Nicolo: The Powerful Sicilian. Sandra Marton

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      And that had turned out to be the key to everything.

      She’d been in his bed by the end of the first day. And he’d wanted to keep her there. Before he knew it, they’d set a pattern. He flew to Seattle one weekend, she flew to New York the next. She said she missed him terribly when they weren’t together; he admitted he felt the same way.

      He had been falling in love, and he knew it.

      A month into their affair, he decided he had to tell her about his father. He’d never done that before. A woman either knew his old man was a crook or she didn’t. Who gave a damn? But this was different. This was—he’d avoided even thinking the word in the past—a relationship.

      So, one night, lying in her bed, he told her.

      “My father is Cesare Orsini.” When she didn’t react, he told her the rest. That Cesare was the head of a notorious famiglia. That he was a gangster.

      “Oh,” she purred, “I already knew that, Nicky.” A sexy smile. “Actually, it’s a turn-on.”

      A muscle knotted in his jaw.

      The revelation should have set off warning bells. But the part of his anatomy with which he’d been thinking didn’t have the luxury of possessing bells, warning or otherwise.

      A long holiday weekend was coming. He’d asked her to spend it with him. She said she couldn’t. Her grandmother, who lived in Oregon, was ill. She’d always been Grandma’s favorite; Saturday morning, she’d fly out to spend the weekend with her, just the two of them, alone. She smiled. And she’d tell Grandma about the wonderful man she’d met.

      Nick said he understood. It was a sweet thing to do.

      And then, Friday night, he thought, what if he went with her? He could meet Grandma. Tell her how important her granddaughter had become to him.

      He decided to make it a surprise.

      He took the Orsini jet to Seattle, rented a car, drove to his lady’s town house, took the key she’d given him and slipped quietly inside.

      What came next had been like a punch in the gut.

      His lady was in bed with her boss, the bank’s CEO, laughing as she assured him that Nicolo Orsini was absolutely, positively going to make an offer for the bank that far exceeded its worth.

      “An Orsini and you, babe,” the man had said. “It’s a classic. The princess and the stable boy…”

      The delicate champagne flute shattered in Nick’s hand.

       “Merda!”

      Champagne spilled on the jacket of his tux; a tiny drop of crimson oozed from a small cut on his hand. Nick yanked a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed at his tux, at his finger…

      “Hey, man,” an amused male voice said, “the champagne’s not that bad.”

      It was Rafe, coming toward him with a bottle of Heineken in each hand. Nick groaned with pleasure and reached for one.

      “You’re a miracle worker,” he said. “Where’d this come from?”

      “Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.” Rafe frowned, jerked his head at Nick’s hand. “You okay?”

      “Fine. See? The bleeding’s stopped already.”

      “What happened?”

      Nick shrugged. “I didn’t know my own strength,” he said with a lazy smile. “No problem. I’ll get something and sweep it up.”

      “Trust me, Nick. One of the catering staff is bound to come out of the woodwork before you can—” A woman appeared, broom and dustpan in hand. “See? What did I tell you?”

      Nick nodded his thanks, waited until the woman was gone, then touched his bottle to his brother’s.

      “To small miracles,” he said, “like brothers with bottles of beer at just the right moment.”

      “I figured it would do away with that long face you were wearing.”

      “Me? A long face? I guess I was—ah, I was thinking about that Swiss deal.”

      “Forget business,” Dante said, as he joined them. He, too, had a bottle of beer in his hand. “It’s a party, remember?” He grinned as he leaned closer. “Gaby says that little caterer’s assistant has been eyeing you all afternoon.”

      “Well, of course she has,” Nick said, because he knew it was expected.

      His brothers laughed. They talked for a few minutes and then it was time to say goodbye to the bride and groom.

      Finally, he could get out of here.

      He went through the whole routine—kisses, hugs, promises to his mother that he’d come to dinner as soon as he could. His father wasn’t around. Perfect, he thought as he made his way down the long hall to the front door. He never had anything to say to Cesare beyond a perfunctory “hello” or “goodbye,” and if the old man got hold of him today, it might take more than that because—

      “Nicolo.”

      Hell. Think of the devil and he was sure to turn up.

      “Leaving so soon, mio figlio?” Cesare, dressed not in Brioni today but in an Armani tux, flashed a smile.

      “Yes,” Nick said coldly.

      Cesare chuckled. “So direct. A man after my own heart.”

      “You don’t have a heart, Father.”

      “And you are quick. I like that, too.”

      “I’m sure I should be flattered but you’ll forgive me if I’m not. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

      “Have you forgotten you were to meet with me the day of Dante’s wedding?”

      Forgotten? Hardly. Cesare had cornered Falco and him; Nick had cooled his heels while Falco and the old man were closeted in his study and after a few minutes Nick had thought, What am I doing, waiting here like an obedient servant?

      Besides, he’d known what his father wanted to tell him. Safe combinations. Vault locations. The names of lawyers, of accountants, everything the don felt his sons had to know in case of his death, when truth was none of them would ever touch the spoils of what the media called the Orsini famiglia.

      “Five minutes,” Nick said brusquely. “Just so long as you know in advance, Father, that whatever speech you’ve prepared, I’m not interested.”

      Freddo, Cesare’s capo, stepped out of the shadows as father and son approached the don’s study. Cesare waved the coldeyed hoodlum aside, followed Nick into the room and shut the door.

      “Perhaps, Nicolo, I will be able to change your mind.”

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