Chapter THREE
JILLIAN stood inside the jet’s plush, tone-on-tone bedroom, listening to the door close softly behind her, knowing it was but a whisper of sound and yet inside her head it resonated with the force of a prison cell door.
She was in so much trouble. And she’d brought all this trouble down on Joe’s head, too.
And now they were en route to Paterno, Sicily, the home of the d’Severano family, and the center of their power.
Everyone in Paterno would be loyal to Vittorio. Everyone in the village would watch her, spy on her and report back to Vittorio.
Inside her head she heard the sound of a key turning, locking.
Trapped. She was trapped. And the worst of it was that Vittorio didn’t know who she was, nor could she let him discover the truth.
God only knew what he’d do if he, the head of the most powerful crime family in the world, found out her real name? Her real identity?
He’d destroy her. He’d have to. It was the code. Their law. Her father had betrayed the d’Severano family, and the d’Severano family would demand vengeance. They’d wanted blood. They’d taken her sister Katie’s. They’d insist on hers.
But what about Joe? What would happen to him in this power struggle?
Thinking of Joe snapped Jillian out of her fog of misery. She couldn’t panic. She had to clear her head. Be smart. And she could be smart. She’d proven before she’d inherited her father’s cunning. Now her life depended on staying calm. Remaining focused. But to remain focused, she’d have to control her emotions, something she found next to impossible when she was around Vittorio.
On her feet, Jillian opened her battered black suitcase on the bedroom’s sturdy luggage rack. Her clothes had all been meticulously folded when they’d been placed in the suitcase. Who had done that? Who had taken that much time to pack for her? And then she shuddered, not wanting to think of anyone going through her things, touching her clothes, folding her intimate garments. It made her feel exposed. Stripped bare.
But not totally bare, she reminded herself fiercely, peeling off her wet clothes and changing into dry black pants and a soft gray knit top. Vitt knew a lot, but he didn’t know everything. He didn’t know who she really was, or who her father was, and he wasn’t going to find out.
Jillian stared hard at her reflection in the mirror as she dragged a comb through her still-damp hair.
She’d been a redhead until she was twelve and had loved her hair. It’d reached the small of her back and the soft, loose curls had always drawn attention. Her father used to loop the curls around his finger and call her Rapunzel. Her sixth-grade art teacher had said she would have inspired the great Renaissance artists. And her mother cried when the government insisted on cutting her hair off and then dyeing the shorn locks a mousy brown.
She’d cried, too, but in secret. Because losing her hair hurt, but losing herself was worse. And they hadn’t just cut her hair off, they’d taken everything else, too.
Her name.
Her home.
Her sense of self.
No longer was she Alessia Giordano, but an invented name. She was a no one and would remain a no one for the rest of her life.
A hand rapped on the outside of the bedroom door. “Have you changed?”
It was Vittorio’s deep smooth voice and it sent a shudder of alarm through her. She squeezed the comb hard as she glanced at the closed door. “Yes,” she said, forcing herself to speak.
“We take off in two minutes.”
So this was all really happening. There would be no government agent breaking down the door to rescue her. There would be no last-minute reprieve.
Jill’s hand shook as she set the comb down. “I’m on my way,” she answered, and then lifting her chin, she squared her shoulders and stiffened her backbone.
She would do this. She’d been through worse. She could play Vitt’s game. As long as Joe was happy and healthy, there was nothing Vitt could throw at her that she couldn’t handle.
Leaving the serenity of her bedroom, she entered the luxurious living area. Vitt was already there, standing near a cluster of chairs on the far side of the room.
Vitt looked polished and elegant, dressed in a dark suit and white dress shirt, appearing as if he’d had an hour to shower, shave and dress instead of just minutes. How he did it was beyond her. Perhaps just having a strong, beautiful face made everything easy. She didn’t know. She’d never found life easy.
“You look comfortable,” he said, taking note of her simple black trousers and plain gray knit top.
