Brunetti's Secret Son

Maisie wasn’t sure which was more unnerving—the harrowing account of his childhood or the cold, unfeeling way in which he recounted it. Either way, the stone-cold horror that had wedged in her stomach grew, until she was sure her insides were frozen with pain at imagining what he’d been through.

‘You said you only met your father twice,’ she murmured, unable to erase the bleak picture he drew in her mind, ‘but what about your mother?’

Lucca stirred in his sleep, and Romeo’s eyes shifted to his son before returning to hers. ‘My mother is a subject I don’t wish to discuss, especially on my wedding day.’ His smile mocked the significance of the day.

But Maisie couldn’t dismiss the subject as easily. ‘And child services? Surely there was some support you could’ve sought?’

He blinked, his nostrils flaring slightly before he shrugged. ‘The support is the same in Italy as it is in England. Some fall through the cracks. And if one tried hard enough to evade the clutches of a system that was inherently flawed, one could succeed.’

Despite catching his meaning, Maisie couldn’t fathom why he would choose to live on the streets. ‘How long did you sleep rough for?’ she asked, her heart bleeding at the thought.

His mouth compressed in a cruel line. ‘Two years until the authorities got fed up with hauling me away every other night. A do-gooder policewoman thought I would be better off in the foster system.’ He gave a harsh, self-deprecating laugh. ‘Unfortunately, she couldn’t have been more wrong. Because then it was really driven home that my kind wouldn’t be welcome in a normal, well-adjusted home.’

‘Your kind?’

‘The bastard children of violent criminals.’

Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, God!’

Romeo’s eyes once again flicked to his sleeping son and he shook his head. ‘Don’t worry, gattina. I got out the second I could. Now look at me.’ He spread his hands in mock preen. And although his voice was even, Maisie saw the shadows of dark memory that blanketed his eyes and hardened his mouth. ‘According to the media, I’m every woman’s dream and every parent’s ideal suitor for their wholesome daughter. Consider yourself lucky for bagging me.’ His teeth barred in a mirthless smile.

‘Romeo—’

He lunged close so quickly, filled every inch of her vision so spectacularly, her breath snagged in her chest. His fingers pressed against her mouth, forcibly rejecting any words she’d been about to utter. ‘No, gattina. Save your warm-hearted sympathy and soft words for our son,’ he rasped jaggedly. ‘You be there for him when he scrapes his knee and when the goblins frighten him at night. I require no sympathy. I learnt to do without it long before I could walk.’

He sat back and for a full minute remained frozen. Then his chest rose and fell in a single deep exhalation before he pressed a button next to his armrest. A laptop slid from a side compartment and flickered on. Strong fingers tapped the keys, flicking through pages of data with calm efficiency.

As if he hadn’t just torn open his chest and shown her the raw wounds scarring his heart.

* * *

Romeo tapped another random key, stared unseeing at the stream of words and numbers filling the screen.

What in the name of heaven had he been thinking?

Had he not sworn only last night to keep his past locked in the vault where it belonged? Through all the voracious media attention that had exploded in his life once his first resort had achieved platinum-star status, he’d kept his past safely under wraps. Besides Zaccheo Giordano, the only man he considered a friend, and his wife, Eva, no one else knew about the desperately traumatising childhood he’d suffered. Many had tried to dig, only to accept the illusion that his secret past made him alluringly mysterious, and left it at that. Romeo had been more than glad to leave things at that.

So why had he just spilled his guts to Maisie O’Connell? And not only spilled his guts, but ripped off the emotion-free bandage he’d bound his memories with in the process?

He tried to think through it rationally; to decipher just what it was about this woman who let all the volatile, raw emotions overrun him.

Their meeting hadn’t been accompanied by thunder and lightning. There’d been nothing remotely spectacular about it. To the contrary, he’d walked past her that night at the waterfront café in Palermo with every intention of continuing his solitary walk.

Lost in thoughts of bewildering grief and hoping the night air would clear his head, he’d walked for miles from the cemetery where Ariana Brunetti had found her last resting place. He’d barely taken in where he was headed, the need to put distance between the mother whose only interest had been for herself and how much she could get for selling her body, a visceral need.