The Commanding Italian's Challenge

Alberto Triento’s fawning over his newest employee proved there would be no help from that source.

As to what had nearly happened at his breakfast table... That unbridled heat...that hunger he’d never experienced before... That continued insistent tingling in his very being...

Her fingers had been on his face, on that scar no other human had dared to touch, the scar that served as a daily reminder of what he’d done...

Maceo shoved a hand through his hair and resisted the supremely uncharacteristic urge to fidget. Which was laughable. Except laughing was the very last thing he felt like doing.

No, what he found himself reverting back to, with uncanny and alarming frequency, was wondering what she would have tasted like had he succumbed to that fevered urge and kissed her...

He sat down, resisting the urge to rise again.

He was Maceo Fiorenti. He didn’t fidget and he didn’t pace. The vow he’d taken in that hospital bed to deny himself of everything he’d robbed his parents of had held true for the last decade. So why was he being tested now?

I’m not sure what your game is, Carlotta. She’s insolent, ungrateful and far too colourful to be taken seriously. Not to mention nosy to the point of rudeness.

Then why are you here?

Maceo heard her amused voice so distinctly he wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find Carlotta right beside him on this marble bench set before the family mausoleum, with her signature bright smile and that perfectly plucked eyebrow arched in sweet mockery.

The fresh flowers he’d instructed to be delivered gave off their sweet scent even while reminding him that the scent of cherry blossom was sweeter to him these days. Ever since he’d caught a certain woman’s scent and been unable to divorce himself from it.

That scent had filled every corner of his being at his breakfast table, when he’d almost lost his mind. Almost, but not quite. He’d stepped back from the brink of that insanity.

Shame, Carlotta’s distinctive voice mused.

Maceo glared harder at the memorial in front of him. ‘I should finish this now,’ he said aloud. ‘Today. Hand over the inheritance and the letter and be done with it, no?’

Silence greeted his question. He grimaced, knowing he wouldn’t take the easy route. He’d made a vow to the woman who’d put her own grief on hold in order to help him secure his legacy. Without his word, what was he?

The reminder he carried with him everywhere burned against his breastbone. With not quite steady hands he reached into his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper, despite the fact that every line was seared in his memory.

It was a replica of the framed one he’d discovered amongst his parents’ belongings and now kept in his bedside drawer. A joint lifelong ‘to do’ list, scribbled on a cheap restaurant napkin, back when his parents had been engaged. Maceo ran his gaze down the list, his chest tightening at the last abrupt tick. The vice intensified as he forced himself to read through every item his parents hadn’t been around to tick off.

Because of him.

He’d deprived them of it. It was only right he stuck to his vow of deprivation.

Returning the note to his pocket, he stared at Carlotta’s plaque.

‘She’s prying where she shouldn’t be,’ he said aloud.

Then do something about it.

The words seeped into his bones with a simplicity that stunned him. Rather than keep his distance, he needed to keep a closer eye on Faye. He might despise secrets, but allowing her to pry, to risk airing his family’s dirty laundry wasn’t an option.

He brushed his fingers over Carlotta’s name, his stomach churning with guilt and shame as he flicked his gaze over his parents’ memorial.

You should be here. Or I with you.

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; He bunched his fists, fighting the ever-present battle not to be drawn into that dark hole. He had a duty to perform. And when it was over...when nothing stood between him and the chasm...what then?

He veered away from the question and his monumental guilt and headed for his Alfa Romeo, parked behind him in the private cemetery.

* * *

‘What do you mean, she’s gone clubbing?’