Chapter Sixteen Raffa
Chapter Sixteen
Raffa
We collected ourselves as best we could, using my silk pocket square to clean up her smeared lipstick and beneath her skirts, but there was no doubt we would leave the party immediately.
The idea of being inside a crowd with her now seemed abrasive, the bond between us too open and raw to handle scrutiny or company.
My mistake came when Guinevere excused herself to the bathroom as we moved through the courtyard and I did not accompany her.
I was caught up in conversation with one of Florence’s most well-renowned historians, excited about the prospect of her return so I could introduce them because I knew how much she thirsted for Italian antiquity, when I heard the choked-off cry.
I knew it was her immediately, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, my heart in my throat.
My head snapped up from where I had bent it to speak with the older man, and I surveyed the crowded courtyard, searching for the woodland creature in the dewdrop dress.
I found Stefania instead by the bar, lip pulled back over her teeth.
“ Scusi ,” I said to the gentleman and cut through the bodies between us like a knife through butter.
The last people divided in front of me, revealing Stefania towering over Guinevere with an empty wineglass and an ugly sneer.
While Guinevere, my beautiful fawn in her dream dress, was covered neck to waist in red wine.
Anger possessed me like a demon, immediate, irrevocable.
“Stefania,” I growled, stalking forward to put myself between them. “What the hell do you think you are doing?”
“This slut,” she spat in Italian, “claims she is your woman.”
“That is right. She is,” I said, the words cold enough to stick to my tongue.
Stefania glowered at Guinevere over my shoulder, but I snapped my fingers to draw her attention back to me. “Eyes on me. It seems I am the one you have a problem with, so you should have taken it up with me . It is ugly of you to be so childish.”
She flushed beneath her tan, and if Guinevere was right and Stefania was a beauty, I could not see it now, and I doubted I would again.
“She is too young for you,” she leered. “A child.”
“I’m twenty-three,” Guinevere stepped in to say with haughty disdain, and I was so proud of her gumption I almost kissed her right then and there.
“We have an understanding,” Stefania had the audacity to begin.
I snarled, stepping forward into her space to glare down into her eyes.
“Listen to me well, because this will be the last time I speak with you. We have no understanding. You had a wish that would never come true. I felt sorry for you before, but not now. Do not contact me again, Stefania, or you will not like the man you receive.”
“I don’t like him now,” she snapped, then leaned in close to hiss in my ear. “You forget who my father is. You need my family’s support.”
I did.
Capo Burette was in charge of our two largest factories in Lombardy and had enough wealth and influence to sway the rest of the outfit if he was angry enough to turn against me.
It would be prudent to make nice with her, forgive and forget and kiss her curved ass so that she would go home to Papa and tell him how good a man I was.
But I would not.
Not only because Burette was enough of a man to make his choices without his manipulative, bratty daughter’s influence but also because she had brutally embarrassed Guinevere in front of all these guests.
And that was unforgiveable.
“I do not need anyone,” I promised, turning my head to speak directly into her ear, watching the way she shivered at our closeness. “I am Raffaele Romano, Il Gentiluomo di Toscana, and you would do very, very well to remember who you are speaking to before I become any angrier.”
I leaned back to show her the hellfire in my gaze and then turned sharply on my heel to go to Guinevere. She was standing with her hands fisted at her sides, chin tipped pugnaciously, eyes narrowed at Stefania.
I bent my knees to be closer to eye level to examine her expression, my hands gentle on her shoulders. “Are you okay?”
She sucked in a deep breath before looking me in the eye. Something wicked lit in that brown gaze, and a moment later she was lifting a hand to pull me in for an open-mouthed kiss.
It was not long or overly erotic, but it delivered her point well.
She was mine and I was hers.
I grinned down at her, wildly enjoying the show of possessiveness and aggression. “Should we go home?”
She took my offered arm, head held high, and followed me out of the hushed courtyard.
It was only when we were safely ensconced in the car again and pulling away from the valet station that she sighed wearily and slumped in her seat.
“I much preferred when it was you pouring wine all over me,” she mumbled.
I couldn’t help but laugh, even though fury still tingled in my fingertips. “Me too. I am sorry that happened. It was not quite the night I had envisioned.”
