Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Luca
V alentina Montella was a fucking knockout.
Dark glossy hair swirled past her shoulders, and her tits filled out the white silk blouse she wore. A long pencil skirt and heels showcased her long legs. She had a wide mouth with plush lips, and flawless features that needed little to no makeup. This was the kind of woman you both wanted to show off in public and never let leave your bed.
I hadn’t expected it. Based on what I remember of Flavio Segreto, I assumed his daughter would be . . . less attractive than this.
And the way she looked at me? Curious. Interested. Most women in my country knew enough to recognize a dangerous man, but Valentina was letting me serve her wine and get her alone. Ma dai, these Americans. No sense. If she were my woman, a man like me wouldn’t get within five meters of her.
Did I want to take her home tonight? Fuck, yes.
But for many reasons, I couldn’t. So I needed to stop fantasizing about all the ways I’d like to defile this beautiful girl.
“This is not why I stayed and made you dinner,” I said calmly.
“Oh.” She looked down and twirled another forkful of pasta.
“And you are too young for me,” I added. More for myself than for her, to be honest.
“Why, how old are you?”
“Too old.”
Thirty-eight, but a number meant nothing when it came to age. What mattered was life experience, and I’d lived a hundred years as Don Benetti. I was a murderer, a drug trafficker. The head of a criminal empire that stretched across Italia and Europe. The things I’ve done and seen would horrify most regular people. I didn’t want to answer to a wife, and I didn’t want to put anyone at risk. It was why I hadn’t married, why I wouldn’t marry.
“Yeah, I feel that way some days,” she said, wiping her mouth with the napkin. The haunted look in her eyes, the sadness in the set of her mouth? It pulled at something deep in my chest—exactly like when I watched her employees walk out on her earlier. I sensed this young woman was lost at sea, holding onto a very thin rope and trying to keep afloat.
I remembered often feeling that way when I took over the family after my father’s death. My brothers had been there to help, thank Christ. So, who was helping Valentina Montella?
After another sip of wine, I studied her. “A girl your age should be in school. At parties. Having fun.”
She snorted. “Sure. I’ll get right on that in all my spare time.”
This made me even angrier at her father. Even indirectly, Segreto could fix this. He could hire others to run this shit hole, allowing Val to live a life of her own. “You said your mother is sick.”
She reached for her wine and drank. Her voice was soft and tight with pain when she said, “She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer when I was sixteen.” She shrugged, a small lift of her shoulders. “She died two years later.”
“I am sorry, bella.”
And I was. My own mother had been my father’s puppet, always choosing him over her children. I learned from a young age not to count on her for anything, including love. But I knew many good mothers, including the women who gave birth to Gabriele and Leonardo. I hadn’t married either former mistress, but my boys experienced excellent childhoods, well loved by both parents.
“Thank you,” she said. “I still miss her a lot, but having the restaurant helps me feel connected to her.”
“And your father?”
The expression on her face shuttered. “He isn’t in the picture much.” She drained the wine in her glass. “He’s pretty much an absentee father. Just blows into town for a day or two, then leaves again for half a decade.” Reaching for the bottle, she almost knocked over a water glass. “Shit!”
We both reached out to steady the empty glass. I ended up wrapping my fingers around hers, and tingles singed my thighs. She kept her eyes on our hands, but I noticed her quick intake of breath.
We stayed like that, our hands touching, for a few seconds, like neither one of us wanted to move. Then she finally slid her fingers out from under mine and put her hands in her lap. I lifted my wine glass to my lips, suddenly wishing for something stronger than wine. I needed to get my head on straight.
The kitchen door swung open. “Val?”
A young man stood there, a ball cap on his head and a dirty apron around his waist. His gaze swept the room and landed on the table where I sat with Valentina. Then he looked at me, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Though I didn’t know him, I didn’t back down. I returned his stare evenly, calmly. Like I had the right to be here.
“John!” Val said, angling in her chair to see behind her. “How’s it going back there?”
“I just finished up. But maybe I should stay a little longer. Until you’re done eating.”
“Oh, I’m done.” She leaned back and held up her hands. “I can’t eat any more. ”
John came over to the table and began clearing our plates. “I’ll take these dishes back. Do you need a ride home?”
Val touched his arm—and my jaw clenched. Who was this man to her? Not a boyfriend, because there would not be a question as to how she got home. A boyfriend would take her home and fuck her all night long.
“You don’t have to do that,” she was saying. “I’ll clean this up.”
“It’s no bother,” he said, stacking dishes and silverware. “I don’t mind. I’ll wash these, then I can drive you home.”
The implication was clear—he didn’t trust me around her. While I could hardly blame him, I didn’t like it. I noted the tattoos marking his arms and neck, some crude, as if inked by hand. So, prison then. I wondered what he’d done to earn time behind bars. He didn’t strike me as a hardened criminal. Like me.
“John, is it?” I said, relaxing in my chair. “How long have you worked here?”
He didn’t immediately answer, so Val filled the silence by saying, “John, this is Luca DiMarco. Luca, this is John Natale. He’s been my dishwasher for the last year and a half.”
