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.
The drawers were ripped out, clothes on the floor and tossed over the unmade bed, the mattress sitting at an odd angle to show they had searched beneath it. Guinevere let out a choked noise, our joint hands moving to her mouth to cover the way it dropped open in shock.
Rage burned through me. I wanted to let go of her hand, banish her to the car, and tear into the policemen about what the fuck had happened. Demanding answers or bribing for them until I knew exactly who had been in my woman’s room.
But she was there by my side, leaning into it like she needed me to balance her, and I could do nothing but calm down enough to see to her needs before my own.
I released a careful breath through my teeth and went straight to Pucci.
“Ah, Signore Romano, we meet again so soon,” he greeted me jovially as I approached, gesturing with one hand for the forensic tech to leave.
“Non dirmi cazzate,” I warned. Cut the bullshit. “What happened here?”
His mouth turned down at the corners as if he was hurt by my tone, but he knew well enough not to play anymore. “Signora Verga called because she heard the crash of the door. The other tenant on this floor and the other two were out for the night, and Verga did not feel safe exploring the noise herself. By the time the first police arrived on scene, the invader was gone.” He ignored my growl of frustration but accepted a sealed plastic bag from a tech and handed it to me. “Do you recognize this?”
It was a small, carved wooden statue of a lion with wings, like the emblem for Venice. Only inside the mouth of this figurine was a wolf pup limp with death.
I looked up at Martina before handing it over, acid surging up my throat.
The man who had organized my assassination attempt had called himself San Marco, like the famous piazza in Venice, and now this. The symbol for Florence was a lion, too, but wingless, and my family had used the symbol of the wolf long before we’d come up north.
The threat was as clear as if they had left a severed head on her desk.
This unknown threat linked to the northeast was officially coming for us, and they would not stop until they owned what the Romanos had had for decades, the Camorra’s seat in the north.
Fortunately, Signora Verga had arrived, and Guinevere’s attention was captured by consoling the older woman, so I could speak without worrying if she would understand me.
“Is anything missing?” I asked.
“No, they left only destruction and this symbol.” Pucci stepped closer, voice lowering, his eyes on Guinevere over my shoulder. “You clearly know what it means.”
A muscle in my jaw popped as I ground my teeth.
“No, it feels like a child’s game,” I said finally, letting my posture loosen. “There is a group of teenage wannabe thugs that loiters out front. You should check in with them.”
“Yes, it could have been some initiation,” Martina added with a wolfish grin. “Kids these days.”
Pucci blinked blandly at us both before huffing, “I could help, if you were honest with me.”
I blinked blandly right back at him.
He sighed. “Listen, I don’t know if you’ve truly given up the ways of your father or if you’re much cleverer than people have given your playboy stereotype credit for, but whatever this is reeks of gang activity. You wouldn’t want your sweet young American girl getting hurt because of the mistakes of your father, would you?”
Martina’s subtle hand on my arm was the only thing grounding me. I breathed in through my nose and fixed my coldest smile between my cheeks.
“If you mean to worry me with mentions of my father, you are missing the mark, Pucci. When he died, I did not shed one tear. Everything about him was rotten through to the core, and if this is tied to him, I expect the police to do their job and discover that for themselves before they bring whoever did this to justice.”
“I don’t suppose you would tell me the truth if I asked if your . . . family still had any business interests in Livorno?”
“I do not know the specifics of the Romano Group. Not to mention, again, that we are here for a very specific reason about which you are not being helpful at all. Perhaps I should call the mayor—I was just with him an hour ago—and complain to him about the efficacy of the DIA?”
The ground between us seemed to shake with thunder, the air static with impending lightning. One strike and it would be over, but both of us held precariously still, unwilling to concede victory to the other.
“Does she know the truth?” Pucci asked softly, still trying to lure me into striking him so he would have a reason to cuff me.
“She knows the truth about me,” I said, and it felt honest because it was mostly true.
Guinevere might be missing huge chapters of my life’s work, but she understood the underlying principles and themes of my identity better than people closer to me who had known me my entire life. She could see the duality in me and accepted it. I just had to believe that she wouldn’t care how deep that darkness went if she ever had occasion to find out.
“This is a simple breaking and entering case.” Martina stepped forward to draw his attention, squeezing my arm in a silent gesture to take Guinevere out of there. “Why don’t we focus on that instead of a ghost story, hmm?”
I left the deputy chief in Martina’s capable hands and went to Guinevere, who was talking with a local officer and Signora Verga. Her expression was one of relief when I slid an arm around her waist and accepted her weight against my side.
She gestured limply at the cop. “Apparently, I can’t take any of my things yet because it’s a crime scene, but he said that nothing was taken.” She snorted. “Probably because I had nothing of value to take. Though some of the purses and shoes you bought me could have been sold secondhand for a decent amount of money.” I rubbed her frown away with my thumb. “Anyway, I gave my brief statement about being at the party, and they said they would contact me. Can we go home now?”
I fought a smile because it was inappropriate given the circumstances, but the sound of home in her mouth was almost as pretty as her moans in the Boboli Gardens.
Instead, I kissed her temple. “Certo, andiamo, cerbiatta.”
Before we cleared the door, I turned to look at Verga, whose small eyes were wet and red. It went against my usual character to offer aid, but British Raffa would not have thought twice about helping.
“Guinevere is breaking her lease. I will pay the rest of the month and have someone here on Monday to install a better security system for the foyer.”
Signora Verga gaped at me, but when Guinevere giggled softly, the sound stirred her enough that she waved her handkerchief at me in thanks before pressing it to her leaking eyes.
“That was very nice of you,” Guinevere murmured as she pressed more and more of her weight into me while we walked down the stairs and out to the car. “Sweet, some might say.”
“Quiet, you. You are obviously in shock,” I mocked, flicking her lightly on the nose before helping her into the car.
I thought she had fallen asleep on the way to my house when she suddenly murmured, “Just my luck, someone breaking into my place. Much more my speed than literally running into my Italian dream man.”
When I looked over at her at the next red light, she was asleep, mouth open and soft with sleep. I carried her inside when we arrived, hushing Renzo when he greeted us so that I could get her situated in my bedroom. She was limp as a doll and heavy while I took off her ruined dress and settled her under the covers.
I leaned over to kiss her forehead and murmured my truth into her ear so that it might affect her dreams. “I never expected to run into my dream American girl. Now that I have, I am not sure I will be able to let you go.”
