The Forbidden Ferrara

Instead, intrigued by her defiance, spurred on by the lure of the forbidden, he’d let her hide there until she’d chosen to return home.

Weeks later he’d found out that the day she’d kept her solitary vigil in his boathouse had been the day her mother had walked out, leaving Fia’s violent Sicilian father to cope with two children he’d never wanted. He remembered being surprised that she hadn’t cried. It was years before he realised that Fia never cried. She kept all her emotions hidden inside and never expected comfort. Which was probably because she’d learned there was none to be had in her family.

Santo’s mouth tightened.

Maybe she did shut people out, but there was no way in hell he’d let her shut him out. Not now. Not this time. ‘You made your decision, by yourself with no reference to anyone else. Now I will make mine.’ He cut her no slack. Didn’t allow the beseeching look in her eyes to alter him from what he knew to be the right course of action.

‘What do you mean?’

‘When I’m ready to talk, I’ll contact you. And don’t even think of running because if you do I will hunt you down. There is nowhere you can hide. Nowhere on this planet you can take my son that I can’t find you.’

‘He is my son, too.’

Santo gave a humourless smile. ‘And that presents us with an interesting challenge, doesn’t it? He is possibly the first thing our two families have had in common. When I’ve decided what I’m going to do about that, I’ll let you know.’

As the furious growl of the Lamborghini disturbed the silence of the night, Fia just made it to the bathroom and was violently sick. It could have been panic, fear, or some noxious combination of the two, but whatever it was it left her shaking and she hated the weakness and the feeling of vulnerability. Afterwards she sat on the floor with her eyes closed, trying to formulate a plan but there was no plan she could make that he couldn’t sweep aside.

He would take control, the way the Ferraras always took control. His contempt for her family would drive his decision-making. And part of her didn’t blame him for that. In his position she probably would have felt the same way because, now, she understood how it felt to want to protect a child.

Fia wrapped her arms around her knees and pulled them closer, tucking herself into as small a space as possible.

He hadn’t listened when she’d tried to explain herself. He hadn’t believed her when she’d told him that she’d made sure that Luca’s childhood was nothing like her own.

His mission now was to rescue his son from the Baracchi family.

There would be no softness. No concessions. No compromise.

Instead of being raised in a calm, loving atmosphere, Luca would be subjected to the intolerable pressures of animosity and resentment. He’d be the rope in an emotional tug of war.

And that was precisely why she’d chosen this particular rocky, deadly path and she’d lived with the lies, the worry and the stress for three years in order to protect her son.

‘Mamma sick.’ Luca stood there, his favourite bear clutched in his arms, that dark hair rumpled. The harsh bathroom lights spotlighted every feature and for a moment she couldn’t breathe because right there, in her son’s face, she saw Santo. Their child had inherited those unforgettable eyes, that same glossy dark hair. Even the shape of his mouth reminded her of his father and she wasn’t going to start thinking about his stubborn streak …

Realistically, it had only been a matter of time before her secret was out.

‘I love you.’ Impulsively she dragged him into her arms and kissed his head, letting the warmth of him flow into her. ‘I’m always going to be here for you. And Gina, and Ben. You have people who love you. You won’t ever be alone.’ She held him tightly, as she had never been held. She kissed him, as she had never been kissed. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to blame Santo Ferrara for assuming that his child was being raised in a toxic atmosphere. He had no idea how hard she’d worked to ensure that Luca’s childhood was nothing like her own.

And as he snuggled against her, happy and content, she felt her eyes fill.

What had she lacked, she wondered, that her own mother hadn’t felt this same powerful bond? Nothing, nothing, would induce her to walk away from her child. There was no price, no power, no promise that could make her do such a thing.

And there was no way she was going to let Santo take her son.

Blissfully ignorant of the fact that their lives were teetering on the edge of a dangerous chasm, he wriggled out of her arms.

‘Bed.’

‘Good idea,’ she croaked, scooping him up and carrying him back to his bed. Whatever happened, she was going to protect him from the fallout of this. She wasn’t going to let him be hurt.