Natale. Italian descent, then. I would have my men run a check on him. “ Piacere , John Natale,” I murmured. Nice to meet you, motherfucker .
He nodded his head once, then took the stack of dishes in his hands into the kitchen. When we were alone again, Val said, “Did you need to intimidate him like that? He’s a good employee.”
“Intimidate? I was very friendly.”
“Friendly, sure. Look . . .” She blew out a long breath and leaned in slightly. Her fingers toyed with the stem of her wine glass as she stared at the table. “You here in Paesano, in my restaurant. Like, you’re Italian and it’s making me wonder . . . Are you here because of something to do with my father?”
She was smart, this girl. It was a good question—the right question—to ask.
The lies I’d prepared sat heavily on my tongue. I intended to make up a story to get her on a plane quickly, then turn her over to Palmieri. What happened next was not my problem. If she or Segreto died, so be it. I had my own problems. I needed to get Niccolò out of prison before he toppled my entire empire.
But this was before I saw her holding onto this place by her fingernails. Before I heard her stomach growl because she took care of everyone else before herself. Before I noted a weariness in her eyes that made me want to help in whatever way possible . . .
And she’d just confessed that Segreto shows up here every now and again. That meant he was close, keeping tabs on his daughter, as I’d suspected.
Maybe I could give Flavio Segreto directly to Palmieri without using Valentina.
I needed to consider this.
Meeting her gaze squarely, I lied. “No. I am here for business.”
“Oh, good,” she said softly, almost dreamily, then her cheeks warmed and she bit her lip in the most adorable way. “I mean, good that it’s not about my father. I really don’t know much about him and I don’t want to, either.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“I think I caught a glimpse of him at my mom’s funeral.” She dragged a polished fingernail over the white tablecloth. Her nails were a deep red, a color I happened to find very sexy. “But he didn’t speak to me.”
Because Segreto knew it was dangerous to be seen with her. But I would bet anything he’s close by, or at least keeping tabs on her.
Before I could comment, she asked, “Do you have family back in Italy? A wife? Kids?”
Was she fishing? “I have never been married, but I have two sons. They are sixteen and eighteen.”
Her brows lifted. “You weren’t in love with their mother?”
I almost laughed. Not because I thought loving a mistress was impossible, but because I didn’t believe myself capable of the emotion. I hadn’t experienced romantic love once since I started fucking at thirteen years old. And children outside of wedlock were common in the ’Ndrangheta. Every don I knew had at least one child from a woman who was not his wife. “Mothers, plural, and neither one was interested in marriage with me.”
“I find that hard to believe. Having kids is a lot of work.”
“Not when you have money. I gave both as much help as they needed and my sons had the best of everything.”
A flash of something—disappointment?—crossed her face, but it was too quick for me to decipher. “So you weren’t around.”
Ah. She was comparing me to her own father. “I helped raise them. Hardly a day has gone by since they were born when I haven’t seen both of them.” Leo and Gabriele were my heirs, my legacy. Benetti through and through. It was my responsibility to see them shaped properly for what their future would bring. There could be no weakness or hesitation when it came time to take over.
My mobile buzzed again in my pocket, but I ignored it. Probably my men outside checking in. I brought seven guards with me to Paesano, though my brothers had argued for more. I overruled them, thinking I wouldn’t be here long. Now that seemed foolish on my part.
Valentina propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her palm. Her lips curved into a smirk. “Are you telling me you changed diapers in your bespoke suit?”
“I hired a nanny to change diapers.”
“Of course you did.” She rolled her eyes heavenward.
“Gabriele vomited on me twice. Does this make you feel better?”
“It does, actually.”
I found myself smiling at her. “I make you dinner and this is how little you think of me, eh? Ma dai, signorina.”
She stared at me, her gaze slightly cloudy. I couldn’t tell if it was lust or the wine, but I hoped it was the drink. I was already trying to resist her. If she encouraged me, I was lost and fucking her was a bad idea. My dick had already caused enough trouble. She wasn’t much older than Leo, for fuck’s sake .
The kitchen door opened again, disrupting the moment, and we both looked away. I willed my cock to calm down as John approached with my suit coat dangling from one finger. Had he checked the pockets for clues about me? If so, I was pleased to disappoint him. I wasn’t as stupid as that.
I pushed back in my chair and rose to my full height. I had at least three inches on the dishwasher, which I wasn’t afraid to use to intimidate him. I held out my hand for the jacket and he passed it over. “Grazie, John.”
He ignored me. “You ready to go home, Val?”
“Yes, I think so.” She stood up out of her chair. “Let me turn off all the lights and lock up.”
“I will say good night, then,” I said, hanging my coat over my arm. Then I went around the table to Val. Bending, I kissed both of her cheeks, making sure to inhale her sweet perfume while I had the chance. “A pleasure, signorina.”
“Thank you for dinner, Luca. I can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me like this.”
A shame. This beautiful creature deserved to be pampered and taken care of.
Before I could make promises I had no business making, I said simply, “Prego, bella.” And I forced myself to walk out the front door.