his actions. On those occasions, while it had pained him to see her heartache, he hadn’t been swayed. How could he, when he didn’t deserve a single breath he took, much less any semblance of happiness?
His lips twisted.
It was almost as if in those moments Carlotta had forgotten everything that had happened.
Had forgotten who he was. What he’d done.
Maceo Fiorenti—heir to a legacy he’d had no choice but to safeguard. Cursed with a destiny he couldn’t walk away from because doing so would be the ultimate betrayal. He hadn’t taken joy in showing Carlotta a glimpse of the demons that drove him. He’d simply reminded her that he’d been the cause of her ultimate heartache. He’d taken away the famiglia she’d held so dear.
There would be time enough to mourn this latest death—and its attendant layers of bitterness, shame and guilt—when he was far away from here.
For now, he had a legacy to protect. And as the sole remaining vanguard protect it he would, even if it took his last breath.
So what if in his darkest moments he questioned just why he was hanging on?
Because your conscience won’t let you stop.
Casa di Fiorenti wasn’t just his birthright. It was what his parents and his godfather, Luigi, had lived for. Died for. He owed it to them to keep their legacy alive. Even if he was dead inside. Even if he was haunted with the certainty that he would never enjoy a moment of happiness.
He allowed the tips of his fingers to brush one corner of the pristine white-and-gold coffin in one last, lingering caress.
Let go.
Jaw gritted, he released the flower. The heaviness in his heart grew but he pushed it down. He’d refused to acknowledge that this day was coming, that within months of her cancer diagnosis he’d have to face a future of truly being alone. Now he had no choice.
Maceo locked his knees against the ridiculous but serious threat of them giving way.
‘Show no weakness.’
They were the words she’d spoken to him a little over a decade ago, when guilt had threatened to eat him alive, to rob him of the strength to rise from the ashes of his life. Words he’d absorbed, branded into his skin until they’d fused to his soul.
A deep breath and the moment of weakness rightly retreated.
He was Maceo Fiorenti. And, as much as it had been trifling sport for him and Carlotta to give the paparazzi fodder to gleefully splash gossip within the sordid pages of their tabloids for most of their married life, today wasn’t a day for courting notoriety.
Carlotta was six feet under, reunited—as had been her final wish—with Luigi, her first husband, and Maceo’s own parents. But for a twist of fate—ironically of his own making—Maceo, too, would be entombed in this family crypt alongside his family.
But he was very much alive. Despite the odds.
‘A miracle,’ the papers had branded his return to the land of the living twelve years ago. Some had even called him lucky.
If only they knew the demons that haunted him. If only they had a taste of the guilt and regret that weighed him down.
Minutes passed as he stared down at the coffin. Minutes during which he felt eyes boring into his very skin. Board members. Acquaintances. Strangers. Sizing him up. Attempting to seek out his weaknesses.
They could try all they liked.
Half an hour later, once the cardinale had said his final blessing, Maceo turned his back on his family’s final resting place and, ignoring everyone present, made his way across the sun-baked graveyard to his waiting car.
His driver sprang to attention, murmuring words of condolence Maceo didn’t acknowledge as he opened the door.
Acknowledging them would mean accepting that he was alone in the world. Sure, as Carlotta’s widower he would be saddled with a few dozen Caprios, who shamelessly laid claim to him in one in-law capacity or another. But flesh-and-blood-wise, with no siblings or extended family to speak of, he was the sole remaining Fiorenti.
Alone.
He slid into the back seat, plucked the shades from his eyes and tossed them aside. Exhaling loudly, he massaged the bridge of his nose, willing the tension headache away.
‘You wish to return to the villa, signor?’ his driver asked, disturbing the momentary eerie quiet.
Maceo opened his mouth to confirm that he did, but at the last moment shook his head. Why prolong the inevitable? It was Friday afternoon, and most of his staff had been given the day off to pay their respects to Carlotta, but there was work to be done.
And, no, his reluctance to return to the villa in Capri had nothing to do with the empty salones and corridors awaiting him, newly devoid of Carlotta’s presence.