She flushed, aware that he was really commenting on her dowdiness, and self-consciously she tugged the hem of her cotton top lower.
“Mom-wear,” she answered huskily, defensively, hating that she suddenly felt ashamed of her appearance, fully conscious that her clothes were old and cheaply made. He’d hit on a sore spot, too, because she was secretly, quietly passionate about fashion. She loved that beautiful well-tailored clothes could make you feel beautiful, too.
“Which is very practical of you,” he said soothingly—which was actually far from soothing. “Now please, join me here,” he added, gesturing to the tall honey suede chair next to his.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, her gaze locking with his. His dark eyes stared back at her and after a moment the corners of his mouth lifted. It wasn’t a smile. Instead it was a challenge. He’d thrown down the gauntlet earlier and she’d accepted.
“I’d love to,” she answered, forcing a smile, and gracefully sliding into the chair covered in the softest, most supple leather she’d ever touched. But then Italy was the design capital of the world; why shouldn’t everything Vittorio owned be exquisite?
She felt his inspection as she buckled her seat belt and crossed one leg over the other. She was trying hard to act nonchalant but on the inside her heart hammered like mad and her head suddenly felt woozy. Tall, broad-shouldered and devastatingly attractive, Vittorio seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room, leaving her gasping for air.
He was too strong.
Too physical.
Too imposing.
The fact that he was also one of the most powerful, influential men in the world hardly seemed fair considering all his other gifts.
Her fingers curled into her palms, nails digging into her skin. This was insane. And this charade would surely push her over the edge.
“I’ve ordered champagne,” he said, taking the seat on the left of hers. “We’ll have a glass now, and then another to celebrate once we level off.”
How cold he was. How cruel. But why shouldn’t he celebrate? He’d succeeded in cornering her, trapping her and claiming his son. She peeled her lips back from her teeth in an attempt to smile but the effort actually hurt. Her heart felt like it was breaking. “Haven’t had champagne since Bellagio. I suppose we’ve now come full circle.”
“But back then you were a stunning, voluptuous brunette with straight chestnut hair and Elizabeth Taylor’s violet-blue eyes. Now you’re the quintessential California beach girl. Blonde, lean, tan. An impressive transformation. Quite the master at disguise.”
“I’m glad my resourcefulness impressed you,” she answered with a tight smile before turning her head to stare out the plane window.
She hadn’t wanted to be so resourceful. She’d been a dreamy little girl, sheltered, pampered, protected. Her parents had been wealthy middle-class Americans. She’d attended an exclusive Catholic girls’ school. Her Detroit suburb had been lined with old trees and sprawling mansions.
Nothing in her life had prepared her for the revelation that her father wasn’t merely a member of an underground organization, but a traitor within the organization. He was despised by all and when he testified against his organization, he put his entire family in danger.
Overnight twelve-year-old Jillian had been torn from her school, her friends, her community.
Jillian had struggled in their new life, with the new identities. The moves were hard. The isolation at times unbearable.
But over the years she’d settled into being these other people, playing the necessary part.
Her younger sister Katie wasn’t as skillful. Nor was Katie as disciplined, or focused. Two and a half years ago—just eight months before Jillian met Vitt in Turkey—Katie had fallen in love with a handsome stranger, a grad student at Illinois University, and feeling safe, had revealed who she really was. She ended up paying for that misplaced trust with her life.
Jillian wouldn’t make the same mistake. Jillian had learned that there could be no trusting handsome strangers, least of all men with connections to the mob.
Jillian’s throat ached, remembering. She’d been devastated by Katie’s death. The phone call from her mother giving her the news had been the most horrific phone call of her life. Even now, Jillian still felt shattered.
Jillian had been the big sister. It had been her job to protect Katie.
She hadn’t, though.
And now Jillian had Joe, only this time Jillian would not fail. She would do the right thing. She would protect Joe with her life.
“Jill. Your glass.”
