The Sicilian’s Stolen Son

The rave from the grave, Luciano mouthed in silent disbelief. She was actually telling him that he irritated her. How dared she? A thieving whore...but the mother of his son...

‘You can travel to London with them and accompany Niccol? back again at five today. Pass the phone back to Rico...’

Jemima did as she was bid, handing Nicky’s baby bag to the second bodyguard who had appeared before tucking her nephew under her arm to lock up the house.

‘What a fuss about nothing,’ she wanted to remark to the nanny as she climbed into the limousine and the two women together secured the baby into the very fancy car seat awaiting him, but caution silenced her. Luciano was an intractable tyrant supported in his moods and habits by his intimidated employees. Presumably standing up to Luciano meant instant dismissal. Jemima suspected she wouldn’t last five minutes working for him because she had too much a mind of her own, so it was probably fortunate that he hadn’t jumped on her nanny offer. At the same time, however, she was relieved he had agreed to let her catch a lift to London and travel back with Nicky at the end of the day. She had been a tiny bit afraid that Luciano wasn’t planning on letting Nicky return to her again and now that looming fear could be set aside for at least one more day. Having passed her cell-phone number to Lisa, she asked to be dropped at the entrance to a Tube station.

The attraction of browsing round shops where she could not afford to buy anything held little appeal for Jemima. In recent months she had grown accustomed to being stony broke, to questioning every single purchase and asking herself if she really needed the item. And although she would have adored some new clothes and the chance to replace cosmetics that had run out, she was happy to make those sacrifices to keep Nicky and give her parents peace of mind in their retirement. A desire to make the best of whatever life threw at her had always driven Jemima and she took the same approach to her day out, heading to the first of her free attractions—the British Museum—before enjoying a picnic lunch in Kensington Gardens and a walk round the Tate Modern. She was on the banks of the Thames when her phone rang and she snatched it out.

‘Nicky’s ill... Where are you?’ Luciano demanded thinly. ‘I’ll have you picked up.’

Her frantic questions elicited no adequate response beyond the assurance that the baby was not in danger. Luciano was much more intent on retrieving her as soon as possible so that she could comfort the little boy. Jemima was perspiring with stress and anxiety by the time a limousine lifted her at the agreed pick-up point and drove her across London to an exclusive block of apartments. There, flanked by two enormous bodyguards, she got into a glass lift to be swept up to the penthouse.

‘I thought you were going to stay within reach!’ Luciano roared at her as she came through the front door.

Jemima was accustomed to dealing with distraught and often angry parents whose child had become upset at school or had suffered injury and at one glance she recognised that Luciano fell into that category. He was a powerful man who controlled everything around him but Nicky’s illness had made him feel powerless and that anger was the fallout. She could hear Nicky’s distressed choking wails echoing through the apartment and was not in the mood to waste time sparring with his anxious father. ‘Where is he?’

‘The doctor’s with him,’ Luciano gritted, closing a managing hand to her spine to herd her in the right direction. He was the most alarmingly dominant man and, even worse, she thought ruefully, it seemed to come entirely naturally to him, as if an autocratic need to trample over the little people had been programmed into him at birth. ‘Not that he’s been much use!’

Lisa was pacing the floor with a wailing Nicky and looked as though she had been through the wars. Earlier that day she had looked immaculate. Now her long hair was falling down untidily and her shirt was spattered with food stains. An older bespectacled man, who could only be the doctor, overlooked the scene with an air of discomfiture.

‘What’s wrong with Nicky?’ Jemima asked worriedly.

The doctor studied her anxiously. ‘A touch of tonsillitis...nothing more—’

‘My son would not be making such a fuss over so little,’ Luciano began wrathfully.

‘Oh, yes, he would.’ Jemima threw Luciano a wryly apologetic glance. ‘He makes a real fuss when he’s sick. He’s had tonsillitis a couple of times already and I was up all night with him.’

With a yell, Nicky unglued his reddened eyes and, focusing joyously on Jemima, he gave a frantic lurch in Lisa’s hold. The other woman crossed the room in haste to settle him into Jemima’s arms. ‘It’s obvious he wants his mum.’