Italian Boss, Ruthless Revenge

‘You said you had another job practically lined up,’ Lazzaro pointed out. ‘You specifically said—’

Caitlyn put down her drink and stood up—she didn’t need this sort of inquisition now, didn’t want to go over that awful day again. And she was also angry—angry at the accusing way he always looked at her, the accusing way he so often looked at her.

‘Oh, I lied,’ Caitlyn flared, ‘and you were bloody grateful at the time, if I remember rightly. Grateful that you didn’t have to explain to your precious sister the type of man she was married to—grateful that you could put another Band-Aid over a raw subject rather than deal with it!’

‘I never asked for you to lie! I told you I wanted the truth.’

‘Perhaps!’ People were looking at them now, heads turning in their direction—the Italians were not exactly known for their discretion—but Caitlyn couldn’t have cared less. ‘But please don’t sit there and try to tell me you weren’t just a little bit relieved when you didn’t have to face up to it, didn’t have to actually deal with it—just like you don’t want to deal with your br—’ Her mouth snapped closed, her voice abruptly halting as if a plug had suddenly been pulled.

‘Go on.’ His voice was like ice. ‘Finish what you were going to say.’

‘I—I don’t want to…’ Caitlyn stammered, horrified at what she had just said, horrified at where this argument had led. But Lazzaro wasn’t letting her leave it there.

‘What is it I don’t want to deal with?’

‘Lazzaro, don’t.’

‘Clearly you have an opinion on me,’ Lazzaro continued, utterly ignoring her words. ‘And I’d like to hear it!’

There was no chance of even pretending this evening was going to conclude politely—no chance of making small talk when the big talk was hanging in the air. ‘I should go…’

She stood up. Hand shaking, Caitlyn reached for her bag—but Lazzaro caught her wrist. ‘Why would you leave when the conversation is just starting to get interesting?’

‘I’m going to bed.’ She pulled back her hand, and he let her go, but even as she turned, even as her shaking legs tried to walk her out of the ballroom, she knew that he was behind her.

Momentarily she lost direction—the Mancini lobby was unfamiliar—but, locating the lifts, she clipped towards them, knowing it wasn’t over. Without looking over her shoulder, Caitlyn closed her eyes as he stepped in the lift beside her, but her eyelids couldn’t dim the burn of his eyes on her. Her body was drenched in his anger—her mind trapped in the maze of a row that hadn’t yet happened but, thanks to her careless words, it would seem now had to.

He walked her to her door uninvited, leant against the wall without a word as it took her three goes to get the blasted swipe card to work, and even as she stepped in, even as she went to close the door, she knew she hadn’t seen the last of him.

‘What?’ His face twisted into a smile that was completely false as his foot jammed the door. ‘Aren’t you even going to ask me in for coffee?’

And she nodded—because it wasn’t him she feared, but what she had unleashed in the terrible, public moment she’d so poorly chosen to discuss his private agony. Or maybe it had been the right moment, Caitlyn reflected as she stepped back enough to let him in. Because he hadn’t silenced her, or halted her…hadn’t run from the issue—in fact, he’d followed her here to face it.

The room had been prepared—the bed turned back, chocolates placed on her pillows—and she stood there trembling.

‘You were saying?’

‘Your brother.’ Finally she concluded what she had to say—the plug back in, the power back on. And the light was a relief after the darkness they had plunged into. It had been a necessary darkness, though, Caitlyn realised—the panic, the fumbling, the searching, all needed to bring them to this point, where finally she could look at him as she said the word that no one was really allowed to. ‘Luca.’

‘I deal with Luca’s death every day.’ Lazzaro attempted a dismissal.