Chapter 6
Allie
When Mario said we were landing in the fashion capital of the world, I thought he meant it figuratively, like the country or vicinity, not the fucking city.
Milan.
It was everything I’d imagined, and nothing like I’d dreamed. Except maybe in nightmares. We’d left in darkness and landed in darkness. It threw me off completely. An entire day crossed over and measured in fever checks and lies.
The skyline zipped by in smears of neon and incandescent lights as a bruiser of a man named Loppa drove us to a charming period building within walking distance of the town center and tucked into a residential neighborhood so palatial, it might as well have armed gates at the end of each block.
As I helped Mario from the car, Loppa snatched him away without a word.
The excuse we gave the flight crew for Mario’s imbalance was that he was drunk.
The two bottles of wine I’d snagged from the custom wine cabinet at the front of the plane were the supposed culprit for his inability to walk without assistance.
In reality, his fever was so high, I was afraid he’d fall down the stairs without someone to hold him upright.
We hadn’t drank a drop of the expensive liquid.
And I kept up the facade of “happy wife.” Although, deep inside I fumed at every delay, question, or judgmental inspection.
When we finally exited a severely slow elevator, I directed Loppa to deposit Mario on the deep blue, artistic sofa directly inside. “Where is this Zio Tommaso?” I asked.
A distinguished man stepped into the lit room. His hair was completely gray, but he carried himself with such poise and authority, I immediately changed my tone. “Hello, are you Zi—”
He held up a hand. In rapid-fire Italian he addressed Mario.
My…husband replied in weary tones. His face was pale despite his natural coloring. I sat down beside him to hold his hand, and potentially catch him should he fall over. That became more likely as the questions wore on.
Loppa discreetly studied the terrace and the city skyline while Mario drooped further.
Finally, Mario said something in English that I understood. “This is Allie, my wife.”
The bastard interrogating him said something crude, or at least his tone inferred it. I studied Mario’s expression to gauge whether I should be insulted or not.
There was a big wall of nothing there. It was so emotionless, it held a power of its very own. He closed his eyes briefly as the man wound down his tirade. “Allie, this is my father. You spoke with him on the phone.”
Ah, yes, the asshole.
I wouldn’t shake his hand, that’s for sure. “Did you call a doctor?”
Something flickered across his face, but like his son, he had his emotions locked down tight. He directed Loppa to do something. The man disappeared, then returned with a stooped little man carrying a black bag.
When he opened that bag, I’d ascertained this was “Zio Tommaso.” But Loppa called him by his honorific, Dottor.
He began his examination of Mario and I hovered with more than a professional curiosity. Maybe my new husband’s paranoia had rubbed off onto me, but I scrutinized the doctor’s actions.
When he injected Mario with something, I almost snatched it out of his hand. Instead, I counted to three before picking up the vial and reading the label. Thank goodness for all the Latin I’d taken in my post-graduate study.
It was an antibiotic. One that was extremely effective in surgical settings. He brought out a bottle of pills and directed both Mario and me on the dosage over the next five days. Then he handed Mario two pills while I inspected the label.
It was a fairly potent pain medicine.
Then he applied a topical so he could irrigate the wound and remove a bit of fabric from the deepest section. I acted as the surgical nurse for the worst of it.
His stitches were much more precise than mine would have been. The wound, despite the swelling, was much less life-threatening now. I breathed a small sigh of relief.
“He’ll live.” The doctor declared. Mostly to me because he spoke in English. To the others, there was a longer explanation, but effectively the same diagnosis.
I thanked the man with a nod before Mario’s father led him away.
Mario still leaned on the cushions, not bothering to button his shirt, or do much more than breathe. I checked his forehead for any break in the fever. There was none. But his color was better.
“Is there a place to rest?” I wasn’t sure Loppa knew English or not, but asked anyway.
But the reply came from Mario’s father who’d returned a little too quickly. “You will sleep in the maid’s quarters. Mario will take the—”
“We’re sleeping together,” Mario declared to his father. He placed a possessive hand high on my thigh.
I covered it with my own because I was too invested in his well-being to just walk away.
His father glanced down at the ring on my finger. It lingered, sifting through the significance of it with meticulous animosity. Cold eyes met mine. “How long have you known my son?”
I wasn’t going to lie, nor was I going to tell the truth. “Long enough to know he won’t be safe here if I left him.”
Loppa snorted, outing himself. He did understand me despite the way he’d silently ignored me since the airport.
The answer wasn’t met with as much amusement on his father’s part. “You are an American.” He scrunched his nose as if he were trying to block out something rancid.
That didn’t deserve a reply, because…duh.
He left us with a curt, “I’ll take my leave,” instead of saying “good night.”
Loppa suggested something.
“I wish he’d speak English,” I muttered. My brief exposure through an online app would not cut it in this country.
Mario translated. “He said I’d rest easier at the villa.
And I would, but it is too far to travel tonight.
” He directed his next sentence to Loppa.
“And that’s the first place he’d look for me.
This”—Mario motioned with his hand to encompass the posh penthouse suite—“would be the very last place he’d want to find me at. ”
“Bastardo,” Loppa muttered.
I knew that word. “Who’s the bastard? The guy who stabbed you?”
Mario closed his eyes, the pain or exhaustion making it difficult for him to answer me while looking at me directly. “My best friend, Ringo.”
I blinked.
In my mind’s eye, I saw the man who’d ran up to me after Mario stole my ride share.
And he’d seen me and Ellie. I saw you two at the casino.
Come to think of it, I might have noticed Ringo with Mario when I rushed into the lobby to find my sister.
They’d seemed chummy enough at the time.
