Prologue
ROCCO PUSHED THROUGH the door of a bar tucked in the back streets of Milan.
This wasn’t some popular tourist trap. Whilst the bar catered to everyone, it was only inhabited by true locals with no sign that behind a chipped midnight blue door lay the thrumming, gritty world he relished.
The microcosm of life here—rich, poor, artist, philistine, extrovert, introvert.
It was a place he could be more himself than anywhere else.
Whilst Milan was a large city, a few people still raised their hands in recognition as he entered, because he was one of its truest regulars.
The Silvestri family had lived and worked in the Lombardy region for centuries; they were part of the historical fabric of the place.
Woodworkers—though what Rocco and his family did eclipsed their humble beginnings.
Now their furniture company was a global empire.
Exclusive pieces sought out by royalty and the wealthy, coveted or copied by everyone else.
Yet at its heart, Rocco simply loved the wood.
The smooth softness under his palms like a woman’s skin.
The way it burnished with age and touch.
The smell when sawn, of cinnamon and hot bitter almonds.
How he could bend it to his will some days, when it gave up its secrets. How it humbled him on others.
‘Woodwork is what kept us poor, our business makes us rich.’
His father disdained Rocco’s call to carve, to shape something out of nothing. He’d be pleased how Silvestri Furniture had overtaken Rocco’s life. Almost everything now was about the business.
The company might feed his body, but sculpting fed his soul.
Rocco’s soul was why he was here. To meet with a friend from the one circle he kept outside of his work.
It was a group of artists and artisans he considered compatriots, who he was sometime patron to, and who were preparing installations of guerilla street art for an upcoming biennale.
Gatecrashing the celebrations, not in person, but with their bodies of work.
Left to be found—confiscated by authorities or taken by the public, it didn’t matter.
All that mattered was that the artworks were seen and spoken about.
The creators themselves remained anonymous. Gli Invisibili.
The Invisibles.
Rocco’s heart thumped with a rush of blood he’d not had in a long time.
No-one knew who the elusive group of individuals were, who routinely struck leaving street art about various cities in Italy.
Making statements. Political, societal. Each contributor’s nickname or pen name of sorts, chosen by others in the group.
His, Medici, because he was a patron to many.
He relished the rebelliousness when so much of his life had been about conforming to doing what he should: maintaining the family name.
Business, business, business, as his father would have said.
When would there be a time for him to live?
Sure, he had money to buy whatever he wished.
People coveted what he had. Yet it was as if his chest was being crushed; he breathed through it, his senses assailed by the scent of intoxicating, real life swirling round him.
The rich fruit of wine, the sweet hint of perfume and the woodsy notes of cologne.
All overlaying sweat and cigarette smoke clinging to clothing.
The rhythm of conversation punctuated by laughter.
Here was a place he might lose himself. Forget who he was supposed to be and remember who he really was …
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Rocco pulled it out, the screen bright and shocking in the muted light. He opened the message from his friend, the one he was meant to meet tonight, saying something had come up and he couldn’t make it.
Probably a woman.
His friend was always searching for his elusive muse.
The one who would fire his creativity. Rocco didn’t have a muse.
Didn’t believe in them. His creativity was his own, which he guarded selfishly.
Why be reliant on another for something as ephemeral and precious as that?
Let the man run on a fool’s errand. The belief there was ‘one’ for anything led to heartache.
Rocco slammed the door on that thought. Now his night was his own. Open to possibility …
Although most of his life of late was disappointingly absent of much ‘possibility’ at all.
Rocco’s shoulders dropped. Instead of enjoying the nightlife, he should be working on the most recent task assigned to him by his family.
Purchasing one of the major suppliers of fine fabrics for their company’s furniture, Tessitore Textiles.
The job now Rocco’s, because his father had made little headway.
The old man claimed success of the project to be vital because their nemesis and business rival allegedly wanted Tessitore too.
His father should have passed on that information months ago, instead of demanding Rocco perform instant miracles.
There were no miracles to be had. Only hard work, over time, to finesse an inevitable deal.
Rocco rubbed at an increasing stiffness in his neck.
