The Sicilian Surrender. Sandra Marton

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      Tough, street smart, hiding his fear behind a mask of arrogance, he couldn’t have been easy for them to handle. His grandmother fed him and clothed him and otherwise washed her hands of him. His grandfather tolerated him, disciplined him and finally loved him with all his heart.

      Perhaps his grandfather’s advanced years, coupled with Stefano having come to know him so late in the old man’s life, explained why he didn’t have what Jack called “the Mafia thing” in his blood. His grandfather never told him tales of bloodshed and revenge. He told him, instead, of La Sicilia, of Castello Lucchesi, of the cliffs and the volcano and the sea.

      Those were the things that beat in Stefano’s blood, the things he cherished without ever having seen them.

      It was only on his deathbed that the old man motioned him close, whispered of honor and pride and famiglia, of how he’d had to abandon everything and come to America to save what he could: Stefano’s father and, by extension, Stefano.

      “I will get it all back,” Stefano had vowed.

      It took time. Years to work his way through college, though by his senior year, he was impatient. During summer internships, he’d learned to hate the falseness of the corporate life that had been his goal, to despise the “old boy” network that was already working to deny him entry, the handshake that often accompanied the knife in the back.

      His college roommate felt the same way. TJ was into computers. In those days, billionaires were made overnight in Internet start-up companies. TJ was going to be one of those billionaires. He had a great idea, he had the skill, the vision…

      All he needed was the money.

      One winter day, his hard-earned next semester’s tuition in hand, Stefano climbed into his ancient VW, headed toward Yale—and kept on going north, to a casino where he bought into a game of high-stakes poker. It was the first unplanned thing he’d ever done since the day he’d promised his grandfather to win back the Lucchesi honor, but he didn’t let himself think about that.

      He told himself he deserved a day off. He was a good poker player; he played for fun in school. In fact, he’d won his old VW at a poker table at a middle of the night game in his college dorm, when another guy thought he’d been bluffing with a flush showing on the table.

      That day at the casino, Stefano won more than a VW.

      He won thousands of dollars.

      The casino gave him a free room. He staggered to it, showered, slept, ate and returned to the table. Three days later, he drove back to school, dumped a small fortune on his surprised roommate’s bed and watched TJ stare at the bills in disbelief.

      “Whadja do, man, rob a bank?”

      “There’s your start-up investment,” Stefano said. “I want fifty-one percent control.”

      A muscle jerked in Stefano’s jaw. Fast-forward a dozen years.

      The start-up had made him wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. Now, even though his money was invested in aerospace companies, in Texas oil, in luxury condos in Manhattan, he’d never forgotten the pledge he’d made his grandfather.

      Two years ago, he’d set out to fulfill it, but it had taken the conversation with his attorney to remind him that there were places and people where ancient vendettas still made the blood hot with rage.

      The hot sirocco wind beat at Stefano’s back, whipping his dark hair around his lean face. He pushed the strands back and again tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

      “Double our initial offer,” he’d instructed his attorney.

      “That’s far too much money. The land isn’t worth—”

      “No, but their pride is. Make the offer, and make it clear that I have my pride to consider, too. Tell them I’m making them an offer they can’t refuse.”

      Jack had met the statement with a long silence. At last, he’d cleared his throat.

      “You watched those movies, huh?”

      Stefano had laughed. “Just make the offer and get back to me.”

      Now it was done. All this—the land, the cliffs, what remained of the castello and the view that stretched on forever—was his. So was the house he’d built, just beyond the ruins. He’d had the architect blend it into the rugged scenery and use stones from the original castle. The result was a handsome home, high-ceilinged, with walls of glass that looked over the volcano and the sea.

      Stefano smiled. His grandfather, he was certain, would have been pleased.

      Tonight, just after moonrise, he’d come out here again with a bottle of moscato and a glass. He’d pour the wine, lift the glass to the sea and toast the spirit of all those who’d come and gone before him.

      And he would try to keep this place invisible to the rest of the world.

      If the tabloids got word, they’d have a field day with what he’d done. It would put a sexy spin on the gossip that already swirled around him. He was building an empire, they said. He was a man of mystery. He was uno lupo solo. A lone wolf.

      They were right about that, at least. Lucchesi Enterprises had made Stefano a public figure. Because of it, he cherished seclusion in his day-to-day life.

      He’d followed his usual practice in building his new house, hiring only those who agreed to sign contracts that contained confidentiality clauses, making it clear his lawyers would be merciless in enforcing those clauses. Word would get out eventually, he knew, but this would give him some breathing room.

      A little while ago, a helicopter had buzzed overhead. There was nothing unusual in that; helicopters were part of the twenty-first century. Still, he’d looked up, wondering if somehow the paparazzi had already caught up with him.

      “Stef-an-oh.”

      Stefano caught his breath. Was it the wind? The sound of that voice, calling his name. No. It had to be the wind.

      “Stef-annn-oh. Yoo-hoo. Don’t you hear me?”

      He blinked. The wind couldn’t put words into sentences, couldn’t paint the slender figure of a woman looking up at him from the foot of the hill, one hand scooping back her blond hair, the other cupping her mouth.

      Carla? His heart thudded. It couldn’t be. She was in New York. He’d left her there one morning last week, tears trailing down her perfectly made-up face, stopping when she realized he meant every word, her voice rising to a shriek as she told him what she thought of him.

      The trouble had started when she burst into his apartment without warning and found him sitting at the dining room table, drinking coffee and looking at photos of the island: the windswept cliffs, the old ruins and the new house.

      “Omygod,” she’d said breathlessly, “darling, what is this?”

      There’d been no sense in saying he didn’t know. The architect had put together a handsome final portfolio, and each photo was neatly labeled.

      Castello Lucchesi, Sicily.

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