And I hadn’t given it much thought, but somewhere in my brain, I put the pieces of the scene together along with the blood on my hand.
He was even at the ceremony and followed us out as we fled.
Luckily, he hadn't caught us. “Why would your best friend do that?”
“Twelve million American dollars,” Loppa stated plainly.
“Seven,” Mario whispered.
“No, it is twelve now. You are an expensive trophy.” He was having too much fun correcting Mario. And while this was way beyond my safe zone, it didn’t surprise me one bit. I’d had more than enough time to fret on the organized crime angle of it all while watching Mario attempt to sleep.
He knew exactly who my grandfather was.
Before we got married.
And did it anyway. Who was the bastard here? Because only Loppa showed any kind of honor.
I should have stuck to my plan to fly with Ellie. I could have walked away then with the limo driver as witness. Normally, I would have. It would have been the smart thing to do. Unless…
Was Mario the kind of man who’d have someone killed if they deviated from his plans?
His father sure was. That polished veneer was too calculating for comfort. “What does your father do?”
Mario opened an eye to figure out my subject change. “He is the head of the trade organization.”
“That’s a thing?” Maybe if I paid more attention to my grandfather’s profession when he was alive, I’d know that.
“Sì.” Mario was fading a little too quickly.
Loppa corrected my assumptions. “Don Valentini is Italy’s trade minister.”
It took me a moment to put it together. “He’s a politician?” On the evil authority figure scale, they had to be the worst.
“It’s not obvious?” Mario gritted through his teeth as he shifted upright.
The dental veneers should have tipped me off.
Or the cold, almost sterile, white on white marble of his home.
I took the moment to scan the room. Two foot wide white marble columns braced the arching white ceiling.
The moonlight-pale marble under my feet stretched from wall to wall.
Sure, there were splashes of bright color, like the sofa.
But it was all strategically placed and entirely devoid of emotion.
A showplace for entertaining and impressing, but not a home.
Even Grandfather hadn’t been that cold. “Bastardo.”
Mario snorted. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
“Or what? He’ll have me deported, arrested?” Stalked? I shuddered.
“He could,” Loppa supplied helpfully.
Mario sighed and slumped off-kilter to favor his side. “Then I’d go with her.” The weariness and painkillers were doing him in.
“Your grandfather would be angry if you left too quickly. He’ll want to meet this woman you call your wife.”
Mario lifted his head to study Loppa. “When I am feeling better, maybe tomorrow, we’ll go there. Not even the master of assassins would be stupid enough to kill me on Don Manca’s soil.”
Loppa didn’t reply. And notably, he didn’t smile at the idea of traveling somewhere else.
A thought struck me as we sat in silence. “This friend of yours, he’s not the master of assassins, is he?” Was there such a thing?
Mario was slow to answer. “He’d like to think so. But even he isn’t that good.” He motioned to Loppa to help him stand.
Did that imply there was a master of assassins?
Loppa held Mario as he climbed the stairs to our room. In the crystal clear starlight, the city looked beautiful, but also sinister. I paced while Loppa helped my husband get comfortable as he succumbed to the pain medicine. I have a husband.
“Signora?”
Loppa’s soft question got my attention. “Yes?”
He glanced at the bed. “I noticed blood doesn’t bother you. Correct?”
I nodded. Not blood, or much else. I’d seen so much worse on patients who couldn’t even voice their fear or describe the pain they were in.
His hulking form joined me as I stared out at the rooftops and skyline in front of me. “That’s good.”
“This friend of his, he’s not really an assassin, is he?”
Loppa glanced at Mario’s sleeping form. He measured his words very carefully. “His friend is a nothing.”
That was more cryptic than a flat-out denial.
I studied him. “Are you an assassin?”
“No.”
“Interesting.”
Loppa stepped backward suddenly aware of me as more than he’d estimated. “What is interesting?”
I smiled, trying to soften my words for his sake. “You quickly denied my question about you, but didn’t deny the other question. Why is that?”
His eyes picked up the light from outside. Just a glint of reflection, then gone as his brows lowered. “Some people shouldn’t be discussed casually.”
Kind of like my grandfather.
An accountant, my ass. Or maybe, that was really who he was. But as one, he knew all of his clients’ dirty little secrets. And they were the type of person who shouldn’t be discussed casually.
Which was why I hadn’t touched that money.
Worry ate at me over my inheritance. What if there was someone out there who wanted that money?
And what if that someone was ruthless enough to take it by whatever means necessary?
Or what if they took it through duplicitous means, like marrying me?
A chill tickled the edges of my back. I hugged myself to rub it away.
Maybe Ellie had the right idea. Spend it as soon as it hit the bank. That way it was gone, and then no one would get any funny ideas about taking it.
Then again, if someone took it from me, I’d no longer have it hanging over my head like a proverbial sword.
Somehow, that was comforting. Mario could have the money if that was his motive for marrying me.
Then again, I almost coerced him into it.
Did he resent me for that? I didn’t mean to trick him.
Was it only a day ago that we’d bumped into each other? In total hours it was less than a day, but nearly two by dateline and time zones. The math escaped me in the moment. I stared at a smiling moon so similar to the one I’d seen shining over the Las Vegas skyline right after getting married.
And I still hadn’t called my mother to tell her it wasn’t a real wedding. Ugh.
“I need to be in Venice tomorrow,” I told Loppa.
“You won’t be in Venice.” He sat in a chair that he’d shoved against the door.
I promised Ellie I’d be there. I told him as much.
“You won’t be in Venice,” he repeated. Then he tacked on, “You’ll be right here because he needs you.” His head tipped toward Mario.
Loppa might be strong, but he was also too damn smart. He’d already found my weakness and exploited it.
Bastardo.