Jillian jerked her head around to see the flight attendant standing before her with a flute of champagne. Vittorio already had his. Ruthlessly she smothered the memories of Katie and her family, killing the emotion inside her, smashing down the grief. She couldn’t change the past. She could only move forward.
Her eyes felt hot and gritty. She blinked hard, blinking away unshed tears as she took the champagne flute. “Thank you.”
The flight attendant disappeared, leaving them alone and Vittorio lifted his glass, dark eyes gleaming above high, bronzed cheekbones, the stiff, formal collar of his black suit contrasting the devastating sensuality of his mouth. “I propose a toast.”
She lifted her glass, heavy, so heavy at heart, and waited for him to finish the toast.
He let her wait, too, making her hold her glass high, making her wonder what he’d say.
The jet’s engines came to life. Jillian tensed, realizing soon they’d be airborne. Soon she’d never be able to escape.
And then smiling without smiling, Vittorio touched his glass to the rim of hers. “To the future,” he said, “and our lives together.”
Her heart fell, crashing into her ribs. Was he jesting? What kind of life would there be when there was no love, trust or respect between them?
Again her eyes burned, but once more she squashed the pain with a cool, hard smile. “To Joe,” she said instead, changing the toast, her voice as brittle as her smile.
“To Joseph,” he agreed. “The son we made together.”
They drank.
She swallowed, the cold, slightly sweet, slightly tart champagne fizzing and warming all the way down.
She glanced down into her glass, watching tiny bubbles rise to the surface, admiring the champagne’s pale gold color against the cut crystal stemware. Champagne in crystal was almost magical. She’d once loved how a glass of fine champagne could make her feel elegant. Beautiful.
She’d confessed that to Vitt, too, and for one week he’d ordered her champagne every night before dinner.
Did he remember? Is that why he’d ordered champagne now?
Her head jerked up and she looked into his eyes. His expression was shuttered. She could see nothing there.
But once, even briefly, there had been something between them. Once they’d made love to each other as if their hearts had mattered.
“Feel beautiful now?” Vittorio asked lazily, watching her with those dark inscrutable eyes of his.
So he did remember. “Like a princess,” she answered.
“And we’re living a fairy tale,” he replied mockingly.
She looked away, focused on a point across the cabin. How could she not have seen who he was? How could she not have realized that behind his charm and his stunning good looks was a man of stunning power?
“Can I please go get Joe?” she said, fighting to keep her tone neutral. “We’re about to take off and I’d be more comfortable flying if he were here with me.”
“But he’s fine where he is. Maria is taking good care of him.”
Jillian drew a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. Had she heard Vitt right? Was he making decisions for her? Was he deciding how and when she was to see her own son?
She fought the wave of nausea rolling through her. “I miss him, Vitt. I haven’t spent much time with him today—”
“—because you left him. You regularly left him.”
Again her insides lurched. “I had to work.”
“You didn’t. You could have come to me. I would have supported you, made sure you could have stayed home with him.”
The floor vibrated beneath Jillian’s feet. “I wanted the best for Joe. I wanted him to have what I didn’t—security. Stability—”
“And you think running and hiding and living with false identities is the way to accomplish that?”
“Joe wouldn’t have a false identity.”
“He already did! You told Hannah that all of his medical records were listed as Michael Holliday. That when you enrolled him in preschool, he’d be called Mike.”
Jillian flushed and shifted in her seat. He was right, and it did sound awful when put like that. “It hadn’t happened yet,” she said softly, uncomfortably. “It was just a thought.”
“No. It wasn’t just a thought. It was your idea of a good plan.”
She flinched, stung by his mocking tone. He didn’t understand that to protect Joe she had to think like a survivor. She had to be aware of danger, had to consider all the different possibilities. “Perhaps I’ve made mistakes,” she said huskily, tears roughening her voice, but she wouldn’t cry. Not here, not now, not in front of her enemy. “But I only wanted the best for him.”
“And now he has it. His mother and father together under one roof. What a lucky little boy.”
