The Secret Kept From The Italian

She was lovely. Antonio stared at the woman—Maisie, she’d said—in expectation. She looked stunned by his help, and he supposed he was a bit surprised, too. He didn’t normally help the cleaning staff, although there was certainly no shame in it. He’d had worse and lower-paid jobs in his lifetime.

But he liked the look of Maisie, with her tumbling auburn curls and wide green eyes, her curvy figure only partially hidden by the shapeless blue coverall she wore as some kind of uniform. He wanted to have a drink with her. He needed to keep forgetting, and over the years he’d found that alcohol was the best way to do that. Sex wasn’t far behind.

Slowly, still looking a bit shell-shocked, Maisie turned and reached for the vacuum. She plugged it in and then, impatient, Antonio reached for the handle. Her head jerked up in surprise, curls bouncing around her heart-shaped face. Freckles were scattered across her nose like gold dust.

‘I’ll do it,’ he said, and he whipped around with the vacuum, the noise filling the space and vibrating in his chest, only for the silence they were plunged into when he cut the power to feel expectant and hushed.

Slowly Antonio wrapped the cord around the handle while Maisie simply stared. He wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t feel a flicker of guilty unease at seducing a cleaner in an empty office building in the middle of the night. But then, she would either be a willing partner or she would walk away; was there really anything to atone for here? He already had enough sins to deal with.

Besides, it might not even go that way. Maybe she was married, or had a serious boyfriend. Except he didn’t think he was imagining the spark that had snapped to life between them when their eyes had met. Just to test it, he brushed her fingers with his as he put the vacuum away, and he felt a leap inside him as he saw her pupils flare. Yes, it was there. It was definitely there.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Shall we have that drink?’

‘I really shouldn’t...’

Already her willpower was starting to crumble. Antonio fished another tumbler from the desk drawer and poured a generous measure.

‘Shouldn’t is such a dull word, don’t you think? We shouldn’t let our lives be ruled by shouldn’ts.’

‘Isn’t that an oxymoron?’

He laughed, impressed by her quick wit. ‘Exactly,’ he said, and handed her a glass. She took it, her pale, slender fingers wrapping around it as she studied him.

‘Why are you here?’

‘I suppose it depends what you mean by here.’ He took a sip of whisky, willing her to taste her own. The burn of alcohol at the back of his throat and the ensuing fire in his belly were a welcome comfort.

‘In this empty office building, late at night, drinking by yourself.’

‘I was working.’ At least he had been, until the dark memories had started crowding in, taking him over, as they did on this day every year. And so many other days, as well, if he let them.

‘Do you work here?’ She sounded disbelieving.

‘Not as such. I’ve been hired for a certain job.’

‘What’s that?’

He hesitated, because, while the takeover was common knowledge, he didn’t want to encourage gossip. But then he decided she was harmless, and she probably didn’t know anyone who worked here anyway.

‘I assess the risks involved in a corporate takeover,’ he said. ‘And try to minimise loss and damage during the hand-over of power.’

Her eyes widened. ‘This company’s being taken over?’

‘Yes.’ He cocked his head, noting her look of alarm. ‘Do you know anyone who works here?’

‘Only the other cleaners. Will...will our jobs be at risk?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. Offices will always need to be cleaned.’

‘Oh.’ Her tense shoulders slumped a little in relief. ‘Good.’

‘Shall we toast to that?’ Antonio suggested lightly. ‘Yours are some of the only jobs that won’t be affected.’

‘Oh.’ Her mouth, lush and pink, turned down at the corners. ‘That’s sad.’

‘But not for you.’

‘No...’

He raised his glass. ‘Cincin.’

Slowly, so slowly, she took a sip of whisky, wrinkling her nose at the taste of the alcohol, but swallowing it without a splutter.

‘What does cincin mean?’

‘It’s a common toast in Italy.’

‘Ah.’ She nodded. ‘Is that where you’re from?’

‘Guilty.’ The word sprang to his lips and soured his gut. Guilty. He was so guilty, and not simply for his heritage. For so much more. Things he could never undo. Things he could never forget, even if he tried to let himself.

‘I’ve never been to Italy.’ She sounded wistful. ‘Is it beautiful?’

‘Parts are very beautiful.’

Maisie looked down, and then took another sip of whisky, shuddering a little as the liquor went down. ‘It tastes like fire.’

‘Feels like it, too.’ Antonio tossed back the last of his drink, savouring the burn, craving the oblivion. If he closed his eyes he’d see his brother’s face, the smile curving his mouth, his eyes sparkling, everything in him young and carefree for a moment. If he kept his eyes closed that face would change, turn lifeless and pale, the pavement beneath his head wine-red with blood even though he’d never seen his brother like that. Never had the chance.

That was why he needed to keep drinking. So he could close his eyes.

‘Why are you here?’ Maisie asked softly. She’d lowered her glass and was giving him a searching look, her eyes wide and so very green. ‘I don’t mean work. I mean drinking alone late at night.’ Antonio shrugged, about to say something dismissive about needing to work late, but then she skewered him with her next sorrowful observation. ‘You looked so sad. As sad as I’ve felt.’

The quiet admission pierced him right through. ‘You’ve felt...?’

Her lips twisted, her lashes sweeping down to hide her gaze. ‘My parents died when I was nineteen. When I looked at you, that’s what I thought about. You looked...you looked the way I felt then. Sometimes the way I still feel.’

Her honesty felled him. He’d never encountered such raw, simple truth, unvarnished, unafraid. It humbled him and it left him speechless. Finally he found some words, but they weren’t the ones he’d expected. ‘That’s because I’ve lost someone as well, and I was thinking about him tonight.’

What? He never talked about Paolo. Not to anyone. Certainly not to a stranger. He tried not to think about him, but of course he always did. Paolo was always on the fringes of his mind, in the corners of his soul. Haunting him. Accusing him. Making him remember.

‘Who did you lose?’ Her eyes were sad and yet full of compassion, her face so heartbreakingly lovely. Her auburn hair framed her face in a curly, fiery nimbus, and her mouth was lush, her expression open. Antonio wanted to sweep her into his arms, but more than that he wanted to talk to her. He wanted to tell her the truth, or at least as much of the truth as he could bear to reveal.

‘My brother,’ he said quietly. ‘My little brother.’

CHAPTER TWO (#u15d33414-54e8-57e4-8830-cd8898d60d39)

‘OH.’ THE WORD was a soft gasp as Maisie looked at this man, this beautiful man, who was so obviously still grieving. Her heart ached for him. ‘I’m so sorry.’