Inherited By Ferranti

‘But,’ Violet said, ‘you do not love him.’

Sierra thought of Marco’s gentle smile, the press of his lips. Then she thought of her mother’s desperate love for her father, despite his cruelty and abuse. She didn’t love Marco Ferranti. She didn’t want to love anyone. ‘No, I don’t love him.’

‘Then you must not marry him, Sierra. God knows a woman can suffer much for the sake of love, but without it...’ She pressed her lips together, shaking her head, and questions burned in Sierra’s chest, threatened to bubble up her throat. How could her mother love her father, after everything he’d done? After everything she and her mother had both endured? And yet Sierra knew she did.

‘What can I do, Mamma?’

Violet drew a ragged breath. ‘Escape. Properly. I would have suggested it earlier, but I thought you loved him. I’ve only wanted your happiness, darling. I hope you can believe that.’

‘I do believe it, Mamma.’ Her mother was a weak woman, battered into defeated submission by life’s hardships and Arturo Rocci’s hand. Yet Sierra had never doubted her mother’s love for her.

Violet pressed her lips together, gave one quick nod. ‘Then you must go, quickly. Tonight.’

‘Tonight...?’

‘Yes.’ Swiftly, her mother went to her bureau and opened a drawer, reached behind the froth of lingerie to an envelope hidden in the back of the drawer. ‘It’s all I have. I’ve been saving it over the years, in case...’

‘But how?’ Numbly, Sierra took the envelope her mother offered her; it was thick with euros.

‘Your father gives me housekeeping money every week,’ Violet said. Spots of colour had appeared high on each delicate cheekbone, and Sierra felt a stab of pity. She knew her mother was ashamed of how tied she was to her husband, how firmly under his thumb. ‘I rarely spend it. And so over the years I’ve managed to save. Not much...a thousand euros maybe, at most. But enough to get you from here.’

Hope and fear blazed within her, each as strong as the other. ‘But where would I go?’ She’d never considered such a thing—a proper escape, unencumbered, independent, truly free. The possibility was intoxicating and yet terrifying; she’d spent her childhood in a villa in the country, her adolescent years at a strict convent school. She had no experience of anything, and she knew it.

‘Take the ferry to the mainland, and then the train to Rome. From there to England.’

‘England...’ The land of her mother’s birth.

‘I have a friend, Mary Bertram,’ Violet whispered. ‘I have not spoken to her in many years, not since...’ Since she’d married Arturo Rocci twenty years ago. Wordlessly, Sierra nodded her understanding. ‘She did not want me to marry,’ Violet said, her voice so low now Sierra strained to hear it, even when she was standing right next to her mother. ‘She didn’t trust him. But she told me if anything happened, her door would always be open.’

‘You know where she lives?’

‘I have her address from twenty years ago. I am afraid that is the best I can do.’

Sierra’s insides shook as she considered what she was about to do. She, who did not venture into Palermo without an escort, a guard. Who never handled money, who had never taken so much as a taxi. How could she do this?

How could she not? This was her only chance. Tomorrow she would marry Marco Ferranti, and if he was a man like her father, as his wife she would have no escape. No hope.

‘If I leave...’ she whispered, her voice thickening. She could not continue, but she didn’t need to.

‘You will not be able to return,’ Violet said flatly. ‘Your father would...’ She swallowed, shaking her head. ‘This will be goodbye.’

‘Come with me, Mamma—’

Violet’s expression hardened. ‘I can’t.’

‘Because you love him?’ The hurt spilled from her like a handful of broken glass, sharp and jagged with pain. ‘How can you love him, after everything...?’

‘Do not question my choices, Sierra.’ Violet’s face was pale, her mouth pinched tight. ‘But make your own.’

Her own choice. Freedom at last. Overwhelming, frightening freedom, more than she’d ever had before, more than she’d even know what to do with. Instead of shackling herself to a man, even a good man, she would be her own person. Free to choose, to live.

The realisation made her feel sick with fear, dizzy with hope. Sierra closed her eyes. ‘I don’t know, Mamma...’