That was tomorrow’s problem. Tonight he craved something to make him forget the weight of obligation pressing heavy on his shoulders, like Atlas holding up the world.
Perhaps he could take a hint from his friend’s current activities?
Find someone to warm his bed. Take pleasure in a soft body, find his muse.
Rocco snorted. A muse suggested longevity of a relationship.
Now he only did casual. He moved to the bar, deciding on a drink first whilst scanning the space for someone who might catch his eye.
If there was no-one here he had other options on his phone, and the night was still young.
Rocco ordered a red wine. A few patrons moved to leave the increasingly crowded space and his gaze drifted across the crowd, searching …
His eyes locked on the figure of a man hunched at the bar—checking his phone, taking a hefty swig of his drink. An ember of irritation burst to life in his guts.
Rompicazzo.
Leonardo Zanetti. The nemesis he’d only been thinking of, though Rocco would go so far as to name what the man really was.
An enemy. It seemed like the universe had conjured him as a joke.
They never intentionally crossed each other’s paths, Rocco having staked his claim on this place years ago.
Zanetti’s presence here was a declaration of war.
A shot across the bow when the Silvestri and Zanetti enmity was renowned—although the origins of that mutual disdain were a mystery to most.
Rocco should walk away, but he was no coward.
Zanetti was looking for a fight, and Rocco wouldn’t run from it.
Plus, he might be able to gauge Zanetti’s intentions regarding Tessitore because the man liked to gloat.
It was one reason Rocco believed the truth of this loathing between them was envy.
The Silvestris had what Zanetti never could.
A history, a legacy. Leonardo was simply a pretty boy from the streets made good.
Rocco turned and took a few short steps into whatever confrontation might come.
‘You look like a man who’s lost something valuable.
Or someone,’ he said over the animated chatter around them.
Rumour suggested that Zanetti’s freshly minted marriage to his exceptional executive assistant might be on the rocks, and Rocco had offered her a job more than once.
Perhaps that’s why Zanetti was here, to see if Rocco had made an offer that had finally been successful?
Sadly he hadn’t, as that would have been the ultimate coup.
Zanetti’s fingers blanched on the glass, gripping it so hard Rocco almost expected it to crack. The man took another swig of his drink. Winced.
‘Leave now, Silvestri.’ Zanetti’s voice was a vicious hiss, punctuated when he slammed the glass on the counter.
A fire lit sharp and hot in Rocco’s gut. Him leave? Never. Zanetti was the intruder here. Rocco reached out and picked up the discarded glass. Sniffed. Wrinkled his nose in disdain. Unaged grappa.
‘Cheap booze. You might pretend to have left the streets, but you never actually have.’
Zanetti turned on his seat and stood slowly.
Perhaps a little unsteadily. Rocco clenched his fists.
Nothing had ever become physical between them, however that wasn’t for want of hatred from either side.
It had mostly been tossing darts at each other from a distance.
Tonight, it seemed Zanetti wanted up close and personal.
‘This boy from the streets has just bested you.’
Never. Zanetti would always come second.
‘Bested me? You wish.’
The man in question sneered. ‘I have a deal with Tessitore.’
A surge of adrenaline scoured through Rocco’s veins.
Impossible. His father would have told him just how close Zanetti was, if true.
Whilst the Tessitore family were looking to sell, they hadn’t seemed enthused about the prospect, their reluctance palpable.
It was why Rocco believed he had time. Now this?
He frowned. No. It was simply another Zanetti ploy to goad him.
‘You’re speaking rubbish.’
Yet something niggled in the back of his mind. His father’s sense of urgency. Were things far more serious than the old man had let on? This could be a problem …
‘You wish,’ Zanetti echoed. ‘I now have an exclusive partnership with them. As long as that exists, your furniture will never use another metre of Tessitore fabric in any design.’
Che cazzo. They had more than a mere problem. Why hadn’t his father brought him in earlier? Bile rose to Rocco’s throat, although he would never let on to this man that he cared in any way at all.
‘I see you’re trying to bring them down to your level rather than elevate them,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Since you seem to be making new acquisitions, maybe I’ll make some of my own.’