The Sicilian's Secret Son. Angela Bissell

realised he was standing in his son’s home, on a rug that Ethan had probably walked and crawled across a thousand times.

      A strange sensation tugged at Luca’s gut. He surveyed the room again, this time noticing a box filled with toys next to the sofa, a blue and white plastic truck under the coffee table, and a cat—a real cat with ginger fur—curled up on an armchair. A large framed photo of Annah and Ethan hung on the wall. Mother and child both grinned into the camera lens. It was a beautiful photo.

      Luca dragged his gaze from it. ‘How long have you lived here?’

      ‘Since before Ethan was born.’

      He glanced back towards the stairs and tried to imagine tackling them with an armful of shopping bags, or a stroller and a baby or toddler in tow.

      Annah closed the door. ‘I’ll put the kettle on and make some tea.’

      Ah, yes. The quintessentially English answer to every problem. A cup of tea. Luca would have welcomed an espresso or even a shot of whiskey, but if the ritual of making tea settled Annah’s nerves and eased the way for a difficult conversation, he’d happily drink a gallon of the stuff.

      Annah went to the kitchen, and Luca crossed to a window overlooking the back of the property. Outside the kitchen was a roof terrace with a small wrought-iron table, two chairs, and a bunch of potted plants. The terrace was accessible from both the kitchen and a set of external steps leading down to a courtyard, where a dark blue hatchback was parked. A narrow driveway snaked around the side of the building and a brick wall separated the rear of the property from dense woodland.

      From a safety perspective, Luca was glad the upstairs flat had another route of access. But he couldn’t help surveying the concrete courtyard and the tiny terrace and comparing them to the outdoor space he and Enzo had enjoyed growing up, including landscaped gardens, citrus and olive groves, and even a vineyard.

      A fierce desire rose in him for his son to experience that, too. To have the freedom to run and play and explore the land that would one day be his. Land that Luca had thought was lost to him, along with everything else associated with the Cavallari legacy, until recently. Now he had the opportunity to shape that legacy in the way he saw fit. To take what Franco Cavallari had sullied and turn it into something good. Something worth passing on to the next generation.

      Hearing the electric kettle turn off, he glanced towards the kitchen. Annah stood on the other side of the breakfast bar, her back to him. He wandered over. A teapot sat on the bench, lid off, waiting to be filled.

      She stood motionless.

      ‘Annah?’

      She swung around and looked at him. ‘You could leave.’

      He frowned. ‘Excuse me?’

      ‘You could just go,’ she said, stepping closer, eyes wide as she looked up at him, ‘and we could both pretend you were never here. You’ll never hear from us—I promise. I’ll never contact you. Never ask for money. Never ask you for anything ever.’

      Anger flickered. She thought he was the kind of man who could walk away and pretend his son—his own flesh and blood—didn’t exist?

      He clenched his jaw. ‘Make the tea, Annah.’

      ‘Luca...’ She spoke his name like a husky entreaty, and it reached inside him, evoking a memory as scorchingly vivid as if she’d lain beneath him only yesterday, driving him to the brink with her soft, seductive pleas.

       Don’t stop, Luca. Please...don’t stop.

      He nearly had. When her body’s tight resistance and her stifled cry of pain had given rise to a shocking realisation, Luca had frozen mid-thrust, then almost reflexively withdrawn. But it was too late by then. He couldn’t unbreach her innocence. He was deep inside her and she was clinging like a limpet, stubbornly—and sexily—refusing to let him go.

      Thrusting the memory aside, Luca unbuttoned his coat, took it off, and draped it over the back of a dining chair. ‘Black,’ he said, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘No sugar. And I’ll have it strong, thanks.’

      Annah blinked, and the pleading look vanished from her eyes. She finished making the tea in silence. Only once they were seated at the small dining table, steaming mugs in front of them, did she speak again. ‘When did your father die?’ she asked quietly.

      ‘Two months ago.’

      She nodded slowly. Her hands were wrapped around her mug, and she stared into her tea for so long his patience began to unravel.

      ‘Are you going to tell me what happened, Annah, or will I have to drag it out of you?’

      Her gaze snapped up. ‘It’s obvious what happened, isn’t it? I didn’t do what you wanted.’

      He frowned. ‘I don’t know what that means.’

      ‘Oh, come on, Luca.’ The way she said his name this time wasn’t husky; it was hard and bitter, saturated with scepticism. ‘You might not have had the nerve to try paying me off in person, but your father made it clear he was representing your interests.’

      Dread knotted Luca’s stomach. He needed the truth, but at the same time he wanted to close his ears, sensing that whatever was coming would destroy any lingering shred of the love he’d once felt for his father.

      ‘When?’ he said.

      Annah’s eyebrows knitted. ‘I’m sorry?’

      ‘When did you speak to my father?’

      ‘Why are you asking—?’

      ‘Please, Annah,’ he cut in. ‘Just tell me.’

      She pulled her hands away from her mug, sat back and clasped her arms around her middle. ‘Late March. In London. At the Cavallari offices.’

      Luca’s lungs locked as if someone had sucker-punched him in the chest.

      Annah frowned. ‘What?’

      He took a moment to collect his thoughts, get the air moving in his lungs again. ‘Do you remember what I told you that night in London? About leaving for the States the next day?’

      ‘Yes. You’d left your job. You were moving to New York the next day.’

      As much as he had wanted her that night, his conscience had forbidden him to seduce her with false promises. His flight to New York had already been booked. There had been nothing left for him in Europe. In Sicily. His father had declared him an outcast, made it brutally clear that Luca would never be welcomed back. He’d been upfront with Annah about his impending departure. One night of pleasure was all he offered. Nothing more.

      He pushed his tea aside and sat forward. ‘Three days before you and I met, my father and I had a falling-out. The job I’d left was my position in the London office of Cavallari Enterprises.’ He’d vacated both his office and the company apartment on the same day, checking into a hotel and taking only his personal effects with him. He hadn’t wanted anything that was paid for with Franco Cavallari’s ill-gotten gains. ‘After I left, I had no contact whatsoever with anyone in the company, my father included.’

      Annah stared at him. ‘What are you saying?’

      ‘My father and I never spoke again. The next time I saw him, he was lying in a casket.’ Luca paused, giving her a minute to process his words. ‘What did you mean about a pay-off? A pay-off for what?’

      Annah hesitated, her eyes wide. ‘An abortion,’ she whispered.

      * * *

      Annah and Luca stared at each other across the table.

      ‘Tell me everything,’ he said, his expression grim.

      She sucked in her breath, her mind grappling with the implications of what he’d told her. If it was true, everything she’d believed about him in the last five years was wrong.

      ‘Start