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He had already bought his way into—through shell companies and entities—many of Carlo diSalvo’s businesses, giving him if not a controlling interest in their operation, enough of a stake to be difficult and a nuisance to the man he had been raised to hate.
But this was different. He would gladly let the rest go if he could only get this one company under his control. And if Amelia diSalvo proved difficult, if appealing to her sense of decency didn’t win her over, then he’d show her what he’d been doing and how close he was to ruining her brother.
He crossed his arms over his chest as the first drop of rain began to fall, quickly followed by another. It was a summer storm that brought with it the smell of sun-warmed grass and the threat of lightning. Inside the cottage a shape moved and he narrowed his gaze, homing in on its location.
Amelia.
He held his breath unconsciously as, with blonde hair scraped into a bun, she moved into his vision. Her face was pale; at this distance it was hard to tell, but he would say she wore no make-up. She stared out of the window for several moments and then turned away.
Certainty fired in his gut.
She was a diSalvo.
That made her fair game.
It had been less than a month since he’d buried his father and in that moment Antonio’s only regret was that Javier had not lived to see this final, deeply personal revenge be enacted.
With renewed determination, his stride long and confident, he walked up the winding path. Gravel crunched underfoot and the moon peeked out from behind a storm cloud for a moment, casting him in an eerie sort of silver light. Foreboding, some might have called it, but not Antonio.
Bumblebee Cottage, a brass sign near the door proclaimed, and he ignored the image it created—of sweetness and tranquillity. Amelia diSalvo might be playing at this life, but she was the daughter of a supermodel and the most ruthless bastard on earth. And she was also the piece of the puzzle he needed—victory was within reach.
* * *
As if her loneliness had conjured a companion, the doorbell rang. Olivia wasn’t so maudlin and self-indulgent to forget all common sense. It was almost nine o’clock at night—who could be calling at this hour?
She’d bought Bumblebee Cottage because of its isolation. No prying neighbours, no passing motorists—it sat nestled into a cul-de-sac of little interest to anyone but her and the farm that bordered the cottage on one side. It was a perfect, secluded bolthole. Just what she’d needed when she’d run from the life she’d found herself living.
She adored it for its seclusion but a frisson of something like alarm spread goosebumps over her flesh. She grabbed a meat cleaver, of all things, from the kitchen bench then moved to the door.
‘Who is it?’
A man’s voice answered, deep and gravelled, tinged with a European accent. ‘Can you open up?’
??I can, but I’m not going to,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Who are you?’ she called more loudly. ‘What do you want?’
‘Something that is easier to discuss in person.’ He was hard to hear over the falling rain.
‘What is it?’
‘I just said—’ He released a soft curse in Spanish. When she was eight, she’d mastered curse words in French, Italian, German, Spanish, Greek, Mandarin and Polish. She’d been bored on a yacht and the staff—one from each of these nationalities—had spent one late night teaching her. ‘It’s important, Amelia,’ Antonio said.
The fact he knew her name got her attention. With a frown on her face, she unlocked the door, keeping the chain lock firmly in place so that it only cracked open a wedge.
It was dark on the porch, but enough light filtered out to show his face and it was strong and interesting.
‘How do you know my name?’
There was a beat of silence and then, ‘I’m a business acquaintance of your brother’s. I need to speak to you.’
‘Why? What about? Is it Carlo? Is he okay?’
The man’s eyes flickered with something and for a moment Amelia was worried, but then he smiled. ‘So far as I know, Carlo is fine. This is a proposition just for you.’
At that, Amelia frowned. ‘What kind of proposition?’
His look was mysterious. ‘One that is too confidential to discuss through the door.’
‘It’s late at night. This couldn’t have waited until tomorrow?’
