Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin
“Of course.” The don chuckled, though the sound was remarkably cheerless. “It is only that Giglio sees you as competition.”
“Trust me, Cordiano, I’m not the least bit interested in taking his job.”
“No, no, certainly not. I only meant that he is aware that I have been searching for a way to thank him for his years of dedication, and—”
“And I’m sure you’ll find an appropriate reward but that doesn’t concern me. I’m here on behalf of my father. I’d appreciate it if you’d read his letter.”
Cordiano smiled. “But I know what it says, signor. Cesare begs my forgiveness for what he did almost half a century ago. And you, Raffaele—may I call you that?—and you are to assure me that he means every word. Yes?”
“That’s pretty much it.” And still not a word about daughters and marriage, thank God. “So, I can return home and tell him his apology is accepted? Because it’s getting late. And—”
“Did your father tell you what it is he did?”
“No. He didn’t. But that’s between you and—”
“I was his—I suppose you would call it his sponsor.”
“How nice for you both.”
“He repaid my generosity by stealing la mia fidanzata.”
“I’m sorry but I don’t speak—”
“Your father stole my fiancιe.” Cordiano’s smile turned cold. “He eloped with her in the middle of the night, two days before we were to marry.”
“I don’t understand. My father has a wife. She…” Rafe’s jaw dropped. “Are you saying my mother was engaged to you?”
“Indeed she was, until your father stole her.”
All that “dark passion” stuff was starting to make sense. Now what? What could he say? It was hard enough to picture a young Cesare but to imagine his mother as a young woman running away with him…
“Did you think this was about something simple?” The don’s voice was as frigid as his smile.
“That is why he sent you here, boy. To offer a meaningful apology, one I would accept. An eye for an eye. That is our way.”
Rafe shot a quick look at the capo. Was that what this was all about? He’d put in his time in the Marines; he and his brothers had all served their country. He could give a good account of himself against, what, 350 pounds of fat and muscle, but in the end…
“An eye for an eye. Or, now that so many years have gone by, a deed for a misdeed.” Cordiano folded his arms over his chest. “Your father took my bride. I will show him forgiveness by letting you take my daughter as yours. Do you see?”
Did he see? Rafe almost laughed. No way. Not even a genius would see any logic in that.
“What I see,” he said flatly, “is that you have a daughter you want to get rid of.”
Pig Man made a humming sound deep in his throat.
“And somehow, you and my old man cooked up this cockeyed scheme. Well, forget about it. It’s not going to happen.”
“My daughter needs a husband.”
“I’m sure she does. Buy one, if that’s what it takes.”
The mountain of muscle grunted and took a step forward. Rafe could feel the adrenaline pumping. Hell, he thought, eyeing the capo, he could do more than put up a good fight. Angry as he was, he could take him.
“I have your father’s word in this matter, Orsini.”
“Then you have nothing, because it is not his word you need, it’s mine. And I can damned well assure you that—”
“There you are,” Cordiano said sharply, glaring past him. “It took you long enough to obey my orders, girl.”
Rafe swung around. There was a figure in the doorway. Chiara Cordiano had come to join them.
A weak finger of late-afternoon sunlight pierced a narrow gap in the heavy window draperies, lending a faint outline to her thin shape.
“Have you turned to stone?” the don snapped. “Step inside. There is a man here who wants to meet you.”
Like hell he did, Rafe almost said, but he reminded himself that none of this was the girl’s fault.
If anything, he felt a stab of pity for her. He’d already figured that she was homely. Maybe it was worse than that. For all he knew, she had warts the size of watermelons.
She was also a woman defeated. Everything about her said so.
She moved slowly. Her head was bowed, showing dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her hands were folded before her, resting at her waistline, assuming she had one. It was impossible to tell because her dress was shapeless, as black and ugly as her shoes. Lace-ups, he thought with incredulity, the kind he’d seen little old ladies wearing back home on Mulberry Street.