The Commanding Italian's Challenge

CHAPTER ONE

FLY WITH THE ANGELS, mio dolce.

Maceo Fiorenti brushed a kiss over the petals of the single long-stemmed white rose, one of the specially cultivated ones imported from Holland that his wife—his late wife—had adored.

Carlotta had indulged in that extravagance, despite his gardener vowing he could recreate the genus right here in their Napoli home. She’d smilingly refused, insisting there was something special in having the flowers flown in twice weekly.

Of course Maceo had indulged her little whim. In their nine years of marriage he could count on the fingers of one hand the occasions when he’d said no to Carlotta Caprio-Fiorenti.

Those occasions had been triggered by her misguided attempts to make him into someone other than the man he saw in the mirror every day. A futile exercise to try to sway him from the path his actions had dictated for him. From a future that should rightly exact just penance for his actions. On those occasions, while it had pained him to see her heartache, he hadn’t been swayed. How could he, when he didn’t deserve a single breath he took, much less any semblance of happiness?

His lips twisted.

It was almost as if in those moments Carlotta had forgotten everything that had happened.

Had forgotten who he was. What he’d done.

Maceo Fiorenti—heir to a legacy he’d had no choice but to safeguard. Cursed with a destiny he couldn’t walk away from because doing so would be the ultimate betrayal. He hadn’t taken joy in showing Carlotta a glimpse of the demons that drove him. He’d simply reminded her that he’d been the cause of her ultimate heartache. He’d taken away the famiglia she’d held so dear.

There would be time enough to mourn this latest death—and its attendant layers of bitterness, shame and guilt—when he was far away from here.

For now, he had a legacy to protect. And as the sole remaining vanguard protect it he would, even if it took his last breath.

So what if in his darkest moments he questioned just why he was hanging on?

Because your conscience won’t let you stop.

Casa di Fiorenti wasn’t just his birthright. It was what his parents and his godfather, Luigi, had lived for. Died for. He owed it to them to keep their legacy alive. Even if he was dead inside. Even if he was haunted with the certainty that he would never enjoy a moment of happiness.

He allowed the tips of his fingers to brush one corner of the pristine white-and-gold coffin in one last, lingering caress.

Let go.

Jaw gritted, he released the flower. The heaviness in his heart grew but he pushed it down. He’d refused to acknowledge that this day was coming, that within months of her cancer diagnosis he’d have to face a future of truly being alone. Now he had no choice.

Maceo locked his knees against the ridiculous but serious threat of them giving way.

‘Show no weakness.’

They were the words she’d spoken to him a little over a decade ago, when guilt had threatened to eat him alive, to rob him of the strength to rise from the ashes of his life. Words he’d absorbed, branded into his skin until they’d fused to his soul.

A deep breath and the moment of weakness rightly retreated.

He was Maceo Fiorenti. And, as much as it had been trifling sport for him and Carlotta to give the paparazzi fodder to gleefully splash gossip within the sordid pages of their tabloids for most of their married life, today wasn’t a day for courting notoriety.

Carlotta was six feet under, reunited—as had been her final wish—with Luigi, her first husband, and Maceo’s own parents. But for a twist of fate—ironically of his own making—Maceo, too, would be entombed in this family crypt alongside his family.

But he was very much alive. Despite the odds.

‘A miracle,’ the papers had branded his return to the land of the living twelve years ago. Some had even called him lucky.

If only they knew the demons that haunted him. If only they had a taste of the guilt and regret that weighed him down.

Minutes passed as he stared down at the coffin. Minutes during which he felt eyes boring into his very skin. Board members. Acquaintances. Strangers. Sizing him up. Attempting to seek out his weaknesses.

They could try all they liked.

* * *

Half an hour later, once the cardinale had said his final blessing, Maceo turned his back on his family’s final resting place and, ignoring everyone present, made his way across the sun-baked graveyard to his waiting car.

His driver sprang to attention, murmuring words of condolence Maceo didn’t acknowledge as he opened the door.

Acknowledging them would mean accepting that he was alone in the world. Sure, as Carlotta’s widower he would be saddled with a few dozen Caprios, who shamelessly laid claim to him in one in-law capacity or another. But flesh-and-blood-wise, with no siblings or extended family to speak of, he was the sole remaining Fiorenti.

Alone.

He slid into the back seat, plucked the shades from his eyes and tossed them aside. Exhaling loudly, he massaged the bridge of his nose, willing the tension headache away.

‘You wish to return to the villa, signor?’ his driver asked, disturbing the momentary eerie quiet.

Maceo

opened his mouth to confirm that he did, but at the last moment shook his head. Why prolong the inevitable? It was Friday afternoon, and most of his staff had been given the day off to pay their respects to Carlotta, but there was work to be done.

And, no, his reluctance to return to the villa in Capri had nothing to do with the empty salones and corridors awaiting him, newly devoid of Carlotta’s presence.

‘Take me to the helipad. I’m returning to the office.’

With a nod, the older man drove him away from his wife’s graveside and the crowd of Napoli’s high society, all vying to see him do something worth gossiping about.

* * *

Maceo barely registered the helicopter ride that deposited him two streets away from the temporary headquarters of Casa di Fiorenti.

When she’d known the end was near, Carlotta had requested to be closer to the Capri summer home she’d shared with Luigi and Maceo’s parents. He’d willingly relocated his company from Rome to the sprawling eighteenth-century building overlooking Naples Harbour. The building where, predictably, two dozen paparazzo now waited, rabid, with long lenses and sharp questions the moment they spotted him.

He slid his sunglasses back on, allowed himself the faintest sigh.

‘Maceo! What would Carlotta think of you returning to work even before she’s in the ground?’

‘Maceo, any plans to make your brothers-in-law directors now Carlotta’s gone?’

‘Maceo, when will you make an announcement about who will fill your late wife’s shoes?’

Teeth gritted, he charged forward, leaving his bodyguards to deal with the throng. It bemused him that they continued to throw questions at him when he never answered. Did they truly expect him to divulge all his dark, guilty secrets simply because they demanded it? Especially when the games he and Carlotta had played with them had been meant to hide the biggest, most terrible secret of them all?

He shoved at the heavy door separating his empire from the gossip-hungry mob, his gut tightening at the reminder of the other bombshell Carlotta had thrown at his feet a week ago. He had to compliment her timing. She’d known he’d be incapable of challenging her in any way. That because of that heavy boulder of guilt he carried he would grant her wishes, regardless of the shock and fury boiling in his stomach at her news.

But, while he’d agreed to honour Carlotta’s final requests, he’d withheld how he intended to proceed. That was between him and the woman he’d hadn’t known existed until a week ago.

Luigi had been previously married, albeit briefly, to an Englishwoman. A woman who’d had a daughter. Another secret his parents and godfather had kept from him.

Maceo’s gut tightened with fresh bitterness. They’d blithely ignored the famiglia they’d purportedly valued and burdened him with honouring their wishes.