“Maybe not. But I would take countless glasses of wine to the chest if it meant even one more orgasm like the kind you’ve given me.”
I laughed again, reaching over for her hand because I could not sit there without touching her. “I do not think you will have to pay that price again, thankfully.”
“I just want a long shower and to crawl into bed with you.” She hesitated, sliding me a look. “Er, assuming I’ll be sleeping with you and not in my old bedroom.”
“You assume correctly.”
She hid her smile behind her hand, but I could see it in her profile all the same.
My phone rang, Ludo’s name flashing across the car system display. I pressed Answer and said, “ Pronto? ”
“Raffa, the police are at Guinevere’s apartment,” he said in Italian.
Guinevere gasped, so I did not need to translate.
I sped past the turnoff for my place and headed across the Arno toward Fortezza da Basso.
“Why?”
“Someone called and reported a possible break-in twenty minutes ago. The pigs are there now looking everything over.”
My mind whirred.
I did not believe in coincidences. What was the likelihood that I would show up at the function with Guinevere and hours later someone had broken into her apartment?
“Find out what happened exactly ,” I ordered. “We are on our way now.”
“Martina is two minutes out. She will meet you there.”
I cursed after hanging up, my thoughts so preoccupied I almost snarled when Guinevere reached out to touch my arm.
“I really can’t afford to lose all my possessions twice in one trip,” she tried to joke, the concern on her face for me when she had been the one broken into. “Are you okay?”
I grabbed her hand, brought it to my mouth, and kissed the center of her palm before curling my fingers around it. Touching her grounded me like a lightning rod.
“No, I do not like the idea of a strange man in your space.” I could barely say the words without my teeth grinding. “I do not like that it seems they waited for you to be gone, which means they were probably watching the apartment.”
“Oh my God.”
“I am not saying that to scare you, only to explain why I feel like breaking something.”
“That is so creepy,” she murmured, gaze going vacant out the window as she thought about it. “I will definitely have problems sleeping after this.”
“You will not be doing it under that roof,” I declared. “ Assolutamente no. ”
Absolutely not.
“Raffa,” she started, but I raised our joined hands to my mouth and gently bit her finger to stop her.
“No. On this, you must agree with me, Guinevere. You cannot expect me to sleep knowing my worst nightmares have come true and someone has broken into that apartment. I am too far away to make it to you if something happened. Please,” I said, even though I had not begged anyone for anything since well before my father died.
“Come stay with me for the rest of your time here. Even without this danger, I would want you under my roof.”
She was silent for long enough that I dragged my gaze from the road to see she was chewing her lower lip.
“I don’t want to be a burden,” she said finally.
My laugh was a short, sharp exclamation. “Guinevere, I dream of you nightly. It will not be a hardship to wake up and realize reality is far better than the dream.”
We drove onto her street to see blue police cars blocking the entrance to the apartment. I pulled up behind one and got out, ignoring the way one cop yelled that I could not park there.
“Take this,” I said, yanking off my jacket to help Guinevere into it. If she held it closed over her breasts, it would hide the worst of the wine stain.
“Thank you,” she said, surprising me by taking my hand as we moved forward.
I should have let go, but I did not want to.
Martina was waiting by the front door with a strained look on her face. If Guinevere was shocked to see her in a designer suit and high heels when she had only seen her in workout gear, she didn’t blink an eye.
This Martina was my lawyer, the future consigliere of the northern Camorra.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Deputy Chief of the DIA Sansone Pucci is upstairs with the police,” she explained. “He arrived just after me, still in his party clothes.”
“ Merda ,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. “Okay, thank you for the heads-up.”
She nodded, then turned to Guinevere. “How are you faring?”
“I’ve had an eventful day, and all I want to do is sleep,” she admitted.
Martina’s gaze dipped to the blazer and the stained dress beneath. “I bet. Okay, let’s get this sorted so we can all go home.”
We followed her up the stairs past a few police officers and a noticeably distressed Signora Verga, who started weeping again when Guinevere lifted a hand at her in greeting.
The door to the apartment was smashed at the handle, huge splinters of wood in the door and the frame like bared teeth. Guinevere’s hand tightened in mine, so I tugged her closer.
Inside, the apartment had been ransacked.
Absolutely nothing was left unturned.