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What came next had been like a punch in the gut.
His lady was in bed with her boss, the bank’s CEO, laughing as she assured him that Nicolo Orsini was absolutely, positively going to make an offer for the bank that far exceeded its worth.
“An Orsini and you, babe,” the man had said. “It’s a classic. The princess and the stable boy…”
The delicate champagne flute shattered in Nick’s hand.
“Merda!”
Champagne spilled on the jacket of his tux; a tiny drop of crimson oozed from a small cut on his hand. Nick yanked a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed at his tux, at his finger…
“Hey, man,” an amused male voice said, “the champagne’s not that bad.”
It was Rafe, coming toward him with a bottle of Heineken in each hand. Nick groaned with pleasure and reached for one.
“You’re a miracle worker,” he said. “Where’d this come from?”
“Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.” Rafe frowned, jerked his head at Nick’s hand. “You okay?”
“Fine. See? The bleeding’s stopped already.”
“What happened?”
Nick shrugged. “I didn’t know my own strength,” he said with a lazy smile. “No problem. I’ll get something and sweep it up.”
“Trust me, Nick. One of the catering staff is bound to come out of the woodwork before you can—” A woman appeared, broom and dustpan in hand. “See? What did I tell you?”
Nick nodde
d his thanks, waited until the woman was gone, then touched his bottle to his brother’s.
“To small miracles,” he said, “like brothers with bottles of beer at just the right moment.”
“I figured it would do away with that long face you were wearing.”
“Me? A long face? I guess I was—ah, I was thinking about that Swiss deal.”
“Forget business,” Dante said, as he joined them. He, too, had a bottle of beer in his hand. “It’s a party, remember?” He grinned as he leaned closer. “Gaby says that little caterer’s assistant has been eyeing you all afternoon.”
“Well, of course she has,” Nick said, because he knew it was expected.
His brothers laughed. They talked for a few minutes and then it was time to say goodbye to the bride and groom.
Finally, he could get out of here.
He went through the whole routine—kisses, hugs, promises to his mother that he’d come to dinner as soon as he could. His father wasn’t around. Perfect, he thought as he made his way down the long hall to the front door. He never had anything to say to Cesare beyond a perfunctory “hello” or “goodbye,” and if the old man got hold of him today, it might take more than that because—
“Nicolo.”
Hell. Think of the devil and he was sure to turn up.
“Leaving so soon, mio figlio?” Cesare, dressed not in Brioni today but in an Armani tux, flashed a smile.
“Yes,” Nick said coldly.
Cesare chuckled. “So direct. A man after my own heart.”
“You don’t have a heart, Father.”
