Brutal Obsession (Caruso Cosa Nostra #1)

Chapter 1

VALENTINA

I’m late. Again.

While I curse the stupid Maps app as if it’s solely to blame for my tardiness, my inexpensive heels batter the uneven cobblestones in the heart of Carlisle.

Their stomps mirror the discouraged honks of the early-morning commuters who loathe as much as I do that peak-hour traffic starts well before dawn.

The sun has barely risen, and its low hang creates shadows on historic architecture I’d slow to admire if I weren’t on a time crunch.

Carlisle is a sunburned metropolis on the north coast of Sicily. Nestled between rolling lemon groves and the sparkling blue waves of the Tyrrhenian Sea, it’s the perfect location for rest and recovery.

Well, that’s what I told myself three months ago when I abandoned everything familiar for this country’s promise of solace.

Willing the blue dot on my phone’s screen to magically fix itself, I follow its directions to the wire. An additional thousand steps don’t resolve my issue. The Maps app continuously leads me to a decommissioned council building instead of the hospital I’m seeking.

Carlisle’s labyrinthine streets mock modern technology, but I doubt I’d fare better with paper maps. All the old buildings painted in white, terracotta, and pale-blue hues look exactly the same. I can’t tell a family-run bakery from a gelato store.

Anger reddens my cheeks when my phone notifies me to turn left.

“There is no left! So how the hell am I meant to turn left?”

I’m already strangling my phone, but my clutch firms enough to crack the screen when a message from Dr. Russo’s secretary pops up.

If I don’t arrive at Ospedale San Giorgio’s in ten minutes, Dr. Russo’s secretary will postpone our meeting until after Dr. Russo returns from a six-week international conference.

Determined not to let technology sabotage a mission over a year in the making, I quicken my pace.

This morning’s meeting isn’t with the local council’s corrupt building inspector.

It’s far more important than hiding the cracks of an unsteady foundation so I don’t end up homeless. This could unravel my entire existence.

“Dio mio,” I mutter, glancing at the time.

I wouldn’t be on such a time crunch if I’d left earlier, but my hair loathes extreme humidity, and I didn’t foresee a dead battery. I’m usually the first to arrive…

Actually, scrap that. Tardiness has become my middle name of late.

It isn’t my fault. Carbs are cheap, but they also demand weekly wardrobe tweaks.

Since laundry day isn’t until tomorrow, I’m down to the bare basics.

My blouse is barely holding together. Three buttons are all that stand between disaster and me.

My ample cleavage won’t survive a fourth loss.

After regulating my breathing, which I’m praying will reduce the likelihood of being arrested for public indecency, I close the Maps app and scroll through the Photos app.

Carlisle is a patchwork of identical buildings and picturesque coastlines, but if any of the business names match those I’ve passed three times this morning, perhaps sometime within the next century, I’ll escape the maze endeavoring to swallow me whole.

I find the image I’m seeking as a horn blasts in the distance. I hardly notice it. I glue my eyes to my phone’s screen, anxious to identify the name of the giant stone wall blocking my path.

I’m in such a hurry that I don’t register the smoothness of the curb compared to the unevenness of the footpath, nor do I hear the truck hurtling down the main road at a reckless speed.

My focus is fixed on the universally known hospital icon on the old-school map I snapped a picture of months ago, and relief surges through me when I realize it’s mere blocks away.

I’m oblivious to the danger roaring my way, but thankfully, not everyone’s brain is as sluggish as mine when denied a morning shot of espresso.

A rough, urgent hand snatches my arm and plucks me out of the path of danger with barely a second to spare. My phone slips from my hand, and before I can catch it, I’m flattened against the cool metal of a dark SUV.

The good Samaritan who saved me from a head-on collision with a truck shields me with his body as the speeding motorist thunders past us. Our near miss is so close that the air whistling from the undercarriage of the truck whips my hair back and rattles my core.

That was a close call.

Too close.

For several heart-thrashing seconds, only my pounding pulse and the fading echo of the truck’s horn fill the silence.

Even with imminent disaster gone, the stranger doesn’t release me from his protective cocoon.