‘Take me to the helipad. I’m returning to the office.’
With a nod, the older man drove him away from his wife’s graveside and the crowd of Napoli’s high society, all vying to see him do something worth gossiping about.
Maceo barely registered the helicopter ride that deposited him two streets away from the temporary headquarters of Casa di Fiorenti.
When she’d known the end was near, Carlotta had requested to be closer to the Capri summer home she’d shared with Luigi and Maceo’s parents. He’d willingly relocated his company from Rome to the sprawling eighteenth-century building overlooking Naples Harbour. The building where, predictably, two dozen paparazzo now waited, rabid, with long lenses and sharp questions the moment they spotted him.
He slid his sunglasses back on, allowed himself the faintest sigh.
‘Maceo! What would Carlotta think of you returning to work even before she’s in the ground?’
‘Maceo, any plans to make your brothers-in-law directors now Carlotta’s gone?’
‘Maceo, when will you make an announcement about who will fill your late wife’s shoes?’
Teeth gritted, he charged forward, leaving his bodyguards to deal with the throng. It bemused him that they continued to throw questions at him when he never answered. Did they truly expect him to divulge all his dark, guilty secrets simply because they demanded it? Especially when the games he and Carlotta had played with them had been meant to hide the biggest, most terrible secret of them all?
He shoved at the heavy door separating his empire from the gossip-hungry mob, his gut tightening at the reminder of the other bombshell Carlotta had thrown at his feet a week ago. He had to compliment her timing. She’d known he’d be incapable of challenging her in any way. That because of that heavy boulder of guilt he carried he would grant her wishes, regardless of the shock and fury boiling in his stomach at her news.
But, while he’d agreed to honour Carlotta’s final requests, he’d withheld how he intended to proceed. That was between him and the woman he’d hadn’t known existed until a week ago.
Luigi had been previously married, albeit briefly, to an Englishwoman. A woman who’d had a daughter. Another secret his parents and godfather had kept from him.
Maceo’s gut tightened with fresh bitterness. They’d blithely ignored the famiglia they’d purportedly valued and burdened him with honouring their wishes.
More than that, Maceo had also discovered that Casa di Fiorenti, the confectionery empire his grandparents and parents had built thirty years ago, which he’d turned into a multi-billion-euro conglomerate, didn’t belong wholly and exclusively to him. That a slice—albeit a very small slice, which he probably wouldn’t miss if it broke off and fell into the Mediterranean Sea, but was nevertheless his by right—belonged to a faceless, grasping gold-digger, already sharpening her claws in anticipation of a hefty payday.
A woman named Faye Bishop.
Carlotta had kept tabs on her from afar over the years, and reached out in the past few months without much success.
And now Maceo was supposed to tolerate this woman for a stretch of time, fulfilling Carlotta’s last wish.
Anger intensified as he stalked into his private lift.
Faye Bishop had dangled a promise to his dying wife she’d had no intention of keeping. Yet she’d found the time to email his lawyers and accept their invitation to attend the will reading next week.
A dark anticipatory smile curved his lips as he stabbed the button for his office.
Faye Bishop might have succeeded in pulling the wool over Carlotta’s eyes.
Maceo would savour teaching her a lesson she would never forget.
Faye resisted the urge to glance at the sleek, near-silent clock, gracefully sweeping its way towards noon. For one thing, it would only confirm that just twenty seconds had passed since she last checked. For another, it wouldn’t dissipate the weird sensation of being watched.
Although, thinking about it, it wasn’t that strange. Every wall in the stunning conference room she sat in was made of smoky glass, in sharp contrast to the shiny clear surfaces of the vast table and chairs, the cabinets and the sci-fi-looking communication system poised in the middle of the table. The smoked glass was most likely a two-way mirror, allowing her to be gawped at and gossiped about without being any the wiser.
Besides feeling a world away from the remote Devon farm she’d travelled from yesterday, Faye knew her feeling of being a fish out of water extended beyond the sensation prickling her skin. After all, she’d put considerable effort into resembling a fish out of water. So, really, she couldn’t fault anyone for gawping. In fact...
