Falco: The Dark Guardian. Sandra Marton

to feel like jerks cooing at their infant nephew—not that it was difficult because the kid was clearly the world’s cutest, most intelligent baby. They’d danced with their sisters and shut their ears to Anna’s and Isabella’s not-so-subtle hints that they had friends who’d make them perfect wives.

      By late afternoon, they were more than ready to slip away and toast their bachelorhood with a few well-earned cold beers at a place the four brothers owned. Not their investment firm. This place was called, simply enough, The Bar.

      Cesare headed them off before they could get to the door. He wanted to talk to them, he said.

      Not again, Falco had thought wearily. One look at Nick’s face and he knew his brother was thinking the same thing. For months now, the Don had been giving his “after I’m dead” speech. The combination to his safe. The names of his attorney and his accountant. The location of important papers. Stuff none of the brothers cared about; none of them wanted a penny of their father’s money.

      Falco’s initial instinct was to ignore Cesare and keep walking.

      Instead, he and Nick looked at each other. Maybe the long day had put them in a mellow mood. Maybe it was the champagne. What the hell, Nick’s expression said, and Falco replied with a sigh that clearly said, Yeah, why not.

      Their father had insisted on talking to them separately. Felipe, Cesare’s capo, jerked his head, indicating Falco should go first.

      Falco gave a moment’s thought to grabbing the capo by his skinny neck, hoisting him to his toes and telling him what a slimy bastard he was to have spent his life as the Don’s guard dog, but the family celebration was still going strong in the conservatory at the rear of the house.

      So he smiled instead, the kind of smile a man like the capo would surely understand, moved past him and entered Cesare’s study. Felipe shut the door behind him…

      And Falco found himself in an endurance contest.

      His father, seated at his desk, the heavy drapes behind him drawn so that the big room with its oversized furniture seemed even more gloomy than usual, looked up, nodded, waved a manicured hand toward a chair—a gesture Falco ignored—and went back to leafing through the contents of a manila folder.

      According to the antique mahogany clock that hung on a wall, all but lost among photos of politicians, old-country ancestors and age-yellowed religious paintings, four minutes ticked away.

      Falco stood perfectly still, feet slightly apart, arms folded, dark eyes locked on the clock. The minute hand ticked to yet another marker, the hour hand made its barely perceptible jump. Falco unfolded his arms, turned his back on his father and went to the door.

      “Where are you going?”

      Falco didn’t bother turning around. “Ciao, Father. As always, it’s been a pleasure.”

      The chair creaked. Falco knew the Don was pushing back from his desk.

      “We have not yet had our talk.”

      “Our talk? You were the one who requested this meeting.” Falco swung toward his father. “If you have something to say, say it—but I assure you, I recall your touching words the last time I saw you. Perhaps you don’t remember my response so let me remind you of it. I don’t give a damn about your safe, your documents, your business interests—”

      “Then you are a fool,” the Don said mildly. “Those things are worth a fortune.”

      A cool smile lifted the corners of Falco’s mouth. “So am I, in case you hadn’t noticed.” His smile vanished. “Even if I weren’t, I wouldn’t touch anything of yours. You should know that by now.”

      “Such drama, my son.”

      “Questa verità, Father. Such truth, you mean.”

      Cesare sighed. “All right. You’ve made your speech.”

      “And you’ve made yours. Goodbye, Father. I’ll tell Nicolo to—”

      “What were you doing in Athens last month?”

      Falco stood absolutely still. “What?”

      “It’s a simple question. You were in Athens. Why?”

      The look Falco gave the older man would have made anyone else take a hurried step back.

      “What in hell kind of question is that?”

      Cesare shrugged. “A simple one. I asked you—”

      “I know what you asked.” Falco’s eyes narrowed. “Did you have me followed?”

      “Nothing so devious.” Cesare moved his chair forward and reached for an elaborately carved wooden box. “Pure Havanas,” he said, opening the box to reveal a dozen fat cigars. “They cost the earth. Have one.”

      “Explain yourself,” Falco said sharply, without a glance at the box. “How do you know where I was?”

      Another shrug. “I have friends everywhere. Surely you know that by now.”

      “Then you also know that I was in Athens on business for Orsini Brothers Investments.” Falco smiled again, even more coldly. “Perhaps you’ve heard of us, Father. A privately held company started without any help from you.”

      Cesare bit the tip off the cigar he’d chosen, turned his head and spat the piece into a wastebasket.

      “Even in these bad economic times, we’ve made our investors wealthy. And we’ve done it honestly, a concept you couldn’t possibly understand.”

      “You added a private bank to your stable when you were in Athens,” Cesare said. “Nicely done.”

      “Your compliments mean nothing to me.”

      “But banking was not all you did there,” the Don said softly. He looked up; his eyes met Falco’s. “My sources tell me that during that same few days, a child—a boy of twelve—held for ransom by insurgents in the northern mountains of Turkey, was somehow miraculously returned to his fam—”

      Falco was around the desk in a heartbeat. His hand closed on his father’s shirt; he yanked him roughly to his feet.

      “What is this?” he snarled.

      “Take your hands off me!”

      “Not until I get answers. No one followed me. No one. I don’t know where you got all this crap but—”

      “I was not foolish enough to think anyone could follow you and live to talk about it. Let go of my shirt and perhaps I’ll give you an answer.”

      Falco could feel his heart racing. He knew damned well no one had followed him; he was far too good to let that happen. And, yes, though he would never admit it, there had been more to his trip to Greece than the acquisition of a bank. There were times his old skills came in handy but he kept that part of his life private.

      Falco glared at his father. And silently cursed himself for being a fool.

      He had not let Cesare get to him in years. Fifteen years, to be exact, on a night one of his father’s henchmen had caught him sneaking back into the heavily guarded house at two in the morning.

      The Don 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.