When Falcone's World Stops Turning (Blood Brothers 1)

They were walking down a familiar corridor now, and Sam’s heart thumped hard when she recognised Rafaele’s bedroom door to the left. Thankfully they stopped at another door, just opposite.

‘This is your room. Milo is in an adjoining one.’

Sam walked into the room indicated by Rafaele. The housekeeper disappeared. Milo wriggled to be free and she put him down so he could explore. The room was sumptuous without being over the top. Understated luxury. Lots of discreet flower designs and soft greys. Sam heard a squeal of excitement from Milo and followed him into his room.

It was a small boy’s paradise. His bed was made in the shape of a car. The walls were bright. Books and toys covered almost every available surface. Sam looked at Rafaele helplessly as Milo found a toy train set.

He grabbed it up and went to Sam, ‘Is this mine, Mummy?’

Sam shot Rafaele a censorious look. She bent down. ‘Yes, it is, sweetie. But this is Rafaele’s house. You’ll have to leave it behind when we go home.’

Milo looked perturbed and turned to Rafaele. ‘Will you mind it for me when we go home?’

Rafaele sounded gruff. ‘Of course, piccolino.’

Milo’s lip quivered. Sam could see that it was all too much.

‘But...but what if another little boy comes and wants to play with it?’

Rafaele bent down and looked Milo in the eye. ‘That won’t happen. You are the only little boy who is allowed to play here, I promise.’

Instantly reassured, Milo spun away to start playing again.

Sam hissed at Rafaele. ‘This is too much for him. You can’t buy his affection, Rafaele.’

Rafaele stood up and took Sam’s arm, leading her out of earshot. ‘Damn you, Sam, I’m not trying to buy him... I want to spoil him—is that so bad?’

Sam looked into Rafaele’s eyes and felt herself drowning. She knew instinctively that Rafaele had done this out of the generous good of his heart, not out of any manipulative desire. He might do that with her, but all along he’d been ultra-careful to take her lead on how to deal with Milo.

She crossed her arms and felt like a heel. She looked down. ‘I’m sorry...that wasn’t entirely fair.’

Rafaele tipped her chin up. ‘No, it wasn’t.’

All Rafaele could see were those swi

rling grey depths, sucking him down and down to a place he didn’t want to investigate. Like Milo feeling overwhelmed, he suddenly felt the same. Letting go of Sam’s chin, he stepped back. He needed space. Now.

‘I’ll have Luisa bring you up some refreshments. You and Milo should settle in and rest. We’ll eat at seven.’

When he reached his study on the ground floor he closed the door and took a deep breath. He headed straight for his drinks cabinet and poured himself a shot of whisky, downing it in one. To his chagrin it wasn’t even Milo and the fact that he had his son in this house that seemed to be featuring prominently in his head. It was Sam. Having Sam back here. Reminding him of the heated insanity he’d felt around her before. Of how badly he’d needed her, how insatiably.

How sweet she’d been—so innocent. So bright. So unlike any other woman he’d known, seducing him effortlessly into a tangled web of need from which he’d only extricated himself with great effort. And he had been relieved to do so, no matter what the dull ache he’d felt for four years might have told him.

The ache had disappeared as soon as he’d decided that he’d contact her in England. He’d told himself that it would be different, that he wouldn’t still desire her. That he would be able to demonstrate how he’d moved on... But even at the first sound of her voice on the end of the phone his body had convulsed with need...

And then...Milo.

Rafaele felt pain lance his hand and looked down stupidly to see that he’d crushed the delicate glass. Cursing himself, he got a tissue and told himself he was being ridiculous. Seeing Sam here again, with his father too, in this palazzo...it was something he’d never expected to have to deal with. That was all.

* * *

The following morning when Sam woke up she was disorientated for a few long seconds, until the opulent surroundings and softer-than-soft bed registered. She sat up in a panic.

Milo.

Quickly she got out of bed and went to the open adjoining door. Milo’s bed was tossed, his pyjamas were on the ground and he was nowhere to be seen.

Bridie must have taken him for breakfast. The previous evening had seen them all seated for dinner—Milo sitting on big books on a chair to elevate him, insisting on feeding himself like a big boy, wanting to impress his new grandpapa, who had looked on approvingly.