A Dark Sicilian Secret(3)

But then came Vitt, and there went sanity, reason, self-preservation.

Oh, he was too dangerous for words.

He’d destroy her. And Joe.

But no, she wouldn’t let him have Joe. Wouldn’t let Vitt turn Joe into a man like him.

“He’s not Sicilian, Vittorio. He’s American. And a baby and my son.”

“I’ve indulged you this past year, given you time alone together, but now it’s my turn—”

“No!” Jillian pressed her nails into her palms, barely maintaining control. “You can’t have him, you can’t.”

She swayed on the lip of the cliff, aware that the rain was making the soil a soggy, unstable mess, but she’d never go to Vittorio, nor would she give in to him. Far better to tumble backward into space than let Vittorio have Joe. Because at least Joe was safe with Hannah. Hannah knew if anything happened to Jillian, she was to take Joe to Cynthia, her college roommate in Bellevue, Washington. Cynthia had agreed to be Joe’s guardian should the need arise and Jillian had formal papers drawn, clearing the way for adoption. Because it was Jillian’s fervent wish that Joe be raised by a loving family. A normal family. A family with no ties to organized crime.

A family unlike her own.

A family unlike Vittorio’s.

“Jill, give me your hand now. That ledge could give way any moment.”

“I don’t care. Not if it means I can protect my son.”

“Protect him from whom, cara? Protect him from what?”

The concerned note in his voice drew tears to her eyes and her heart lurched within her chest. It took all of her strength to harden herself against him. He’d fooled her once, but she wouldn’t be fooled again. She was smarter. She was older. And she was a mother now. Jillian wouldn’t be swayed by warmth or tenderness, seduction or pleasure. This was about Joe, and only about Joe. His safety. His survival. His future.

This could have been avoided if she’d only known who she was dealing with when she accepted Vitt’s dinner invitation twenty months ago.

If she’d only understood the implications of that date.

But she hadn’t. Instead she’d cast Vittorio as Prince Charming and put him on a white horse and believed he was going to save her. Or at the very least, take her to an extravagant, romantic dinner and make her feel like a princess for a night.

The extravagant dinner turned into a fantasy romance. He made her feel so beautiful and desirable that she tumbled eagerly into his bed. He hadn’t disappointed. He’d been an incredible lover and even now she could remember how his body had felt against hers.

She remembered the warm satin of his skin stretched over dense, sinewy muscle. Remembered his lean narrow hips and the black crisp hair low on his belly. Remembered the sensation of him extending her arms and holding her still as he slowly thrust into her and then even more slowly withdrew.

He knew how to use his body. He knew a woman’s body. He’d quickly mastered hers.

For two blissful weeks she’d imagined she was falling in love with him, and fantasized about living with him, making a life with him, making a home. Yes, there were moments Vittorio was called away to take calls at strange hours, but she’d discounted those calls, telling herself it was just business, or the time difference, and that he was a CEO of a large international company so he had to work at all hours of the day.

He’d told her about his company, too, and she was fascinated by his newest acquisition—the purchase of three venerable, five-star hotels in Eastern Europe—and she’d fantasized about leaving her hotel job in Turkey and going to work for Vitt, helping him overhaul his newest hotels. After all, hotel management was her area of expertise, and she imagined them traveling the world together, exploring, working, making love.

And then on day fourteen, one of Vitt’s young housemaids shattered her illusions with the whispered question, “You’re not afraid of the Mafioso?”

Mafioso.

The word chilled Jillian’s blood.

“Who?” Jill asked, striving to sound casual as the maid’s eyes darted toward the bathroom door where Vittorio was showering. The maid was only there to bring fresh towels but apparently her curiosity had got the best of her.

“Your man,” the maid answered, handing off the stack of plush white towels. “Signor d’Severano.”

“He isn’t—”

“Sì. Everyone knows.” And then the maid disappeared, hurrying away like a frightened field mouse.