‘I cannot choose for you, Sierra.’ Her mother brushed her cheek lightly with her fingertips. ‘Only you can decide your own destiny. But a marriage without love...’ Her mother swallowed hard. ‘I would not wish that on anyone.’

Not every man is like Arturo Rocci. Not every man is cruel, controlling, hard. Sierra swallowed down the words. Marco Ferranti might not be like her father, but he might very well be. After what she’d heard and realised tonight, she knew she couldn’t take the risk.

Her hand clenched on the envelope of euros. Violet nodded, seeing the decision made in Sierra’s face. ‘God go with you, Sierra.’

Sierra hugged her mother tightly, tears stinging her eyes. ‘Quickly now,’ Violet said, and Sierra hurried from the room. Down the hall to her own bedroom, the wedding dress hanging from the wardrobe like a ghost. She dressed quickly and then grabbed a bag and stuffed some clothes into it. Her hands shook.

The house was quiet, the night air still and silent. Sierra glanced at the violin case under her bed and hesitated. It would be difficult to bring, and yet...

Music had been her only solace for much of her life. Leaving her violin would be akin to leaving a piece of her soul. She grabbed the case and swung the holdall of clothes over her shoulder. And then she tiptoed downstairs, holding her breath, her heart pounding so hard her chest hurt. The front door was locked for the night, but Sierra slid the bolt from its hinges without so much as a squeak. From the study she heard her father shift in his chair, rustle some papers. For a terrible moment her heart stilled, suspended in her chest as she froze in terror.

Then he let out a sigh and she eased the door open slowly, so slowly, every second seeming to last an hour. She slipped through and closed it carefully behind her before glancing at the dark, empty street. She looked back at the house with its lit windows one last time before hurrying into the night.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_143ad711-b0d3-5f52-9fd9-02d979b4ebdf)

Seven years later

‘SHE MIGHT NOT COME.’

Marco Ferranti turned from the window and his indifferent perusal of Palermo’s business district with a shrug. ‘She might not.’ He glanced at the lawyer seated behind the large mahogany desk and then strode from the window, every taut, controlled movement belying the restlessness inside him.

‘She didn’t come to her mother’s funeral,’ the lawyer, Roberto di Santis, reminded him cautiously.

Marco’s hands curled into fists and he unclenched them deliberately before shoving them into the pockets of his trousers and turning to face the man. ‘I know.’

Violet Rocci had died three years ago; cancer had stalked her and killed her in a handful of months. Sierra had not come back for her mother’s illness or funeral, despite Arturo’s beseeching requests. She had not even sent a letter or card, much to her father’s sorrow. The last time Marco had seen her had been the night before their wedding, when he’d kissed her and felt her trembling, passionate response.

The next morning he’d waited at the front of the church of Santa Caterina for his bride to process down the aisle. And waited. And waited. And waited.

Seven years later he was still waiting for Sierra Rocci to show up.

The lawyer shuffled some papers before clearing his throat noisily. He was nervous, impatient, wanting to get the ordeal of Arturo Rocci’s will over with. He’d assured Marco it was straightforward if uncomfortable; Marco had seen the document himself, before Arturo had died. He knew what it said. He didn’t think Sierra did, though, and he grimly looked forward to acquainting her with its details.

Surely she would come?

Marco had instructed the lawyer to contact her personally. Marco had known where Sierra was for a while; about five years ago, when the first tidal wave of rage had finally receded to a mist, he’d hired a private investigator to discover her whereabouts. He’d never contacted her, never wanted to. But he’d needed to know where she was, what had happened to her. The knowledge that she was living a seemingly quiet, unassuming life in London had not been satisfying in the least. Nothing was.

‘She said she would come, didn’t she?’ he demanded, although he already knew the answer.

When di Santis had called her at her home, she’d agreed to meet here, at the lawyer’s office, at ten o’clock on June fifteenth. It was now nearing half past.

‘Perhaps we should just begin...?’

‘No.’ Marco paced the room, back to the window where he gazed out at the snarl of traffic. ‘We’ll wait.’ He wanted to see Sierra’s face when the will was read. He wanted to see the expression in her eyes as realisation dawned of how much she’d lost, how much she’d sacrificed simply to get away from him.