She aimed a look at the centre of the widest glass wall and smiled.
Imagining she’d startled one or even several people with her you can’t intimidate me smile, she relaxed as a layer of tension eased away.
The bulk of her anxiety remained, though. It was a different sensation from that generated by the clutch of tabloid journalists downstairs, who’d pounced on her the moment she’d stepped out of the taxi, but just as unnerving.
More than once in the last hour she’d considered walking out.
If only she hadn’t answered her phone all those weeks ago. If only she hadn’t made Carlotta Caprio that promise. One she now felt obligated to keep after learning of the older woman’s death.
You don’t owe her or Luigi’s family anything. You should leave them in the past, where they belong.
Her smile died. It was too late. Luigi was gone, taking all Faye’s bewildered questions to his grave. And now his wife was dead too.
Really, she had no business being here, grasping at straws and hoping that maybe someone had answers for her—
Her thoughts stalled as the door to the conference room sprang open. Her notions of leaving evaporated, replaced by different questions as she froze.
Questions like what the identity of the man who’d entered was—because he looked nothing like a lawyer. Sure, he’d aced the ruthless cut-throat demeanour well enough to evoke images of sharpened blades and sharks’ teeth. But there was something else. Something barely contained, something electrifying that gripped her and tightened its hold as seconds ticked by.
Seconds during which she was aware she was gawping. With eyes wide and her mouth possibly hanging open. Seconds during which she couldn’t summon a single command her brain was willing to follow. Like blink. Swallow.
Slow down her runaway heartbeat.
The fact that this non-lawyer seemed equally fascinated with her was neither here nor there. Faye was aware that she attracted dumbfounded looks wherever she went. Partly because of her eclectic clothing. Possibly because of the profusion of hennaed flowers climbing up her right arm. But mostly because of the uniqueness of her hair.
She was pleased she resisted the sudden urge to reach up and smooth down the silver, lilac and purple tresses knotted haphazardly atop her head, especially when the stranger’s gaze rose to rest there.
What she wasn’t pleased about was her inability to look away. Her utter, almost helpless absorption with him. She shouldn’t, couldn’t be this affected.
Yes, he was indescribably handsome—enough to give every Roman god a run for his money and easily come out on top.
Yes, he commanded the very air around the room, as if harnessing it to power his godlike form and leaving none for mere mortals.
But liaisons and connections with members of the opposite sex, after that single traumatic event with Matt two years ago, had been permanently delisted from her life.
Aware that her whole body was clenched in peculiar expectancy, as if awaiting some sort of trigger to bring her back to life, she attempted to drag herself free of his forcefield.
A throat was cleared, disrupting the charged atmosphere.
‘Signor...’ A man, who thankfully did resemble a lawyer, spoke in low tones from behind the formidable figure.
The formal address was the only thing Faye understood. The rest of the hushed Italian buzzed in her brain as more men filed into the room, leaving him at the door, still blatantly staring at her.
The team of four sat across from Faye at the gleaming conference table, each casting surreptitious glances at various parts of her body. Had she not been wholly enthralled by the man who now sauntered forward with an animal grace that belied his towering height and size to settle into the seat directly opposite hers, she might have been amused.
But this wasn’t a jaunt to the pub. Or one of those bring-your-own-instrument-for-a-singalong gatherings her mother spontaneously threw when she was lucid.
She was here because Luigi Caprio had left an indelible mark on her, with the kind of familial love she’d never experienced before, then exited her life without explanation, leaving a worse wreck than he’d found and two lives spiralling out of control.
Faye tried to numb herself against the never healed pain, raked open by Carlotta Caprio.
‘How very good of you to make it, Miss Bishop,’ the man drawled, once he’d settled his sleek, animal-like frame into the chair, his eyes—which she noted were a rich tawny gold—spearing into her.
Unlike his words, his expression was anything but cordial. For some reason this man despised her.
Her hackles rose, along with a bone-deep shame. Dear God, did he know? Had Luigi done the unthinkable and shared Faye and her mother’s secret with this man? Would he have been so cruel?
