EPILOGUE
FOUR YEARS LATER, Belle stood at a cheval mirror and pulled her stretchy dress away from the very small bump she sported.
‘You’re pregnant. You’re supposed to be that shape,’ her grandmother told her reprovingly.
‘I’m putting on a lot of weight though,’ Belle groused, checking the generous curve of her bust and hips in the mirror as she turned round and pulled a face.
‘Not too much,’ Isa contradicted. ‘You’re very active and naturally you need to eat. At least you’re not as sick as your mother was when she was expecting.’
‘There is that,’ Belle conceded reluctantly. ‘Now, are you sure you’re going to be all right while we’re away?’
‘Belle, you and Cristo will only be away for five days, of course we’ll be all right,’ the older woman declared lightly. ‘Stop fussing.’
Cristo and Belle were celebrating their fourth wedding anniversary in Venice where they would be visiting the princess and Henri in their palazzo on the Grand Canal but staying in a small intimate hotel that Cristo had carefully selected for them. Belle could barely credit that so much time had passed since their wedding and that soon she would be a mother in her own right.
Cristo had bought a fabulous house for them in Holland Park. Bruno was now studying art at college and Donetta was planning to do fashion design. Pietro and Lucia were both in secondary school and fought a little less often now that they were so conscious of being almost teenagers. Franco was a sturdy six-year-old in primary school, who insisted on having his curls cropped the minute they became visible and who modelled his every masculine move on Cristo, whom in common with the twins he called ‘Dad.’
Although they had started out with a ready-made family, who had been officially adopted by Cristo and Belle within months of their first wedding, Cristo had never overlooked their personal relationship or taken it for granted. They had, after all and at his insistence, had their marriage blessed in an Italian church service shortly before the first Christmas they had shared, both of them feeling the need to exchange their vows with rather more sincerity and emotion than had figured when they had initially married. They also enjoyed regular weekend breaks and holidays as a couple.
It had been during their last romantic break that Cristo had admitted that he would love her to have his child. That development had taken place far sooner than either of them had expected because Belle had fallen pregnant within a month of that decision. She smiled, hand splaying across her tummy as she thought of the little girl on the way to joining the Ravelli family. She could hardly wait and her brothers and sisters were equally excited at the new addition in the offing.
Indeed, Belle was happier than she had ever dreamt of being with Cristo and her family. And she had never been so busy. The palazzo, where they usually spent their summers on a family holiday, had been modernised. The whole family circle had drawn closer. Cristo’s brother, Nik Christakis, still intimidated Belle but his life had taken some surprising turns since their first meeting and he had definitely warmed up from the driven workaholic he had once been.
Zarif’s life was still a story under development and Belle loved visiting Vashir with its colourful vibrant culture and fabulous history. Cristo’s younger brother had weathered the storms over the scandal of his father’s secret double life because the rumours about Gaetano’s misbehaviour had once been so wild that the truth was no more shocking to the populace, who could only marvel that Zarif was such a conservative male in comparison.
Belle clambered into the limo that was to whisk her to the airport to meet Cristo and smiled, looking forward to the promise of having her husband’s undivided attention for a few days. An hour and half later, she boarded the private jet, her attention switching straight to Cristo’s tall, well-built figure as he pushed aside his laptop and sprang upright to greet her in the aisle.
‘You look beautiful, amata mia,’ he told her huskily.
Belle slid self-mocking hands down over her bust and hips and quipped, ‘Well, you are getting a more generous portion of me with every month that goes past...’
‘And I love it,’ Cristo growled, bending down to kiss her ripe peach-tinted mouth with hungry appreciation. ‘I think you look incredibly sexy.’
‘Tell me more,’ she urged as he settled her down in a comfortable seat beside his and fastened her belt for take-off.
‘Later. Right now it’s time for this...’ Cristo slowly slid an emerald ring onto her wedding finger. ‘It’s the same colour as your eyes and it is to signify my gratitude and appreciation for four very happy years of marriage.’
‘Thank you, it’s absolutely gorgeous. Unfortunately my gift is unavailable right at this moment, so you’ll have to wait.’
‘What is it?’ Cristo asked curiously.
‘Well, it might be turquoise and frilly and exactly the sort of thing you like but you’ll just have to wait and see,’ she warned him with an irreverent grin. ‘It has to be love, Cristo. It really has to be love I feel for you.’
‘I adore you, amata mia,’ Cristo murmured, holding her hand in his. ‘And if you’re talking about what I think you are, I can hardly wait.’
Belle rolled her green eyes teasingly and her colour heightened. ‘You don’t have to wait. I’m wearing it. Have you ever heard of the Mile High Club?’
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from WHEN DA SILVA BREAKS THE RULES by Abby Green.
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Ten years ago one devastating night changed everything for Austin, Hunter and Alex. Now they must each play their part in the revenge against the one man who ruined it all.
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PROLOGUE
CESAR DA SILVA hated to admit that coming here had had any effect on him, but his gut was heavy and tight as he stood on the path near the grave. He asked himself again why he’d even come and reflexively his fingers closed around the small velvet pouch with its heavy weight in his hand. He’d almost forgotten about it.
He smiled cynically. Who would have thought that at the age of thirty-seven he’d be obeying urges and compulsions? Usually he was the king of logic and reason.
