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Ironically enough, since he’d found her again, looks-wise it was like being back with the Luca she had married rather than the Luca she had left. But that wildness in his eyes remained. That edge to him that had been there from the start—the same edge she had thought romantic—was as strong as it had ever been. Stronger. His hate for her sharpening it to a point.
The pink line of the pregnancy test had shone brightly. In that split second it had no longer been just her and Luca. A tiny spark of life had resided within her, depending on her.
Denial had no longer been an option.
She’d forced herself to work on autopilot. She’d left without writing a note because trying to say goodbye to the man she loved had ripped her soul into pieces.
She’d run so fast, she’d never had the chance to ask him any of the million and one questions that had pounded in her head. Those questions still pounded.
‘Have you ever used your fists on another man?’
‘Only when it’s been absolutely necessary.’
‘But what do you consider necessary?’
His voice was hard. ‘People who steal and cheat from me. People who would harm my family. People who would try to take my businesses from me.’
‘Have you ever killed someone?’ The question was out before her brain had even conjured it.
For the briefest of moments, his jaw slackened, before all his muscles bunched. ‘How can you ask me such a question?’
‘Because I don’t know you.’ She hugged Lily closer to her. Never had she wished so hard that she’d moved on from Cornwall when she’d had the chance. If that ridiculous apathy hadn’t overcome her she’d likely be living on a remote Greek island away from this madness. ‘You changed, Luca. Once you went into business with that Francesco Calvetti, you changed. The darkness seemed to take you over. I was walking on eggshells all the time, always wondering and worrying over what kind of a mood you were in. I would spend nights in my studio painting and trying to ignore how terrified I was that you wouldn’t come home...’
‘Why would you have thought that?’
‘Because people in your line of work have a habit of not making it home. Except for in a coffin.’
‘My line of work?’ Anger rose in his voice. ‘I am a legitimate businessman.’
‘You’re nothing but a thug,’ she countered flatly. ‘Only I was too blind with love or lust to see it properly.’
A snarl flittered across his face, the pulse in his temple pounding. Pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, Luca rose and threw some euros onto the table. ‘Put Lily in her pram. We’re leaving.’
* * *
Luca had been in bed for the best part of two hours. For two nights, sleep had been a joke. It was worse than when he had first brought Grace home. Try as he might, he could not get her out of his head. Or excise the poison that had spilled from her tongue.
In sheer frustration he threw the sheets off and climbed out of bed. Drawing back the curtain, he stared out of the window at the moonlit view of his estate.
At that moment all was peaceful, the dark rolling hills giving the illusion the vines and olive groves were in deep sleep. He could almost believe he was the only person awake in the whole of Sicily.
Except Grace could be awake too. He’d heard her a while ago, tending to their daughter. She might very well be staring out of her own window, sharing the same view.
His chest tightened and he swallowed away the acid burn in the back of his throat.
She was probably plotting her next attempt to escape with Lily.
She would never succeed. But still she would try.
Her bravery had stood out the first moment he met her. She had trespassed on his land with her best friend. As soon as they had crossed the boundary, an alert had gone out. A camera had zoomed in on the area and they had been spotted. It had been sheer fortune—or misfortune, depending on your take—that Luca had been driving through the estate with his head of security, Paolo, and had been first on the scene. The intruders had been sitting on a picnic blanket, looking as if they didn’t have a care in the world.
‘Che ci fate qui?’ he had said, asking what they were doing while removing his gun from its holster. He had not sensed any danger from these young women but he would not take chances. While Salvatore Calvetti lived and breathed, the Mastrangelos would never be safe.
One of them, a curvy redhead, had jumped up in terror at the sight of the gun but the other, a slender blonde, had stayed on her bottom and gazed up at him. After a moment’s study, she had raised one hand in the sign of peace and then dived into her rucksack from which she had retrieved a battered notebook.
