The Sicilian's Bought Cinderella

Her limited experience with men meant her instincts could not be relied on. Growing up in a small village in Kerry, there had been a shortage of boys to play with. Secondary school had not been much better on the boy front. By the time she’d started university she’d been desperate for a boyfriend but on her first day had overheard a group of boys ranking the girls on the size of their breasts, their ‘spreadability’ and their looks. It had been enough to make her vomit and, from that point on, she’d kept males at a distance, willing to be friends but not anything more. Some girls might have been happy to be marked out of ten on their prowess but she was not one of them.

It was in the summer term of her second year that Patrick had taken an interest her. Far from immediately trying to dive into her knickers, he’d made an effort to woo her. He’d brought her flowers. He’d asked for her help with an assignment—without a boyfriend to distract her, Aislin had soon distinguished herself as a swot—and it had filled her silly little head with pride that the most popular lad in her year was interested in her.

Weeks later, they’d started dating. Words of love and respect were exchanged, words she’d believed. Six months on, Orla had been driving in a heavy storm when an approaching car had lost control and smashed head-on into hers. Patrick, resenting Aislin’s devotion to her comatose sister and prematurely born nephew, had wasted no time in hooking up with Aislin’s housemate, a girl she had considered a good friend.

She hadn’t dated anyone since. In all honesty, even if she’d wanted to, which she didn’t, there hadn’t been the space in her life to date.

Dante was the first man to occupy her thoughts in three years and, compared to his playboy antics, Patrick was a rank amateur.

She didn’t know if it made it better or worse that Dante didn’t fancy her. It shouldn’t matter at all.

This deal was strictly business.

She couldn’t work him out. One minute he was haggling over the upfront payment, driving down her demands, the next transferring four times the amount they had settled on.

So far, she hadn’t dared tell Orla about the deal, fearful of building her hopes up. She didn’t think Dante would be able to stop the payment but he was a powerful man. Beneath the affable exterior lay a darkness. She had no idea what he was capable of.

It had been dark when she’d landed four days ago, too dark for her to appreciate Palermo’s astounding beauty, especially as she’d been trying to navigate unfamiliar streets in a rental car and driving on a different side of the road than she was used to.

She’d almost forgotten about that rental car. Thankfully, Dante had given the keys to one of his goons with instructions to take it back to the airport.

Driving in daylight through Palermo was like stepping into the medieval past. Were it not for the busy narrow streets filled with people in modern dress, she could believe she’d slipped into a time vortex.

Expecting to be tak

en to a secluded palatial home guarded with Rottweilers and more goons of the armed variety, she was momentarily taken aback when Dante’s driver pulled up in a street that was only a little wider than the luxurious vehicle they were in, stopping beside a long terrace of five-storey apartments. The street was clean and pretty, the exterior walls painted cream, iron balconies beneath all the upper windows with hanging baskets of flowers creating colour, a few scooters parked close to the walls.

Dante craned his neck to talk to her. ‘We are here.’

‘This is your home?’

She pressed her face against the window for a better look, certain he was having a laugh at her expense. This was an ordinary residential street. Dante was a billionaire. Shouldn’t his main home—during the course of her research she’d discovered he owned a heap of opulent city apartments across Europe—be flashier?

A young, skinny lad in a leather jacket that must have cost a fraction of the price Dante had paid for his suddenly appeared from nowhere and opened Dante’s door.

Dante unfolded his legs from the car, shook the boy’s hand with his right hand whilst slapping his shoulder with his left and chatted animatedly with him while the driver opened Aislin’s door and helped her out.

The boot of the car flipped open and the young lad broke away from the conversation to grab Aislin’s suitcase and carry it to the arched door at the end of the row, a nondescript piece of wood she would have trouble distinguishing from the others.

Amusement danced in Dante’s eyes as he indicated for Aislin to follow the boy inside.

She entered warily.

Was this all an elaborate hoax to punish her for breaking into his father’s cottage? Was he leading her along, only pretending to believe her about Orla and Finn?

As with the exterior of the building, the interior was nothing to write home about. Plain concrete stairs led to the top floor and was mercifully free of graffiti or any pungent smells.

Instead of climbing the stairs, Dante punched the lift button. With a loud ping, the door opened.

Aislin blinked.

The lift was thickly carpeted. A whole side was a mirror without a single smear. It was the kind of elevator one would expect to see in a posh hotel.

She didn’t feel any movement as they journeyed to the top floor. She followed Dante out into a small, square landing area with only one door. A grilled security partition had been drawn back from across it.

Before he could reach the door, the skinny teenager walked out of it.

Dante spoke briefly with Ciro, pressed some money in his hand then walked into the apartment as Ciro stepped into the lift.