Run To Rome

Alrigo glared out the newly installed window. He never should’ve plugged the bastard, but it really annoyed him that the man thought he’d be fooled by such a flimsy cover. As if he was stupid enough to do business with an unknown buyer who was clearly not who he claimed. Yes, Nino would dispose of the body, but the added complication of the man he’d shot being a retired agente of the Polizia di Stato pissed him off as much as the woman who’d caught the act on video.

Add it all to that damn punk American filmmaker a few months ago and the heat level was rising fast. It wouldn’t take long for the cost of keeping his numerous connections loyal to follow suit. His profit margins would shrink. His luxuriant tropical retirement would have to be delayed. Again.

When he closed his eyes, the dark neighborhood of his childhood closed in on his mind. He smelled the rank odor of rotting garbage and heard the rats scurrying around in the dank streets. Suppressing a shudder, he made his daily vow never to go back.

A small amount of alcohol warmed his throat and settled in his gut as he reopened his eyes and contemplated the shimmering water of Lago de Como. Iron control kept his hand from tipping the glass and downing the clear liquid in one furious gulp. He’d painstakingly rebuilt his network and fortune after Frank Gallo destroyed the foundation six years ago. So close now he could taste it, no way in hell some bastardo Americanos were going to fuck him over.

His jaw tightened with grim determination. Someone was going to have to pay, and this time it wasn’t going to be him. He poured a second glass and handed it to Nino. “Any word on the shipment?”

Before Nino could answer, the door on the opposite side of the room flew open and a small Italian tornado with waist-length brown hair blew in.

“I told you to quit that god-awful whistling! It’s Eva. Go ahead, give it a try.”

Nino downed his drink, then leaned back in his chair, hands linked behind his dark head as he propped his feet up on the desk. “I can’t shout Eva through the house.”

“I refuse to answer to that whistle again.”

“You said that yesterday, tesoro.”

“This time I mean it,” she snapped. “I’m tired of you treating me like—”

Careful to keep his hunger hidden as they argued, Alrigo discreetly slid his gaze along the curvaceous profile of Eva Anelli in her cleavage baring top, skin tight pants, and stilettos. He’d wanted her body since the moment he’d struck his partnership with Nino a year ago and she’d strutted in on his arm wearing a red pair of those heels.

But for all that he trusted Nino with, the man harbored a possessive violent streak that ensured Alrigo kept his distance. If he knew Alrigo lusted after his woman, he’d slit his throat—partner or not. He looked forward to the day he no longer needed Nino’s efficiency and Eva would be his. His groin instantly tightened with need.

“Make me something to eat, Eva,” Alrigo ordered abruptly before turning to limp back to the hallway. “I’ll be in my room after I talk to the Americans.”

A sound of outrage erupted behind him. “Make your own—”

“Eva.”

The soft warning made Alrigo glance back over his shoulder. Nino was shaking his head at the spitfire. Eva glared at Nino before spinning on one of those sexy heels and storming back to the kitchen. Nino watched her go with the same desire in his gaze that seared Alrigo. The woman must be hell in bed.

Alrigo funneled the heat of unattainable lust into anger and continued to the room where they held the two Americans. After his knock, the door opened and Zucchi stood aside for him to enter. He motioned the guard from the room, then closed the door again and leaned back, arms crossed, carefully.

The girl, Rachel, pushed up to a sitting position on the bed where sh

e’d been laying. Her gaze darted toward her brother by a small table. When Alrigo had walked in, the man’s foot had been bouncing in nervous agitation. Now he sat tall and rigid, completely still.

Alrigo transferred his gaze back to the girl. Her expression left no doubt she was terrified. Bene. He’d use her if the need arose.

Alrigo took a shallow breath to avoid the stabbing pain of his broken ribs. He inclined his head politely. “Mr. Sanders, Ms. Sanders…or Benjamin and Rachel, if I may.” His thick accent coated the English words.

The blond man sat up straighter and faced him. “Do we have a choice, Mr…?”

He debated the pointed question. Eh, he decided with a dispassionate shrug. In the end, it mattered not if they knew his name. “Lapaglia. Alrigo Lapaglia. And no, you have no choice.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“The thing is, Benjamin, I am not pleased with your lies.”

Ben studied the man who’d held him and Rachel at gunpoint in the car, noting his built physique, square jaw, tense mouth and most especially, his eyes. An unnerving glitter in their steel-colored depths belied the composed exterior the man portrayed. Something to do with the fresh set of stitches zippered high on his forehead?

Because he had no idea what lies the man spoke of, and since he seemed to be waiting for a reply, Ben asked, “What did I lie about?”

“Halliwell has someone helping her.”

“We don’t know anyone here,” Rachel exclaimed from the bed.