People drifted away from the open grave a short distance across the hilly green space. Ornate mini-mausoleum-style headstones dotted the cemetery in the hills of Athens, its grass no doubt kept generously watered in the Greek heat.
Finally there were only two men left by the grave. Both tall, of similar height, with dark hair. One had slightly darker and shorter hair than the other. They were broad, as Cesar was, with powerful builds.
It was no wonder they were all similar. He was their half-brother. And they had no idea he even existed. He saw one put his hand on the shoulder of the other. They were Rafaele Falcone and Alexio Christakos. They all shared the same mother, but had different fathers.
Cesar waited for icy rage to surge upwards upon seeing this evidence of the family he’d always been denied, but instead he felt a kind of aching emptiness. They came towards him then, talking in quiet voices. Cesar caught his youngest half-brother’s words on the slight breeze—something like, ‘Couldn’t even clean up for the funeral...?’
Falcone replied indistinctly, with a quirk to his mouth, and Christakos riposted, smiling too.
The emptiness receded and anger rose up within Cesar. But it was a different kind of anger. These men were joking, joshing, just feet away from their mother’s grave. And since when did Cesar feel protective of the woman who had taught him from the age of three that he could depend on no one?
Galvanised by that very unwelcome revelation, Cesar moved forward and Falcone looked up, words dying on his lips, smile fading. Falcone’s gaze was enquiring at first and then, as Cesar drilled holes into him with his stare, it became something else. Cold.
With a quick flick of a glance to the younger man by his half-brother’s side, Cesar noted that they’d also all inherited varying shades of their beautiful but treacherous mother’s green eyes.
‘May we help you?’ Falcone asked coolly.
Cesar glanced over them both again and then at the open grave in the distance. He asked, with a derisive curl to his lip, ‘Are there any more of us?’
Falcone looked at Christakos, who was frowning, and said, ‘Us? What are you talking about?’
Cesar pushed down the spreading blackness within him and said with ominous quiet, ‘You don’t remember, do you?’
But he could see from the dawning shock that his half-brother did, and Cesar didn’t like the way something inside him tightened at that recognition. Those light green eyes widened imperceptibly. He paled.
Cesar’s voice was rough in the still, quiet air. ‘She brought you to my home—you must have been nearly three, and I was almost seven. She wanted to take me with her then, but I wouldn’t leave. Not after she’d abandoned me.’
In a slightly hoarse voice Falcone asked, ‘Who are you?’
Cesar smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes. ‘I’m your older brother—half-brother. My name is Cesar Da Silva. I came today to pay my respects to the woman who gave me life...not that she deserved it. I was curious to see if any more would crawl out of the woodwork, but it looks like it’s just us.’
Christakos erupted. ‘What the hell—?’
Cesar cast him a cold glance. Somewhere deep down he felt a twinge of conscience for imparting the news like this, on this day. But then he recalled the long, aching years of dark loneliness, knowing that these two men had not been abandoned, and crushed it ruthlessly.
Falcone still looked slightly shell-shocked. He gestured to his half-brother. ‘This is Alexio Christakos...our younger brother.’
Cesar knew exactly who he was—who they both were. He’d always known. Because his grandparents had made sure he’d known every single little thing about them. He bit out, ‘Three brothers by three fathers...and yet she didn’t abandon either of you to the wolves.’
He stepped forward then, and Alexio stepped forward too. The two men stood almost nose to nose, Cesar topping his youngest brother in height only by an inch.
He gritted out, ‘I didn’t come here to fight you, brother. I have no issue with either of you.’ Liar, a small voice chided.
Alexio’s mouth thinned, ‘Only with our dead mother, if what you say is true.’
Cesar smiled, but it was bitter. ‘Oh, it’s true all right—more’s the pity.’ He stepped around Alexio then, before either man could see the rise of an emotion he couldn’t name, and walked to the open grave.
He took the velvet pouch out of his pocket and dropped it down into the dark space, where it fell onto the coffin with a hollow thud. In the pouch was a very old silver medallion featuring the patron saint of bullfighters: San Pedro Regalado.
Even now the bitter memory was vivid. His mother was in a black suit, hair drawn back, Her features as exquisitely beautiful as any he’d ever seen. Eyes raw from crying. She’d taken the medallion from where it hung around her neck on a piece of worn rope and had put it around his neck. She had tucked it under his shirt and said, ‘He will protect you, Cesar. Because I can’t at the moment. Don’t ever take it off. And I promise I will come back for you soon.’
But she hadn’t come back. Not for a long time. And when she finally had it had been too late. Something had withered and died inside him. Hope.
Cesar had taken off the medallion the night he’d let that hope die. He’d been six years old. He’d known then that nothing could protect him except himself. She deserved to have the medallion back now—he’d had no need of it for a long time.
Eventually Cesar turned and walked back to where his half-brothers were still standing, faces inscrutable. He might have smiled, if he’d been able, to recognise this familiar trait. An ache gripped him in the region of his chest where he knew his heart should be. But as he knew well, and as he’d been told numerous times by angry lovers, he had no heart.
After a taut silence Cesar knew he had nothing to say to these men. These strangers. He didn’t even feel envy any more. He felt empty.
He turned and got into the back of his car and curtly instructed his driver to go. It was done. He’d said goodbye to his mother, which was more than she’d ever deserved, and if there was one tiny piece of his soul that hadn’t shrivelled up by now then maybe it could be saved.