Friends Who Fake It (Italian Rivals #8)
Prologue
F RANCESCO CRACKED HIS KNUCKLES, leaning back at his desk, as he pondered the news he’d just received: that the rival Valentino tender had been officially selected over theirs, for the prestigious Moricosian precinct development.
It was hardly a surprise, given King Ares’ intimate ties with the Santoro family. Getting engaged to Sofia all but ruled them out of consideration, and yet there’d still been a chance. A small chance, but one he’d put some stock in, if only for the sake of his cousin, Salvatore. He knew what this meant to him. How much time he’d poured into the project, how much he’d wanted to pull it off. Salvatore was a brilliant man, but he was not Dante – the group CEO – nor Marco, a bonafide genius. Though Salvatore had his own gifts and talents, Francesco knew that he had grown up in the shadows, in some ways, of his two brothers. This loss—and to the Valentinos, of all people—would undoubtedly be hitting him hard.
Francesco, ensconced in his study, stared out at Hyde Park. The trees which were in summer a vibrant green were now, in the death throes of winter, just spindly branches set against a leaden sky. In the distance, the buildings of Mayfair stood like sentinels, as familiar to Francesco as the hills surrounding his aunt and uncle’s villa were.
His phone buzzed and he fished it out of his pocket, mentally waging a bet on which of his brothers or cousins would be calling to discuss this development. Dante, as group CEO, might need to discuss it with some urgency. They’d always shared a special bond, even through Dante’s most difficult years, when he was grieving the loss of his wife. Or it may be Rocco, Francesco’s older brother, or possibly Raf, his younger brother. Though that was highly unlikely—Raf had gone to ground since his marriage to Marcia. He’d barely been seen, or heard from, since they’d left for a new life in New York. He found himself hoping it would be Raf calling. Francesco missed him, and couldn’t help worrying, even when he’d just gotten married.
But when Francesco turned the device over, a name showed on screen he didn’t expect.
Willow Von Bates.
He frowned, trying to remember the last time he’d seen Willow? Over the summer, he thought, at a party on a yacht, thrown by a rapper. Yes, she’d been there, though it had been clear to Francesco that—unlike him—she wasn’t particularly enjoying the sunshine, splashing of the waves against the hull, and the attitude of relaxed, alcohol-fuelled wildness that had pulsed and throbbed through the guests. They’d had a brief conversation—he’d asked about her work. No, it had been at the wedding, he remembered. She’d been there, though he hadn’t spent much time with her. On that occasion, she’d been ensconced in a group of three or four socialites Marcia had invited.
Francesco swiped his phone to answer, his voice deep and gruff. “Willow?”
“Francesco, hi.” Her response was breathy. Urgent. Something panged in his gut, as he thought of all the years they’d known each other—and what she’d done for him, when he’d needed help most. “Are you home?”
His brow furrowed. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, good,” she rushed. “Can I come up?”
Usually very quick to process information, Francesco found it took him a few moments to connect the dots. “You’re here?”
“Yes, downstairs. But this place has way too much security,” she pointed out with a hint of impatience that made him smile. Willow had been raised in the lap of luxury and from time to time, her inner-princess became a little outer.
In any event, the security was hardly surprising, given even the entry level apartments in this highrise sold for over a hundred million pounds.
“I’ll text you an access code,” he said, curiosity usurping any other feelings. “Give me a moment.”
He disconnected the call before she could respond.