I say calmly, “Lili?”
“Yes?”
“What was that noise?”
She lifts her chin and folds her arms over her chest. “What noise?”
I look at her mussed hair, her untucked shirt, her bare feet, and her rebellious expression, and know in my bones that we have a big fucking problem.
I cross the room in several long strides, headed to the wardrobe.
Lili tries to stop me, jumping in front of the wardrobe doors and pleading, but I push her aside and yank open the door.
And come face-to-face with the young man standing inside.
Hiding inside between a mink coat and a beaded evening gown, shrinking back as far as he can against the back wall.
He’s good-looking, I’ll give her that. With liquid brown eyes, full lips, and a chest that could be featured on magazine covers, the boy is undeniably attractive.
He’s wearing nothing but a pair of tight white briefs, through which his erection is clearly visible.
He can’t be more than eighteen.
I slowly close the wardrobe door. Then I turn back to Lili.
She stands with her arms crossed over her chest and her lips pulled between her teeth, her shoulders rounded. If she had a tail, it would be tucked between her legs.
I say quietly, “You know what would happen if your father discovered this.”
She doesn’t bother with lame denials. She simply nods.
But it has to be said aloud. Things gain a certain gravitas when they’re spoken.
“He would kill him, Lili. Whoever he is, the boy standing in this wardrobe would die. Slowly. Painfully. And most likely, you’d be made to watch.”
Lili’s eyes well with tears. She nods again, swallowing hard, her face contorted with misery. She whispers, “I know.”
My heart breaks for her.
She’s a fool. A young, reckless fool, but I understand her completely.
I was young once, too. I had dreams once, too. I had needs and desires and a wide open future that stretched out ahead of me like a golden, glimmering dream.
Until all the beautiful dreams were destroyed by the cold, killing weight of a wedding ring.
I gather her into a hug, pulling her close and wrapping my arms around her shoulders.
“I don’t know how you got him in here,” I murmur into her ear, “but make sure no one sees you when you get him out. I can buy you ten minutes, maybe fifteen, but no more. Meet me in your father’s office. Wear your blue dress, the one with the pearl buttons. Smile and look sweet. Let me do the rest. Deal?”
Nodding, she sniffles. “Deal. Thank you, zia.”
Hearing voices drifting up from the courtyard below, I release Lili and hurry to the bedroom windows. I nudge aside the curtain and peer out.
Below on the circular driveway, a shiny black Escalade is parked in front of the fountain. Two of my brother’s armed guards stand several feet away from a man I don’t recognize.
He’s big and barrel-chested, larger than both of the guards, but he has a friendly smile and manner. Clad in a black suit and shiny black oxfords, he cuts an imposing figure.
The guards and the man continue to speak. One of the guards pats him down, searching for weapons, then all three of them nod. The guards step back, the driver rounds the car and opens the passenger door, and another man clad in black exits the vehicle.
My breath catches.
This man is leaner than the first. Just as tall and wide-shouldered, but not as bulky. A quarterback to the other’s defensive lineman.
His hair is dark gold. It looks carelessly styled, as if he dragged his fingers through it instead of using a comb. His beard is a darker shade, closer to bronze, covering an angular jaw. One of his nostrils is pierced with a small metal ring.
He’s incredibly handsome. Half aristocrat and half bare-knuckled street fighter, he exudes a kind of raw, brutal power, unmistakable even from this distance.
Clearly visible above the collar of his starched white dress shirt is a spiderweb tattoo.
He glances up at the window and catches me staring.
Our eyes lock.
My heart skips a beat.
And in that instant, I know with dark certainty that I’m gazing into the eyes of the man who will tear my family to shreds.
2
Spider
I get only a glimpse of the woman in the window before the curtains fall back into place and she disappears, but the image of her is seared onto my retinas.
Dark hair, red lips, olive skin.
A black, low-cut dress.
Acres of cleavage.
And eyes that glittered silver in the afternoon sun like the flash of coins at the bottom of a wishing well.
She can’t be Liliana, the lass I’m here to meet. I’ve seen pictures of her. She has a sweet, innocent face. A shy, lovely smile.
The woman in the window looks like she’d only smile if she were slitting your throat.
Mindful of the armed guards, I say in Gaelic to Kieran, “I thought the lass’s mother died?”
Standing beside me, he follows my gaze and looks up at the blank window. “Aye. Why?”
“Who else lives here?”
He shrugs. “Dunno. From the size of the bloody place, probably a thousand people.”
She’s not a servant, that much I know. There wasn’t a hint of servitude in those flashing eyes.
She looked more like a warlord about to lead an army of soldiers into battle.
“This way,” says the guard nearest to me. He nods toward an arched opening in the brick wall that leads from the circular driveway into an interior courtyard.
Dismissing the thought of the mystery woman, I button my suit jacket and follow behind the guard as he leads Kieran and me away from the car. The other guard walks behind us. We’re led through the lushly landscaped courtyard to a set of enormous carved oak doors, flanked on either side by towering marble columns.
The main house looms over us, three sprawling stories of beige limestone with elaborate balustrades and scrolled iron balconies, topped by a line of Roman centurion statues gazing down at us from a ledge on the red-tiled roof.
Inside the main foyer, the décor becomes even more ostentatious.
Naked cherubs frolic with hairy satyrs and woodland nymphs in colorful frescoes on the walls. Instead of one drop-crystal chandelier overhead, there are three. The floor is black marble, the carved mahogany furniture is edged in gilt, and my eyes are starting to water from the kaleidoscope glare of stained-glass windows.
Under his breath, Kieran says, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Looks like Liberace hurled his lunch all over the bloody place.”
He’s right. It’s fucking awful.
I have to force myself not to turn around and walk out.
“Ah, Mr. Quinn!”
I turn to my right. A man approaches with his hands spread open in greeting.
He’s fit, of average height, and somewhere around forty. His dark hair is slicked back with pomade. Wearing a navy-blue pinstripe suit I can tell is custom made, a powder-blue tie with a diamond tie pin, a chunky diamond watch, and a gold pinky ring on each hand, he oozes wealth, privilege, and power.
His cologne reaches me before he does.
His smile is blinding.
I hate him on sight.
“Mr. Caruso, I presume.”
He grabs one of my hands in both of his and pumps it up and down like he’s a political candidate campaigning for my vote.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Welcome to my home.”