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Fia stared at him. ‘And if he finds out?’ There was no need to spell out who ‘he’ was.
‘The boss doesn’t micromanage his staff. He employs people he trusts and then lets them do their job in the way that best suits them.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘I wouldn’t work for him if he didn’t.’
Right now she didn’t need to hear admiration in anyone’s voice when they talked about Santo. But at least Luigi appeared reasonable. More reasonable than his boss.
‘You can take that table—’ agreeing to the compromise, she gestured ‘—and it would be great if you could take off your jacket. We’re pretty casual here, especially at lunchtime.’
‘Mamma!’ Luca came sprinting through the restaurant and she heard Luigi’s sudden intake of breath as he had his first glimpse of the child he’d been assigned to protect.
‘Madre di Dio—’
The likeness was that obvious? Fia scooped her son into her arms protectively but he gazed curiously at the big man in the suit. He hadn’t learned fear, she thought numbly. He’d been brought up here, by the beach, surrounded by people who loved him and guests who thought he was a charming addition to this hidden Sicilian gem. But once people knew he was Santo Ferrara’s son, there would always be a risk. Even she could see that.
‘This is Luigi,’ she said huskily, ‘and he is going to be eating in our restaurant today. Aren’t we lucky?’ She looked at the reassuring power house that was Santo’s head of security and gave a slight smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘Figurati. You’re welcome.’ He winked at the boy and went to rearrange tables while Fia returned to her job.
A busy lunchtime merged into a crazy evening where she hardly emerged from the kitchen. She had time to check on her grandfather briefly, but no time to embark on a difficult conversation. It hung over her as she tossed gamberi into fresh pasta, and served her speciality dessert, Zuccotto al cioccolato. And all the time she was aware that time was running out.
By the time Gina and Ben had left for the night and everywhere was quiet, she was a nervous wreck.
All day she’d been rehearsing the best way to tell her grandfather, trying to work out which combination of words would cause the least shock.
I need to talk to you about Luca.
You’ve often asked me about Luca’s father…
Bracing herself for major conflict, she walked into the kitchen to finish her preparations for the next day and saw the frail figure of her grandfather crumpled on the floor.
‘Nonno! Cristo, please, no!’ She was across the floor and down on her knees in seconds, hands shaking as she gave his shoulder a gentle shake and then grabbed his thin wrist and tried to find a pulse. ‘Speak to me—Oh, God, don’t do this—’ She scrabbled in her pocket for her phone and then realised she’d left it in the house.
‘Is he breathing?’ Santo’s voice came from behind her, calm and strong as he strode across the room. His phone was already in his hand and he was talking into it, issuing a string of instructions in rapid Italian.
It was a measure of her stress that she was relieved to see him. She didn’t even question what he was doing here. ‘Did you call the emergency services? How long?’
‘They’re sending a helicopter.’ With no hesitation, he moved her grandfather and pressed his fingers to the old man’s neck. ‘No pulse.’
Why had she felt his wrist and not his neck? She knew she was supposed to feel his neck but all her basic first aid knowledge had apparently been driven from her brain by panic. Unable to think properly, Fia took her grandfather’s hand and rubbed it. ‘Nonno—’
‘He can’t hear you.’ Santo’s voice was firm and steady. ‘You need to move to one side so I can start CPR.’
‘I’m not going anywhere!’
She heard someone running and then Luigi appeared in the kitchen holding a small box. ‘Here, Boss—’ He handed it to Santo, who moved with swift purpose and lightning speed.
‘Undo his shirt, Fia.’
‘But—’
‘Just do it!’ He yanked open the box and hit a switch.
‘What are you doing?’ Her fingers fumbled on buttons that didn’t want to undo and she heard Santo mutter something in Italian and then strong hands were pushing hers aside and he tore the fabric and exposed her grandfather’s chest in a single movement.
‘Move away from him. Get back.’ He ripped off the protective backing from
two sticky pads and pressed them onto her grandfather’s chest.
He just took control, she thought numbly, the way the Ferraras always took control. Not once did he hesitate or fumble.