‘Man come back?’

Her insides churned again. ‘Yes, he’ll come back.’ She was in no doubt about that. And when he returned he’d bring serious legal muscle. She had no doubt about that, either. Events had been set in motion and there was no stopping them. No stopping a Ferrara from getting what he wanted.

And Santo Ferrara wanted his son.

She sat on the bed, watching her son fall asleep, her love for him so huge that it filled every part of her. The strength of that bond made it all too easy for her to imagine Santo’s feelings. Deep inside her, the guilt that she worked so hard to suppress awoke.

She’d never been comfortable with her decision. It had haunted her in the dark hours of the night when there were no distractions to occupy her mind. It wasn’t that she regretted the choice she’d made. She didn’t. But she’d learned that the right decision could feel completely wrong. And then there were the dreams. Dreams that distorted reality. Twisted the impossible into the possible. Dreams of a life that didn’t exist.

Blocking out images of black, silky lashes and a hard, sensual mouth, Fia stayed until Luca was safely asleep and then returned to the kitchen to clear up. Because she’d sent the staff home she had to do it herself, but the mindless work helped calm the panicky knot in her stomach. She poured her anxiety into each swipe of her cloth until every surface in the kitchen shone, until sweat pricked her brow, until she was too bone-tired to feel anything except the physical ache of hard labour. And then she grabbed a cold beer from the fridge and took it to the small wooden jetty that butted out from the restaurant.

Fishing boats bobbed quietly in the darkness, waiting to be taken out onto the water.

Usually this was a time to be calm, but tonight her nightly ritual failed to produce the desired effect.

Fia kicked off her shoes and sat on the jetty, feet dangling in the cool water, her gaze sliding to the lights of the Ferrara Beach Club on the opposite side of the bay. Eighty per cent of her customers tonight had come from the hotel. She had reservations for plenty more, booked months ahead. Twisting off the cap, she lifted the bottle to her lips, realising that by being good at what she did, she’d inadvertently drawn the eye of the enemy.

Her success had brought her out from under the radar. Instead of being irrelevant to the all-powerful Ferraras, she’d made herself significant. This was all her fault, she thought miserably. In pursuing her goal of providing for her family, protecting her son, she’d inadvertently exposed him.

‘Fiammetta!’

Her grandfather’s bark made her jump and she sprang to her feet and walked back towards the stone house that had been in the family for six generations, a feeling of sick dread in her stomach. ‘Come stai?’ She kept her voice light. ‘You’re up late, Nonno. How are you feeling?’

‘I’m as well as a man can be when he sees his granddaughter working herself to the bone.’ He scowled down at the bottle in her hand. ‘A man doesn’t like to see a woman drinking beer.’

‘Then it’s a good job I don’t have a man I need to worry about.’ She teased him lightly, relieved that he had the energy to spar with her. This was their relationship. This was Baracchi love. She told herself that just because he didn’t express it didn’t mean he didn’t feel it. On some days she actually believed that. ‘What are you doing up? You should be asleep in bed.’

‘Luca was crying.’

‘He had a dream. He just wanted a cuddle.’

‘You should leave him to cry.’ Her grandfather gave a grunt of disapproval. ‘He’ll never grow up to be a man the way you coddle him.’

‘He’s going to be a fine man. The best.’

‘The boy is spoiled. Every time I see him, someone is hugging him or kissing him.’

‘You can’t give a child too much love.’

‘Did I fuss over my son the way you fuss over yours?’

No, and look at how that turned out. ‘I think you should go to bed, Nonno.’

‘Can I cook for a few people? That’s what you said to me—’ he winced as he walked stiffly towards the waterfront ‘—and before I know it my home is full of strangers and you are serving good Sicilian food on fancy plates and lighting candles for people who wouldn’t know the difference between fresh food and fast food.’

‘People travel a long way to taste my cooking. I’m running a successful business.’

‘You shouldn’t be running a business.’ Her grandfather settled himself in his favourite chair at the water’s edge. The chair he’d sat on when she was a child.