The Sicilian's Bought Cinderella

He didn’t want to look at it.

He had to look at it.

The photo was a headshot of two people, a young woman and a toddler boy.

A violent swell clenched and retracted in his stomach.

Both subjects in the photo had thick, dark-brown hair, the exact shade of Dante’s.

The woman had green eyes the exact shade of Dante’s.

CHAPTER TWO

AISLIN TOOK IN the ashen hue Dante’s olive skin had turned and experienced a stab of sympathy to witness the penny drop in that arrogant head.

She placed the envelope on the table and grabbed the coffee he’d made for her, unable to understand why her hands shook. It felt as if her entire insides were shaking, tiny vibrations quivering through her bones and veins.

She told herself it was because of the situation, her body preparing itself for the biggest fight it had ever undertaken. It was nothing to do with Dante himself.

The value of this cottage and its land were peanuts for a man of Dante’s wealth but for her sister it meant the world. It would enable her to buy a home that Finn could live in with the freedom to be as normal a child as his condition allowed. That was all Orla wanted—a decent home in which to raise her son.

Aislin loved her nephew with her whole heart. Finn was her heart. For months she’d sat by his side as he’d lain in that awful incubator in the neonatal intensive care nursery, willing his tiny body to grow, for his lungs to work on their own; praying that one day he would be strong enough to go home...to survive.

The little fighter had survived, but not without complications. His entire life would be a fight and Aislin was prepared to do whatever necessary to make that fight more bearable.

Dante’s lawyer had blocked her sister’s every attempt for recognition. Aislin had flown to Sicily determined to confront Dante in person but, again, had been blocked. The security around him was too tight for her to get a foot through it. Breaking into this cottage had been the last desperate resort.

After a length of time had passed that seemed to be stretched by elastic, Dante finally looked up from the photo.

&n

bsp; Her heart made the strangest clenching motion when his green eyes locked onto hers. There was a hardness in his stare.

‘I have never heard of this woman. My father had many lovers. Many men and women have come forward since his death claiming to be his secret love-child. You give me a photograph and claim it is my sister...’

His thick Sicilian accent soaked into her skin as if her pores were breathing it in.

‘I am claiming nothing—she is your sister. You can see the resemblance.’

He gave a tutting sound that was pure Sicilian. ‘A convenient resemblance.’

‘There is nothing convenient about it!’ she retorted hotly, and would have added more had he not raised a palm up.

‘If she is my sister, why did she wait until after my father’s death to reveal herself?’

‘She didn’t need to reveal herself. Your father paid maintenance for her upbringing until she was eighteen.’

He sagged slightly at this revelation but it was the briefest of movements, his composure regained in a breath. ‘That is something I can discover the truth of for myself.’

‘It is the truth and, if you hadn’t stonewalled her every attempt to speak to you, you would have all the facts at your fingertips.’

‘My father acknowledged one child. Me. There was no talk of a secret sister, no death-bed confession.’

‘That’s not Orla’s fault.’

‘Would she still claim to be my sister if I were to tell you there is nothing left of his estate?’

‘That’s because you’ve sold it all off!’