God, he was awful and hateful, bent on making her suffer. She blinked and ground her jaw together until she knew she had her emotions under control. “So can our lucky boy join us? Can he sit with his mother and father as the plane takes off?”
Vitt studied her pale face and hard, tight jaw for a long moment before reaching out to smooth a pale blond strand of hair back from her face. She shied away from his touch but he didn’t comment on it. Instead he smiled at her almost kindly. “Our son is quite comfortable and sleeping soundly in an infant cot in the staff room. Maria will bring him to us when he wakes.”
The jet began to move, rolling forward on the tarmac. “Please, Vitt. Please let me have him. I want him. I need him with me.”
“Even though he’s sleeping in his cot?”
She’d had her life ripped apart by her father’s deceit. Her only sister had been killed in an accident the police termed “suspicious,” yet they’d never brought charges against anyone. Her mother, terrified of further reprisal, had broken off all contact. Jillian’s only anchor in life was Joe. He was the reason, and the only reason, she’d been able to survive so many blows. “Yes.”
Vittorio studied her for a long, silent moment. “You really wish for me to have him woken up just so you can hold him?”
She heard condescension in his voice. Condescension and disbelief. Because what kind of woman would put her needs before her child’s?
“No,” she choked, lifting a hand to shield her eyes so he couldn’t see her tears. “No. You’re right. I don’t want to wake him. It is his naptime. He should sleep.”
Again Vitt subjected her to his scrutiny. “Sometimes it is difficult to do the right thing, but I have found that difficult or not, doing the right thing is the only real option.”
The jet was moving faster now, racing down the runway, picking up speed by the second. Within moments the jet’s front wheels left the ground and then the back wheels. They were airborne.
Dark pine trees dotted the ground. The blue of the Pacific Ocean came into view. In less than an hour they’d leave California far behind. In eleven hours they’d be in Sicily, in his world, and Joe, her baby, her child, would be living in Vitt’s home.
And if Joe were to live in Vitt’s home, where would she live? Would Vittorio keep her nearby, or would he set her up in her own house or apartment, someplace close by but not in his immediate household?
During the two weeks they’d spent together in Bellagio, Vitt had told Jillian a great deal about the twelfth-century Norman castle the d’Severano family called home. His family hadn’t always owned the property. Apparently his great-grandfather had purchased the crumbling fortress in the early 1900s and each generation since had spent a fortune restoring sections at a time. Over half the castello still remained uninhabitable but Vittorio had said that was part of the charm.
Twenty months ago she’d been anxious to see this historic property. Now it was the last place she wanted to visit.
“My family is old-fashioned,” Vitt said, breaking the silence. “And my mother is extremely devout. At first she might seem cold, and unapproachable, but given time, she will grow to accept you. But you must give her time. She is slow to embrace change.”
This sounded far from encouraging, Jillian thought, turning from the view of the deep blue Pacific Ocean to look at him. “Is she upset with you for having a child out of wedlock?”
“She doesn’t know.”
Jillian’s eyes widened. “What?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t told her. Or anyone else in my family.” He saw her expression and shrugged. “There was no reason to share such news. You were hiding from me. I didn’t have legal access to him yet. But it’s a different situation now.”
“And now?”
“Now it is a joyful occasion. My wife and son return home with me. Everything is good. Everything is as it should be.”
His wife and son…
His wife and son…
His wife.
Her heart hammered relentlessly and her hand shook as she clutched the flute. Is this why he’d ordered the champagne? “So that is the story we’re to tell them.”
“It won’t be a story.”
She exhaled in a painful rush. It was both a protest and a prayer. “Vittorio.”
“My captain has the authority to marry us in-flight, allowing us to land in Sicily in the morning as husband and wife.”
“That’s crazy,” she whispered, her fingers clenched so tightly around the flute’s fragile stem that the tips had begun to go numb.
“Why is it crazy? We arrive married, stepping off the plane as a family. Joseph is no longer illegitimate. You are my wife. Problem solved.”
