Brunetti's Secret Son

By the time he cancelled on Saturday, she knew, once again, she’d been foolish to hope. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to take off her wedding rings. Nor could she find the strength to tell Lucca that, no, Mummy and Daddy would never live together again.

Admitting to herself that she was burying her head in the sand didn’t stop her from doing exactly that. She helped out in the restaurant when she could, but even there she knew she wasn’t on her full game, so she kept her presence to a minimum.

And then Romeo stopped calling.

For the first two days, she didn’t have time to worry because she had her hands full controlling Lucca’s misery-fuelled tantrums.

By the third day she was debating whether to call him. She talked herself out of it for half a day before dialling his number. It went straight to voicemail. Leaving a garbled message guaranteed to make her sound like a lunatic, she sat back, her stomach churning.

When he hadn’t called by evening, she marched downstairs and strode across the road to where one of his guards was stationed.

‘Have you heard from your boss?’

The thickset man frowned. ‘My boss is across the road.’ He indicated another heavily muscled man wearing wraparound shades.

She sighed, exasperated. ‘I mean your boss’s boss. Mr Brunetti.’

‘Oh. Sorry, miss, I don’t have his number.’

‘It’s not miss, it’s Mrs...Brunetti.’ She waved her rings, unnecessarily, then cringed inside. ‘I need to speak to Mr Brunetti.’

The man snapped to attention, then quickly strode over to his boss. The hushed conversation ensued and Wraparound Shades approached.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Brunetti, but Mr Brunetti requested that his whereabouts not be disclosed.’

Panic flared through her belly. ‘Why?’

A shrug. ‘He didn’t say. I’m sorry.’

Maisie raced back upstairs, her heart crashing wildly against her ribs. She tried Emily’s number and got a message to say she was on sabbatical in Hawaii.

She spent the night pacing her living room, alternating between leaving a message and hitting Romeo’s video-call button. Both went unanswered.

By mid-morning she was frantic. And angry. And miserable. For herself and for her son. But mostly, she was angry with Romeo.

Yanking her front door open, she faced the head bodyguard, arms folded. ‘I’m about to buy a round-the-world plane ticket and drag my four-year-old to go and look for his missing father. I’m assuming your job includes accompanying us on trips abroad?’

He nodded warily.

‘Good, then consider this your heads-up. We’re leaving in an hour. I intend on starting in...oh, I don’t know...Outer Mongolia?’

His eyes widened.

‘Or perhaps you can save us all a wasted journey and tell me what country I should start in.’

The man swallowed, shifted from foot to foot. Maisie glared harder. ‘You should start in Italy.’

The relief she’d expected never materialised. If Romeo was in Italy, then... ‘Specifically in Palermo?’

Another wary nod.

She raced back to her flat and opened her laptop. The restaurant was closed today, and Bronagh had issued a standing babysitting assistance.

After debating whether to take Lucca with her, she decided against it, called Bronagh to tell her to pick up Lucca from nursery and booked a solo ticket.

Until she knew where Romeo was and the reason for his silence, she wasn’t risking taking their son to Palermo.

After flying in Romeo’s private jet, her cramped economy seat felt like torture. She emerged from the flight hot, sweaty and filled with even more panic when she realised she had no idea where to start looking for Romeo.

The last time she’d done this she hadn’t been in possession of a last name.

This time the last name was one that held such power and prestige that, in her state of dishevelled hair and worn jeans, she would probably achieve the same results as last time. Laughter and ridicule.

Hailing a taxi to a three-star hotel, she quickly texted Bronagh to say she’d arrived, then showered, changed into a blue cotton dress and clipped her hair at her nape. Smoothing on lip gloss, she froze for a second when she realised it was the same dress she’d worn the night she’d met Romeo.

Hand shaking, she capped the tube and grabbed her bag.

The weather was much hotter in July than it had been the last time she was here, and a sheen of sweat covered her arms by the time she made it to Giuseppe’s.

Heart thumping, she sat at a table and ordered a limoncello. Sipping the cool drink more for something to do than anything else, she tried to think through what she’d say to the only person who could give her answers as to Romeo’s whereabouts—Lorenzo Carmine.