What A Sicilian Husband Wants. Michelle Smart

This was not just about her—this was about her innocent, dependent child. The first time she had held her alone, away from the ears of midwives and obstetricians, Grace had made her daughter a promise. She had sworn she would keep her safe.

      She had sworn she would never let her fall into the hands of the dangerous gangster that was Lily’s father.

      * * *

      It was amazing how long Grace was able to drag out washing and dressing into a pair of faded jeans and a long, thick purple jumper. By the time she had changed Lily’s nappy and generally fussed over her, a whole hour had gone by. She would have dragged things out even longer if Lily hadn’t started to grizzle, no doubt hungry for her bottle.

      Mentally bracing herself, Grace straightened her spine and carried her daughter downstairs and into the kitchen.

      ‘You took your time,’ Luca said from his seat at the table. He had removed his shirt. A short, rotund man was tending his shoulder, his bald head bowed in concentration. With a snap she recognised him as Giancarlo Brescia, the Mastrangelo family doctor. His presence should not be a surprise. Luca rarely travelled anywhere without him. People who lived by the sword and all that.

      ‘I’m surprised you didn’t send one of your goons up to keep watch,’ she retorted, averting her eyes.

      She didn’t know what she found the most disturbing: his naked torso or the bloodstains marring his smooth skin. Some had matted into the swirls of black hair covering his chest. Dimly she recalled the many happy hours lying in his arms, breathing in his musky scent, splaying her fingers through the silky hair. Once upon a time, it would have taken a crowbar to prise her away from him.

      ‘Believe me, you are going nowhere,’ he said, his voice like ice.

      ‘That’s what you think.’

      He laughed. A more mirthless sound she did not think she had heard. ‘Do you really think I will let you disappear again, now, when I know you have had my child?’

      ‘Who said she was yours?’

      An animalistic snarl flittered across his handsome features but he remained still, the needle penetrating his flesh making any movement on his part risky. ‘Do you think I would not recognise my own blood?’

      She shrugged with deliberate nonchalance and sidled past him to the fridge, keeping a tight hold of Lily. She caught sight of the bloodied bullet laid oh-so-casually on the table and winced. She winced again to see the doctor expertly sew Luca’s olive skin back together.

      Luca followed her gaze. His nostrils flared. ‘It lodged in a bone. There shouldn’t be any permanent damage.’

      ‘That’s good,’ she said, blinking away her shock at the physical evidence of his wound. Thank God she hadn’t eaten breakfast. It would likely have come back up. She needed to keep a level head. Needed to keep her control.

      She could not let guilt eat at her, and as for compassion...what compassion did Luca ever show his victims?

      Turning her back to him, she pulled a bottle of formula out of the fridge and popped it in the microwave. She took a deep breath and punched in the time needed. The microwave sprang to life.

      ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but she’s not yours.’

      The silence that ensued felt incredibly loaded, almost as if her lie had sucked all the air from the room, making her chest tight and her lungs crave oxygen. She could feel the burn of his eyes piercing the back of her skull, sending prickles of tension racing across her skin.

      The microwave pinged, startling her. Was it always so loud?

      She removed the bottle and shook it.

      Lily must have caught the scent of milk because she started to whimper again.

      ‘Shh,’ Grace whispered. ‘You can have it in a minute. Mummy needs it to settle first.’

      Finally, unable to bear the tension another second, she tossed a glance over her shoulder.

      Luca’s eyes were fixed on her, his face tight, his features a curious combination of fire and ice.

      The doctor had finished stitching the wound together and was cleaning the blood off his shoulder.

      Smothering another retch, she sucked in more air in an attempt to stabilise her queasy stomach.

      ‘Is your conscience playing up?’ Luca asked, raising a mocking brow.

      ‘No.’ She turned her face away, the heat from another lie stinging her cheeks.

      ‘No? It should be.’

      ‘If anyone should have a troubled conscience, it is you.’ She snatched up the bottle. ‘I’m going to the living room to feed my daughter. Shut the door behind you when you leave.’

      Not bothering to look for his reaction, she strode out of the kitchen. In the small living room she turned the television on and settled on a squishy sofa.

      Since Lily had been born, Grace had become addicted to daytime television. And evening television. And nighttime television. The trashier the programme, the better. Concentrating on anything with any depth had become impossible.

      She switched the channel to one of those wonderful talk shows featuring a dysfunctional family spilling its dirty laundry to a braying audience and a patronising host, and the incongruity of the situation almost made her laugh.

      She could imagine herself on that stage, trying to justify shooting her own husband. Trying to justify a lot of things. Like ignoring all the signs that the man she loved was nothing but a gangster.

      But love had blinded her. Or should that be lust? A combination of both that should have overwhelmed her in its intensity had instead been embraced. Without a second thought, she’d opened her heart wide enough to allow Luca to step right inside and burrow deep into her soul.

      She had graduated art school full of the wonder of all life had to offer. Together with her best friend Cara, they had travelled Europe, visiting many of the architectural wonders in the continent.

      Sicily was magical. She had fallen in love with the island and its gregarious inhabitants. Its more nefarious history had only added to the romantic ideal she had conjured.

      Cara, an outdoor lover, had dragged her along for a hike over the mountainous terrain close to Palermo. They had followed what they joked was the longest fence in the world, a fence that kept outsiders from properly appreciating the most beautiful vineyards in the whole of Europe. When they had come to a gap in the fence they had assumed—wrongly—that it gave them a right of way. As luck would have it, the gap had led into an open meadow with the most spectacular views either of them had been privileged to see. Cara had been aching to paint it, so they had opened their picnic blankets out and set up; Cara with her watercolours, Grace with her sketchbook and pencils.

      She had barely made a scribble when a black Jeep tore up the hill and screeched to a stop beside them.

      That was when she had met Luca.

      He had got out of the Jeep and walked towards them, a gun in his hand.

      She should have been terrified. He had been dressed all in black, and her mind had immediately gone into an overdrive of images of swooping vampires and flesh-eating ravens.

      While Cara had sensibly turned into a gibbering wreck, Grace had been entranced. It was as if she had inadvertently stepped into a movie shoot and the head vampire had come out from his coffin to greet them.

      Looking back, she could hardly credit that she had been so blasé about a man with a gun, but she hadn’t felt the slightest shiver of physical danger. She’d been so naïve she had assumed all Sicilian men carried guns. Fool that she was, she’d thought it all somewhat romantic.

      Inexplicable tears filled her eyes and she blinked them away, sniffing loudly, disturbing Lily, who was busy guzzling her milk. The poor little mite was unaware her happy little life had irrevocably changed.

      Footsteps