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Still on his haunches, he studied her face carefully, ostensibly looking for a clue to any unseen injuries. No blood ran from her nose or mouth, which he assumed was a good thing. Her mass of blonde hair covered her ears, so he carefully lifted a section to look. No blood.
As he searched, he noticed what a pretty face she had. Not beautiful. Pretty. Her nose was straight but just a touch longer than the women of his acquaintance would put up with before resorting to surgery. She had quite rounded cheeks, too, something else that would be fixed in the endless quest for perfection. But yes, pretty.
He remembered she’d had something slung around her neck before he’d covered her chest with his jacket. Carefully, he tugged it free.
It was an identity card for one of the hospitals in the capital. Peering closer, he read her name. Dr H Chapman. Specialist Registrar.
This woman was a doctor? To his eyes she looked about eighteen. He’d guessed her as a student...
Her eyes opened and fixed on him.
His thoughts disappeared.
Shock rang out from her eyes—and what eyes they were, a moreish hazel ringed with black—before she closed them. When they reopened a few beats later, the shock faded to be replaced by a look of such contentment and serenity that Francesco’s heart flipped over.
Her mouth opened. He leaned closer to hear what she had to say.
Her words came out as a whisper. ‘So there really is a heaven.’
* * *
Hannah Chapman leaned her new bike against the stone building and gazed up at the sparkling silver awning that held one word: Calvetti’s.
She admired the explicitness of it. This belonged to Francesco Calvetti and no one else.
Even though it was 6:00 p.m. and the club wasn’t due to open for another four hours, two hefty-sized men dressed all in black stood beneath the awning, protecting the door. She took this as a good sign—the past three times she’d cycled over, the door hadn’t been manned. The club had been empty.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, standing before them. ‘Is Francesco Calvetti in?’
‘He’s not available.’
‘But is he in?’
‘He’s in but he’s not to be disturbed.’
Success! At last she’d managed to track him down. Francesco Calvetti travelled a lot. Still, tracking him down was one thing. Getting in to see him was a different matter entirely.
She tried her most winning smile.
Alas, her fake smile wasn’t up to par. All it resulted in was the pair of them crossing their arms over their chests. One of them alone would have covered the door. The pair of them standing there was like having a two-man mountain as a barrier.
‘I know you don’t want to disturb him, but can you please tell him that Hannah Chapman is here to see him? He’ll know who I am. If he says no, then I’ll leave, I promise.’
‘We can’t do that. We have our orders.’
She could be talking to a pair of highly trained SAS soldiers, such was the conviction with which the slightly less stocky of the duo spoke.
Hannah sighed. Oh, well, if it wasn’t meant to be, then...so be it.
All the same, she was disappointed. She’d wanted to thank the man personally.
She thrust forward the enormous bunch of flowers and thank-you card. She’d cycled the best part of two miles through London traffic with them precariously balanced in her front basket. ‘In that case, could you give these to him, please?’
Neither made a move to take them from her. If anything, their faces became even more suspicious.
‘Please? This is the third bunch I’ve brought for him and I’d hate for them to go to waste. I was in an accident six weeks ago and he came to my rescue and...’
‘Wait.’ The one on the left cocked his head. ‘What kind of accident?’
‘I was knocked off my bike by a hit-and-run driver.’
They exchanged glances, then drew back to confer in a language that sounded, to her untrained ear, as if it was Italian. Or she could have imagined it, knowing Francesco Calvetti was Sicilian.
Since she’d discovered the identity of her benefactor, she knew a lot more than she should about Francesco Calvetti. internet searches were wonderful creations. For instance, she knew he was thirty-six, unmarried but with a string of glamorous girlfriends to his name, and that he owned six nightclubs and four casinos across Europe. She also knew his family name was synonymous with the Mafia in Sicily and that his father, Salvatore, had gone by the nickname Sal il Santo—Sal the Saint—a moniker allegedly given due to his penchant for making the sign of the cross over his dead victims.
