LITMIR.BIZ

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had been furious, not at where his seventeen-year-old-son might have been, not at how he’d defeated the alarm system, but at how he’d gotten by the silent men who kept watch from the shadows outside the front door and deep within the walled garden.

      Falco had refused to explain. He’d done more than that. He’d smirked as only a badass teenage boy could.

      Cesare had backhanded him, hard, across the face.

      It was the first time his father had hit him, which was, when he’d had time to think about it, a surprise. Not the blow; the surprise was that it had not happened before. There’d always been a hint of violence in the air between father and son; it had grown stronger when Falco reached adolescence.

      That night, it had finally erupted.

      Falco had stood still under the first blow. The second rocked him back on his heels. The third bloodied his mouth, and when Cesare raised his hand again, Falco grabbed his wrist and twisted the Don’s arm high behind his back. Cesare was strong, but at seventeen, Falco was already stronger.

      He was also fueled by years of hatred.

      “Touch me again,” he’d said in a whisper, “and I swear, I’ll kill you.”

      His father’s expression had undergone a subtle change. Not fear. Not anger. Something else. Something swift and furtive that should not have been in the eyes of a powerful man who’d just lost a battle, physically as well as figuratively.

      Falco’s face was badly bruised the next day. His mother questioned it, as did his sisters. He said he’d fallen in the shower. The lie worked but Nicolo, Raffaele and Dante had not been so easy to fool.

      “Must have been a pretty awkward tumble,” Rafe had said, “to blacken your eye as well as give you a swollen lip.”

      Yeah, Falco had said calmly, it was.

      He never told anyone the truth. Had the beating been too humiliating to talk about? Was it his shock at the intensity of the quicksilver flash of rage that had almost overcome him?

      Eventually, he understood.

      Power had changed hands that night. It had gone from Cesare to him…and then back to Cesare. What he’d seen in his father’s eyes had been the knowledge that despite Falco’s vicious threat, he, Cesare, had actually won the battle because Falco had let emotion overtake him. He had lost control of his emotions and somehow, he had no idea how or why, that loss of control gave the other person power.

      And now, here he was, fifteen long years later, losing control all over again.

      Carefully, he unfisted his hand, let go of Cesare’s starched white shirt. Cesare fell back into his chair, his jowly face red with anger.

      “If you were not my son…”

      “I’m not your son in any way that matters. It takes more than sperm to make a man a father.”

      A muscle knotted in the Don’s jaw. “Are you now a philosopher? Trust me, Falco, in many ways, you are more my son than your brothers.”

      “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      “It means that what you so self-righteously claim to hate in me is what is also inside you. The lure of absolute power. The need to control.” Cesare’s eyes narrowed. “The willingness to shed blood when you know it must be shed.”

      “Damn you, old man!” Falco leaned over the desk and brought his angry face within inches of the older man’s. “I am nothing like you, do you hear? Nothing! If I were, God, if I were…”

      He shuddered, drew back, stood straight. What was he doing, letting his father draw him deeper into this quagmire?

      “Is this what you wanted to talk about? To tell me you’ve come up with absolution for yourself by pretending your genes are my destiny? Well, it won’t work. I am not you. And this so-called discussion is at an—”

      Cesare took something from the folder on his desk and pushed it toward Falco. It appeared to be a glossy page, an advertisement, torn from a magazine.

      “Do you know this woman?”

      Falco barely spared the picture a glance.

      “I know a lot of women,” he said coldly. “Surely your spies have told you that.”

      “Indulge me. Look at her.”

      What the hell did it matter? Falco picked up the photo. It was an ad for something expensive. Perfume, jewelry, clothing—it was hard to tell.

      The focus of the page, though, was clear enough.

      It was the woman.

      She was seated crossways in an armchair, one long leg on the floor, the other draped over the chair’s arm, a shoe with the kind of heel that should have been declared lethal dangling from her toes. She wore lace. Scarlet lace. A teddy. A chemise. He had no idea which it was, only that it showed almost as much cleavage as leg.

      A spectacular body. An equally spectacular face. Oval. Delicate. The essence of femininity. High cheekbones, eyes as amber as a cat’s, lashes long and thick, the same ebony color as her long, straight hair.

      She was smiling at the camera. At the viewer.

      At him.

      It was, he understood, a deliberate illusion. A damned effective one. Her smile, the tilt of her head, even her posture, dared a man to want her. To be foolish enough to think he could have her. It was a smile that offered as much sexual pleasure as a man could want in a lifetime.

      Something hot and dangerous rolled through Falco’s belly.

      “Well? Do you recognize her?”

      He looked up. Cesare’s eyes locked on his. Falco tossed the photo on the desk.

      “I told you I didn’t. Okay? Are we done here?”

      “Her name is Elle. Elle Bissette. She was a model. Now she is an actress.”

      “Good for her.”

      Cesare took something else from the folder. Another ad? He held it toward Falco, but Falco didn’t move.

      “What is this? You expect me to spend the next hour playing Name the Celebrity?”

      “Per favore, Falco. I ask you, please. Look at the photo.”

      Falco’s eyebrows rose. Please? In Italian and in English. He had never heard his father use those words or anything close to them. What the hell, he thought, and reached for the photo.

      Bile rose in his throat.

      It was the same ad but someone had used a red pen to X out her eyes. To trace a crude line of stitches across her lips.

      To draw a heavy line across her throat and dab red dots from her throat to her breasts. To circle her breasts in the same bright, vicious crimson.

      “Miss Bissette received it in the mail.”

      “What did the cops say?”

      “Nothing. She refuses to contact them.”

      “She’s a fool,” Falco said bluntly, “if she won’t go to the authorities.”

      “The parents of the Turkish boy went to you, not the authorities. They feared seeking official help.”

      “This is America.”

      “Fear is fear, Falco, no matter where one lives. She is afraid or perhaps she does not trust the police. Whatever the reason, she refuses to contact them.” Cesare paused. “Miss Bissette is making a film in Hollywood. The producer is, shall we say, an old friend.”

      “Ah. I get it now. Your pal’s worried about his investment.”

      “It concerns him, yes. And he needs my help.”

      “Send him some of your blood money.”

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