I don’t mind. My skyrocketing heart rate is settling, but the spasms in the lower half of my body remain steadfast. They make me wonder if they stem from fear or if they’re associated with something I’ve not experienced in a long time.

I wipe the fear from my eyes with a handful of blinks before peering up at the man who saved my life. Though his body is still squashed against mine, since he stands a good foot taller than me, I encounter no issues drinking him in.

The sophisticated scent of his cologne matches the striking features of his face, and his messy dark hair is tousled in a way that suggests he runs his hands through it multiple times a day.

It’s early, but his chiseled jaw already displays the start of a five o’clock shadow, and his sable eyes are intense.

When I huff, shocked someone can start their day looking this fantastic, my minty breath fans his cheek.

Mistaking my sigh as a wordless request for space, he steps back, further highlighting his alluring package.

He’s not just attractive. He’s also tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a tailored black suit.

The collar of his crisp black business shirt is open.

His watch looks expensive but understated, and his shoes have been polished to a mirror shine.

His commanding presence draws a crowd, but his intense gaze remains fixed on me. I won’t lie. The interest his eyes hold as he travels them over my face and body makes me blush.

He’s suited for the boardroom of a multibillion-dollar company or behind the wheel of a luxury superyacht, not rescuing a flustered woman from a traffic accident.

He probably dates women who glide through life with perfect hair and effortless grace, so someone who is perpetually late and a gluttonous breath away from a wardrobe malfunction should be an unlikely candidate for his attention.

But I get a second glance—more than once.

He eyes me with the same interest I give him, and his mutually needy stare announces my near collision with a truck isn’t to blame for my spiking pulse.

That burden rests entirely on his shoulders.

We’re from different realms, but I hide my insecurities with strong eye contact. He must find my endeavor to keep the playing field even humorous. The corners of his plump lips lift into a confident smirk as his thumb brushes the vein thudding in my wrist.

If he’s trying to stabilize my blood pressure, he needs to take a step back—a giant step.

“Stai bene?” His accent is low and unmistakably Sicilian. He’s a native, probably born here. His accent is more authentic than the one I’ve tried to imitate so the locals wouldn’t categorize me as a tourist, despite that being the status of my visa.

Nodding, I swallow hard to loosen the lusty clutch curled around my throat. “I think so,” I reply in English, hopeful it will announce I am, at best, a novice in Italian.

As he inches back, allowing enough space for my lungs to fully expand, a refreshing breeze tickles my chest. I glance down, and my eyes bulge.

My blouse didn’t survive his pluck-and-rescue routine.

My fitted shirt-and-skirt combo was already struggling to contain my ample curves, and my near tumble made their efforts pointless.

Almost every curve I own is on full display.

Grimacing, I tug down the hem of my skirt with one hand and clutch my blouse together with the other. I’ve always worn double digits, and most days, I’m comfortable in my own skin, but tell me a girl who wouldn’t feel awkward standing next to the World’s Sexiest Man?

The stranger scrapes a hand across his bristled jaw, hiding his smile, when I fasten the only functioning button left on my blouse. It barely conceals the fleshy globes on my panting chest, but it’s better than nothing.

Even though he appears amused, his tone showcases concern when he asks, “Are you trying to die?”

“I didn’t see—”

“You didn’t look.” I steady my sways with the SUV’s door handle when he brings back the seriousness of the situation.

“You were about to walk straight under that truck.” He shakes his head and mutters something I don’t catch before he stoops down to collect my phone from the footpath.

“You should pay more attention. Carlisle traffic doesn’t stop for anyone. ”

“I’m lost,” I confess. “My car wouldn’t start, so I took the bus, three buses actually, because I have an important meeting I can’t miss.

The app must have gotten its town plans from the same place my ex got directions to my cl—” I stop when I realize how absurd I sound.

He is the epitome of wealth and sophistication, and I’m rambling like a homeless person at Venice Beach. “Thank you. You saved my life.”

His response is barely audible. “My mother always said variety is the spice of life.”

His change in pitch piques my curiosity. The shrill of an alarm, however, brings to mind the reason for my distraction. I don’t have time to dawdle—regretfully.

I extend my hand as if a handshake is sufficient payment for saving a life. “Valentina Raimondi.”