Problem solved? Problem multiplied.
Her head spun. She was dizzy with the shock of it. Marriage was so serious, so binding, and even more so among the Mafioso. Once you were part of the family, there was no way out. At least not alive. “Your family has never heard of me, and then to produce me from thin air, introducing me as your wife, and Joe as your son—?”
“It would be the truth.”
“They’ll never accept us this way, Vittorio, surely you can see that. Especially your mother. She’ll be hurt that you’ve kept her in the dark, and suspicious as to why you’re only introducing us now. She’ll have so many questions—why was there no proper courtship or wedding? Why didn’t you tell her about the pregnancy or Joe’s birth? You’re bringing him to Sicily at nearly a year old. You know that won’t go over well.”
His eyes never strayed from her face, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. “And what would you rather me tell her? The truth? That you ran away when my eighteen-year-old maid told you I was a member of the mafia? That you then hid your pregnancy from me, and then kept my son from me after his birth? Would that be better, Jill?”
She stared into his dark eyes with the flecks of amber around the black pupil. He might be smiling but his expression was one of utter resolve. He was not going to relent. “No,” she said after a moment.
“So we have to come up with a suitable story, one that compromises our integrity as little as possible, because I don’t like lying to family. I don’t believe in lying, much less deceiving my father and mother. But I have a son to think of and I would sacrifice everything to ensure his well-being.”
And looking at him, at the steely determination in those dark eyes fringed by the thickest, blackest of lashes, she believed him. But she also believed that there was always more than one way to accomplish something. Life was full of possibilities. There were always options, and those needed to be considered. “You don’t need to marry me to introduce Joe as your son. He is your son. He will always be your son—”
“Your point being?”
“That it would be easier for both you, and Joe, if you didn’t marry me. Introduce me as Joe’s mother. Let your mother think the worst…that I’m a floozy, or a gold digger, or whatever. But at least this way she’ll be mad at me, rather than at you.”
One of his dark eyebrows lifted. “How good of you to martyr yourself on our behalf. It’s gratifying to know you do still have feelings for me.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“What did you mean?”
Jillian flushed. “That she’ll be angry.”
“Undoubtedly.” He shrugged philosophically. “But I am an adult, a man and the head of my family. I do not answer to my mother, and nor should you fear her. As long as you play your part of the doting wife, she’ll eventually be happy.”
The words doting wife echoed loudly in her head. Jillian’s throat sealed closed. What else would she be? After all, she was the eldest daughter of a famous Detroit mobster. Why shouldn’t she be married to the head of the Sicilian mob?
And then she pictured her sister, followed by an explosion of color. Her sister’s blue, blue eyes. The red-and-gold flames of the car burning. The black-and-white ink of the newspaper article covering twenty-one-year-old Katie Smith’s death.
At least her sister died quickly.
At least she hadn’t seen it coming.
“Surely there are other options we could explore,” she said after a moment. “Roles that would require less acting…roles that would be less of a stretch.”
“And what role would that be? My son’s nanny? My mistress? My what, Jill Smith? Just what role would you now choose to play in life?”
“Joe’s mother.”
“And you may. Provided you’re married to Joe’s father.”
She cringed at the way he said Joe. He meant for her to cringe, too.
“My family has a disreputable history, a history you’ve thrown in my face. But my father has worked hard to change the past, and I’ve continued his fight. We’ve worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to have Joseph inherit scorn or scandal. No one is to know he was born out of wedlock,” Vittorio continued quietly. “He is not to grow up marked by shame.”
They were still climbing but Vittorio downed what was left of his champagne and ignoring the seat belt sign, rose.
“The ceremony will take place in the next half hour, before the baby wakes,” he said, looking down at her. “Find something appropriate in your suitcase for the ceremony, something elegant and festive. Something that could pass for celebratory. I don’t expect you to wear white, but silver, gold or cream would be nice. After all, we’ll want good memories to help us remember our special day.”