Nicolo: The Powerful Sicilian

“This way, please, signore,” he said, reaching for Nick’s bag.

“I’ll carry my own bag, thanks.”

A stupid, petty victory but a victory, nonetheless.

They climbed a long marble staircase to the second floor. The place was like a museum. High ceilings. Gilded cherubs. Paintings of shifty-eyed, long-faced ancestors peering from the walls.

Not a museum, Nick thought grimly. Museums had more warmth than this.

Joseph led him to a suite. Sitting room, bedroom, bathroom. Did the signore wish to have his bag unpacked? Nick said he didn’t. Did he want something to eat? Nick almost said he didn’t, strictly out of perversity, but then common sense took over and he said yes, a sandwich and some coffee would be fine.

Joseph bowed his way out. Nick closed the door, peeled off his suit jacket, his tie, undid a couple of buttons on his shirt, rolled up his sleeves and fell back on the bed, which was about half the size of a banquet hall. He folded his arms beneath his head and stared up at the ceiling, where it was vaguely possible a shepherd and shepherdess were about to do something they shouldn’t.

The villa was obviously very, very old. And very, very expensive. Was he supposed to be impressed? His triplex in New York was probably just as big and even if it wasn’t filled with antiques, even if it had been built within the last twenty or so years, it was probably equal the cost to this, given the price of Manhattan real estate.

Nick snorted.

What was the matter with him?

He didn’t give a damn about things like that.

He’d spent weekends at palatial estates in the Hamptons, others at one-room cabins in the Adirondacks, and he’d never thought of one as better than the other.

He sat up, unbuttoned his shirt, tossed it over the back of a chair and headed for the bathroom. What he needed was a long, hot shower, that sandwich and then a night’s sleep.

Wrong.

The shower felt great. The butler delivered a well-laden tray, not only a sandwich and coffee, but also a small salad, some cheese, fruit and crackers. The bed was comfortable. But at 2:00 a.m., Nick was still awake, standing outside on the small Juliet balcony despite the chill in the night air, staring out at a moonlit garden.

Something had awakened him….

There. A figure. A woman, wearing something long

and filmy, her hair a pale spill of gold down her back, walking slowly along one of the garden paths.

Alessia.

Nick didn’t think. He pulled on a pair of jeans. Shirtless, barefoot, he let himself out of his suite, went down the stairs, through the silent house to a back door and stepped out into the garden and the night. He reached her in seconds, cupped her shoulders and turned her toward him. She looked surprised but not afraid. If anything, she looked—she looked—

“Signore.”

“My name is Nick,” he said, his voice low.

God, she was beautiful. Exquisite. A fairy-tale princess come to life.

She hesitated. Say my name, he thought, as if it were a battle to be won. After a second’s hesitation, she took a deep breath.

“Nicolo. What are you doing out here?”

“I couldn’t sleep. Obviously, neither could you.”

“Sì. I—I keep thinking about what happened before. On the road.”

“Yeah. So do I.”

“È colpa mia,” she whispered. “It was my fault. I—I do not drive very well.”

Another time, he would have laughed. It was the understatement of the year.