The stranger shakes my hand but doesn’t offer his name. Instead, he pries. “You’re not from here, are you, Valentina?”

I bristle, defensive. Though I wasn’t born and raised here, my mother is from Palermo, and my father is from this region. I am of Sicilian origin. My mother simply chose to raise me in the United States.

“I am,” I reply, my composure more collected than it was moments ago. “My mother grew up not far from here.”

He arches a brow, unfazed by the sarcasm in my voice. “And your father?”

After gritting my teeth, I steer clear of a topic I’ll happily avoid for decades. “I apologize, but I must go. I’m late.”

He glances at my cracked phone screen, knits his dark brows, then gestures to the SUV he had me pressed up against. “Hop in. You can’t walk to the hospital from here.”

Assuming he read my destination through my cracked screen, and not because he’s a deranged stalker, I don’t seek clarification on how he knows where I’m going. I pursue more precise directions. “The app says—”

“Your app is telling you to go through a wall. You need to go around it.” He opens the SUV’s front passenger door and then signals for me to enter.

Warning bells ring in my head, but the memory of the truck and the taste of fear still sharp in my mouth prompt me to nod. “All right.”

As I sink into the plush leather seat, the handsome stranger jogs to the driver’s door. With an animalistic grace that matches his commanding aura, he slides in, starts the engine, and pulls into oncoming traffic without waiting for an opening.

I’m shocked when the commuters he cuts off don’t honk. He dictates traffic as if his SUV has government plates, and in a matter of seconds, the icon I was seeking earlier presents on each street sign we pass.

With a confidence that comes with insider knowledge, he makes fast work of the heavy traffic.

He isn’t immune to the road rage most commuters face at one stage in their lives, though.

He curses a moped rider for cutting him off, then laughs when a group of teens chase his SUV down several streets, hopeful for a sneaky snap of him and the men in the convoy of SUVs tailing us.

Either a security team is following us, or the vehicles behind us are racing to the same location. They mimic the stranger’s hair-raising maneuvers turn for turn—even the illegal ones he does when traffic becomes too dense.

After rubbing a hand over my hair to smooth the frizz, I ask, “Are you famous?”

I can’t see his face, but I know he is smiling.

I can feel it in my bones. “Not exactly. Carlisle was once a small town. Everyone knew everyone.” The SUV’s tires squeak when he turns down the cobblestoned street I inputted into the Maps app over an hour ago.

“But now she’s a wild thing. If you don’t respect her, she’ll eat you alive. ”

My agreeing huff flaps a wayward dark lock from my face. “I’m slowly learning that.”

We fall into a companionable silence as the city awakens around us. Markets spill onto the streets, older men argue over chess in the local park, and children chase pigeons through the piazza. It represents a perfectly normal day, and I’m praying it stays that way.

After both an eternity and an instant, the still-unnamed man pulls up outside a gleaming glass building. “Here you go. Ospedale San Giorgio’s. The main entrance is—”

“Past the fountain,” we say in unison.

Relief and gratitude surge through me as I quickly gather my belongings. I’ve already taken up too much of his time, so I don’t want to waste more. “Thank you. I can’t bear to think about what could have happened if you hadn’t been at the right place at the right time.”

He shrugs off the admiration as another impish grin spreads across his face. “Just promise to pay attention next time and to not trust technology more than your head. If you can do that, we will be on our way to an equal scoreboard.”

Scoreboard?

Running out of time, I nod and then crank open my door. “No more apps for me. I promise.”

After straightening my barely held-together blouse, I slip into the rapidly warming sunlight. With my brain still on the fritz, I don’t remember to turn around and wave off the stranger until I’m halfway to the entrance.

I startle when I realize he’s already gone. His SUV has blended into the hustle of Carlisle’s traffic, leaving me with nothing but the tingles his touch inspired and the memory of his concern when he contemplated my mishap not being an accident.

I’d love to investigate his concern more thoroughly, but a far more pressing matter demands my utmost devotion.

I square my shoulders and dash through Ospedale San Giorgio’s double entrance doors. Although shaken, I’m committed to ensuring this morning’s brush with death is the only one I face today.