Nicolo: The Powerful Sicilian

The simple answer was that it didn’t.

Nick had expected…what? At the very worst, a demand as to what his intentions were. He had no answer to that but the question would have been valid. A father had the right to ask such a thing. At the very least, he’d figured on a thinly veiled warning that he was to treat Alessia as she deserved or there would be consequences.

Wrong on both counts, Nick thought as the prince’s chauffeured limousine drove off.

The prince had greeted him with a handshake, Alessia with a cursory nod. He’d thanked Nick for the ten million euros that had been credited to his bank account, referring to it only obliquely, calling it “your investment.”

Then he’d commented on a variety of things.

The weather. “I hope it will remain dry and pleasant throughout your visit, Signore Orsini.”

The red Ferrari parked outside. “An excellent choice in automobiles, I must say. Though you must someday try a Lamborghini.”

The villa. “A magnificent place, Signore Orsini!”

Done with small talk, he’d glanced at his watch, said he had another engagement and that he hoped to see Nick again before he left for New York. Another handshake, and Antoninni had turned to the door.

Nick, who’d stood all through the visit with his arm possessively curved around Alessia’s waist, felt her stiffen.

“Father,” she said. “How is Mother?”

The prince didn’t bother looking back. “Your mother is fine,” h

e said coolly.

Then he was gone.

Nick had grown up in a home in which conversations often didn’t mean what they seemed to mean. Once they were alone, he turned Alessia toward him. The expression on her face damned near stopped his heart.

“Sweetheart? What is it?”

She shook her head.

“Tell me.” Nick put his hand under her chin, gently raised her face so her eyes met his. “What did you mean when you asked him about your mother? Is she ill?”

Alessia hesitated. Could she tell him the truth? That her mother had lived most of the last two decades in an institution? She never talked of it to anyone, not out of shame or embarrassment but because of the way people reacted. “Sweetheart?”

But this was not “anyone.” This was Nicolo, and she took a deep, deep breath.

“My mother is in a hospital. A—a place for those who are—who are mentally ill.”

Yes, this was Nicolo. Still, she prepared herself for what she thought of as the “oh, how awful” reaction, the elevated eyebrows of shock, the tsk-tsk of pity. It always made her feel not just helpless but angry.

It was the pity she could not stand.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he said softly. “That must be rough.”

Alessia looked at her lover. There was compassion in his face and in his words. Not pity. Not disgust. She felt her heart lift.

“You must miss her terribly.”

She nodded. “Sì. I do.”

Nicolo drew her close in his arms. “What can I do to make things better, sweetheart? Would you like to visit her? I’ll take you to wherever she is. If you let me, if she’s up to it, I’d like to meet her.”

That was the moment Alessia knew, without any doubt at all, that she had fallen in love, deeply in love, with the man whose arms enclosed her.

It was a two-hour drive to the sanitarium.