Dread crawled across her skin even as she reassured herself that it didn’t matter. Once she left this place she needn’t set eyes on this enigmatic man, or any of Luigi’s kin, ever again.
She raised her chin. ‘I made a promise to Carlotta,’ she replied.
It was a promise the other woman had had no business demanding of her. And yet she had. And, because of the curse of the unknown that had always plagued Faye, she’d given in.
The man’s lips twisted. ‘Ah, si... A promise to attend a will reading but not to pay your last respects?’
Her spine snapped straight at his contempt. ‘For your information, Mr...whoever-you-are, Carlotta didn’t tell me she was ill. Not until our last conversation three weeks ago. After that I didn’t think it was appropriate to just...turn up. Not when I was a stranger to her.’
‘And yet here you are now,’ he said, his deep, rumbling voice and disturbingly attractive accent stretching out the words. Deepening their barbed meaning. Thickening their accusation.
Finally her muscles obeyed the commands she’d shrieked at her brain and lent her enough strength to stand. She pushed back her chair and grabbed the hobo bag she’d tossed on the floor beside her. ‘Save your accusations. I was already thinking this was a mistake before you walked in. You’ve just confirmed that I shouldn’t have come here. Let’s not waste each other’s time any longer. I’m leaving.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not going to be that easy, Miss Bishop.’
Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. ‘What isn’t? And, seriously, are you going to introduce yourself, like a normal person, or is your identity some mystery I’m supposed to unravel to get to the next level of why I’m here?’
More than one lawyer gasped. Her impression of stepping deeper into a minefield heightened as the stranger’s gaze swept downwards in a slow, languid journey from her face, her throat, her chest, to rest on the three-inch gap between her midriff-baring pink top and the waistband of her bohemian ankle-length, patchwork skirt. There it rested, partly in disbelief, partly with a sizzling indecipherable look that sent gooseflesh skittering over her skin.
‘Sit down,’ he commanded after an aeon, his voice barely above a murmured rumble.
Faye couldn’t, because the look in his eyes had paralysed her again. And as he continued to watch her, other sensations crept in, adding to the chaos. Weakness swept through her frame. Her breasts began to tingle, shooting warnings that her bra-less state was about to become glaringly obvious.
To counteract that impending discomfort, Faye folded her arms and aimed a glare across the table. ‘Why?’ she asked, very much aware that his interest had shifted to the inked flowers decorating her arm. That he looked even more...intrigued.
Intrigue didn’t last long before his gaze hardened.
‘Because I’m about to lay a few facts on you, Miss Bishop. Contrary to what you think you’re here for, my revelations will far exceed your wildest dreams. Unfortunately for you, those dreams come with strings. Of course once I’m done you can still insist on taking this dubious high road you’re posturing about. And should you decide to relinquish your inheritance—’
‘My inheritance? What inheritance?’ Surprise made her voice cringingly squeaky.
‘Sit down and I will tell you,’ he instructed again.
Shock propelled her legs to obey. She sank into the seat, and in the moment before he spoke again her gaze darted to the lawyers, noting their solemn looks.
‘Now, let’s pretend you really have no clue who I am—’
‘I don’t. I’m not sure why that’s so unfathomable to you, but I haven’t the foggiest idea who you are.’
He stared at her for another long, tight stretch. Then he leaned forward. ‘My name is Maceo Fiorenti.’
The surname was familiar. Painfully so. She’d blocked it out of her life—albeit unsuccessfully, because of its sheer size and success—because of its association with Luigi.
‘I’m assuming that you’re in some way connected to Casa di Fiorenti?’
The lawyers exchanged stunned glances.
‘You could say that. But I am also... I was also connected to Carlotta.’
In her emails, Carlotta had signed off as Carlotta Caprio-Fiorenti. Faye hadn’t given the Fiorenti attachment much thought. Now she did, with a peculiar feeling dragging in her stomach.
