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“The family farm.”
It’s the only answer I get, so instead I focus on the road signs, trying to remember the names for all I’m worth. No money, no phone, and not speaking the language are all just one side of my colossal problem. Dressed like this with these diamonds on my fingers I scream money, so the chances of anybody buying that I got kidnapped by the mob is ridiculously low.
When we reach a six-foot-high stone wall that runs for over half a mile, unease spreads down my spine. Cameras and electrical fencing look out of place with the rest of the idyllic Sicilian landscape. An imposing gate opens as if on cue when we reach it, and I lean forward to see better.
Family farm. My ass. The driveway leads through an avenue of ancient palm trees, beyond which rolling vineyards stretch as far as the eye can see. The ocean is no longer a faraway horizon of blue, but right here, so close I could touch it. The lane opens to an old stone house with a circular fountain and a stately roundabout for a drop off and go. The house has small windows and shutters, but they’re deceptive as the house has been expanded on one side into a sprawling manor which promises to have breathtaking views.
As the car stops, an older man, probably the butler, comes through the open double door and smiles as he descends the stairs.
Matteo pops his door open, and the man rushes forward.
“Signor Scalera, benvenuto! Siamo così felici di ospitarla finalmente alla Villa Vista.”
“Grazie, Massimo,” Matteo says in what to my ear sounds like perfect Italian. “Siamo felici di essere qui.”
My jaw drops, and Burley winks at me. “Didn’t expect that, did you luv?”
My fake on-paper-only husband who guards my virginity for a blood exchange just got hotter by at least ten degrees. Matteo holds out his hand to me, and I slip mine into his. A soft squeeze and a gentle caress of his thumb over my hand seem to put in words everything he hasn’t told me. Play along, my love, for here, as my wife, you’ll be safe.
“Questa è mia moglie, Tasha.” Matteo smiles at me, warmly fake. “My wife, Tasha.”
“Massimo,” the man says as he bows somewhat formally. “Welcome, Mrs. Scalera. An honor. If you need anything, just ask.”
His words are so sincere, I weep inside. If only he knew?—
He probably knows. Whatever this gorgeous place is, it’s going to be a prison for the duration of my stay.
Matteo nods at Massimo and soon we are inside the house, which is refreshingly cool, if dark in comparison to the outside. A waiter hands me a cold cocktail and with one glance I get the drift. This isn’t a normal house; it’s run like a hotel of sorts.
Matteo hasn’t let go of my hand, and now leads me through the foyer to the dining area which overlooks a veranda. Further away there is a rim-flow pool and then, what looks like a direct drop into the ocean.
“Do you own this place?” I ask as the waiter opens the French doors that lead outside to the veranda.
“It’s the original Scalera farm. Long ago it was only a house with a small vineyard; now it’s run as a hotel. We’re the only guests this week.” He looks around, seeming as curious as me. A handful of tables with white tablecloths wait for customers under pale pink umbrellas. Beautiful roses circle the veranda, their scent hanging heavy in the heat. My throat constricts with the memory of my mom. She would have loved this place.
“You’ve come here before?”
“No. I’ve only seen it in photos, videos, building plans.”
“Why?”
“To come to Sicily would break the truce.”
“Truce?”
“Between the Scaleras and the Randazzos.” He sighs as he leads me across the lawn to where a low brick wall marks the end of the property. “You ask too many questions, kitten.”
I know I ask too many questions, but he has been humoring me. Matteo holds back but gives at the same time, as if he needs someone to talk to. As if he is carrying a burden that he can’t share with anybody, except the woman he is going to kill at the end of it. Dead bodies don’t talk. And my fate is sealed. I’ve witnessed a brutal killing in his apartment. There’s no way he’s letting me walk free with that information.
We’ve stopped at the short wall, and beyond it, two yards of shrubs cover the soil before it drops off into a hair-raising cliff. I lean over to have a peek but can’t see more than the deep water that foams up and retreats. Boats are out at sea, some close, others further away, dreamy and otherworldly compared to my current situation.
I’ve seen his world. Breaking a Mafia truce can only mean one thing: bloodshed.
“Why are we here then, Matteo? And why did you drag me along?” He could have auctioned me off a hundred times in the US somewhere, or Mexico. My dad could have paid up?—
It’s too late for that now. I get the feeling all the money in the world won’t satisfy this man and wipe out my dad’s crimes.
“I’m here to end it once and for all.” He raises my hand to his lips and presses a kiss to my knuckles, a move that to any onlooker would seem swoon-worthy. It has my heart in my throat, my pulse aflutter, my sex reminding me that he almost had me orgasming on the plane and that I still want him to finish what he started. That I begged him like a fawning idiot to have me, all of me. “I need you as a red herring, mia cara, to make them think I come with goodwill. For a day or two, at least.”