The man across the conference table was too old to be Carlotta’s son, so he could only be—
Faye felt her jaw gaping again and caught herself. ‘You’re Carlotta’s husband?’ Why did that knowledge send sharp pangs through her chest? ‘But you’re—’ She stopped, bit her lip to cut off the rest of her words.
One masculine brow lifted in mocking query. ‘I’m what, Miss Bishop? Too young? A toy boy, as you refer to it in your country? Don’t be afraid to speak up. You won’t be saying anything the media haven’t attempted to dissect a million ways.’
Heat flared up her neck, since she’d been about to say exactly that. Carlotta had been in her late-fifties, while Maceo Fiorenti looked at least thirty years younger.
But this wasn’t why she was here. Heck, she was still in the dark as to the reason for her presence in this room. With this man who fascinated her far more than she should allow him to.
‘Your relationship with Carlotta is none of my business, I’m sure. And now we’re properly introduced, perhaps you could enlighten me as to why I’m here?’
‘I’m CEO of Casa di Fiorenti and one hundred percent shareholder of this company. Or at least I thought I was until a week ago.’
Faye frowned. ‘What does that mean?’
He leaned forward, and every instinct urged her to retreat. She held her ground. Because to appear weak would be to grant him victory.
‘It means that my late wife informed me that Luigi—I’m assuming you do know who he is?’ he drawled.
She steeled herself against the pain that should have dulled after all this time, but curiously hadn’t. ‘Of course.’
‘Meraviglioso,’ he said sarcastically. ‘My late wife informed me that Luigi had requested that, should he pass away before you turned twenty-five, Carlotta pass on a bequest in her will or when you reached that age. I take it you celebrated your birthday recently?’
Faye nodded absently. ‘Three months ago.’ Then she caught her breath. ‘That’s when Carlotta first contacted me. But...why didn’t she tell me?’
‘Did you give her the chance? Or did you repeatedly rebuff her attempts to reach out to you?’ he asked.
She suspected he knew the answer. Guilt flushed through her, but she refused to cower. ‘I had my reasons.’
Pain. Betrayal. The stigma of shame that had never gone away. The anxiety of not knowing why Luigi had left and never looked back but had seemingly kept tabs on her.
‘No one can love an abomination like you...’
Matt’s words echoed in her head, intensifying the anguish. In truth, she’d succeeded in partially silencing the why of Luigi’s desertion until those damning words. Now she feared she would never move on. Not until she knew if Luigi had felt the same way.
‘Ah, but you didn’t feel strongly enough about those reasons to stay away because you’d “made a promise,” si?’
Far from being needled by his determination to get under her skin, Faye forced herself to sit back. To smile and shrug. ‘It’s obvious you think I have an agenda, so let’s dispense with the rhetorical questions and get on with it, shall we? I have...’ She made a show of checking the time on the clock before settling her gaze somewhere over his shoulder. From the corner of her eye, she saw his jaw clench. ‘I have about half a day’s sightseeing before I go back to my hotel.’
Terse silence greeted her. His tawny gaze compelled her. Unable to resist, Faye found herself looking into eyes that held what looked like grief. She couldn’t be sure because it had disappeared a second later. What didn’t disappear was the guilt that assailed her.
Regardless of what had happened in the past, the anguish Luigi’s desertion had caused her and her mother, this man had buried his wife only a few days ago. At the very least she owed him a modicum of compassion.
She opened her mouth, but before she could retract her flippant words he spoke.
‘As the executor of Carlotta’s will, it falls to me to inform you that, through your stepfather’s bequest, you now own a quarter of one percent of a share in Casa di Fiorenti. Signor Abruzzo, kindly inform Miss Bishop what that means in monetary terms.’
One of the lawyers cleared his throat and flipped open a folder while Maceo lounged in his seat, all panther-like grace and piercing eyes, content to stare her down.
The effect of that stare caused her to miss the beginning of the lawyer’s heavily accented speech. Forcing herself to concentrate, Faye caught the last of it.
‘...at the last financial audit, Casa di Fiorenti was valued at five point six billion euros. Which makes the value of your inheritance approximately fourteen million euros.’
