The Correttis (Books 1-8). Кейт Хьюит

had been great and he had kept his distance. He didn’t know what he was doing wrong. Finally there was a woman his user guide manual couldn’t work out and he didn’t like it a bit. ‘I want to talk to you,’ Santo said. ‘Away from here. I am going to finish at seven tonight and then I am taking you out for dinner. No work—’ he made it very clear ‘—there is no need to bring my diary. We are going out for dinner.’

      ‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’

      ‘It’s very necessary…’ he started, but he didn’t get to finish because his assistant came to tell him that Taylor was getting upset.

      ‘That’s all I need.’ Santo rolled his eyes and then turned to Ella. ‘Can you talk to her, maybe have lunch with her. You’re good with people. It might calm her down.’

      ‘That’s not my job, Santo.’ And she should say nothing, Ella knew it, should just walk off and be done, except she couldn’t resist. ‘And I don’t blame her for being upset—she’s done an amazing job this morning. If Rafaele didn’t get his shot, it has nothing to with Taylor. If I were directing we wouldn’t be wasting so much time on the crying scene. I’d zoom into an Italian shot of Taylor crying, which could be done back in the studio if it doesn’t work out here, and I wouldn’t have Vince walking over to her. I’d have a moment of him watching and then Taylor turning, just his hand moving towards her face… .’ And she was sulking—oh, yes, she was—because it should be her directing this film, and with that she walked off.

      And Santo stood there, when he wanted to chase after her.

      Ella was affecting him in a way no woman ever had. Since their time together she was all he had thought about—and for what?

      He looked up and straight into the eyes of a pretty young actress who smiled straight back at him. If he just took her to his trailer he’d feel better in ten. He should just get over Ella in ways of old, but he was back to the wedding that never happened again—just utterly bored and unmoved by the usual temptations. He’d been working in the chocolate factory too long, perhaps, Santo realised, had possibly reached his fill, except he wasn’t sure he wanted it over.

      And for what?

      For someone who didn’t even want to talk to him?

      For woman who was heading for Roma and that sleaze Luigi?

      A moody, unreasonable, uptight woman who wasn’t even a very good PA, Santo told himself.

      So why had he hired her?

      You know why, a small voice told him.

      Because it wasn’t for her PA skills that he wanted her around, and no, he hadn’t been thinking with his head when, despite her terrible Italian, he’d kept her on.

      And then he stopped thinking about Ella. Santo had no choice but to, as suddenly, albeit not completely unexpectedly, all hell broke loose on the set.

      CHAPTER NINE

      IT WASN’T ALL about Santo.

      Ella had been telling the truth.

      Today was the day she had been dreading for weeks now.

      Calling home had always proven difficult, but in the past six months it had become almost impossible.

      She put it off for as long as she could. Ella completed some of Santo’s banking, rang and arranged the interview with Paulo and left a message for Marianna to call her. When she could put it off no longer, Ella dialled her parents’ number and prayed that she’d get the answer machine.

      She didn’t.

      ‘Hi, Mum.’ Ella attempted upbeat. ‘Happy birthday.’

      ‘Ella!’ She could hear the strain and discomfort in her mother’s voice. No doubt she had been dreading this phone call too. There was just so little they had to say to each other. ‘It’s so lovely to hear from you–where are you?’

      ‘We’re on location, filming.’ Ella did her best to be vague, but when her mother pressed for more information about her beloved homeland, Ella told her where she was.

      ‘Oh!’ There was silence for a moment. ‘That is close to where I grew up.’

      ‘I know.’

      ‘Have you been to have a look at my village?’

      ‘Not yet,’ Ella said. ‘I’ve been so busy with work and everything and the shooting is falling way behind.’

      ‘Your aunts will be so excited to finally meet you,’ Gabriella said. ‘I told them so much about you, about your work in the film industry.’

      ‘I’m not working in the film industry.’ It was a very sore point. ‘I’m a PA.’

      ‘For now,’ Gabriella said. ‘But you don’t need to tell your aunts that. You tell them how well you’re doing, how good things are….’ Ella could hear the veiled warning, the call to keep up the pretence, to carry on with the hopeless charade that everything was perfect. ‘Or maybe it would be better for you to say nothing about work. I don’t think it will be good if they know you are working for a Corretti.’

      ‘I’m not going to lie.’

      ‘I never ask you to lie. I just don’t think they need to know everything. The Corretti name has a long history—it might not go down too well. You know how shocked I was when I found out who you were working for. That name is one that strikes fear into a lot of people and especially in my village.’

      And finally, finally, there was something to talk about, a common ground they could share. Maybe her trip to Italy was worth it, because at last there was a mutual link. ‘That family is dangerous,’ her mother warned.

      ‘I think things are very different now.’

      ‘There are no changes. I saw on the news that the wedding between the Corretti and Battaglia families didn’t go ahead.’ Ella smiled, because since she had been a little girl her mother always had the Italian radio on. The one thing Ella had been able to do for her mother, to make her life a little more pleasurable, was to get satellite television so that she could watch the Italian news, which Gabriella did, all of the time. ‘I remember only too well Salvatore’s sons…’

      ‘Carlo and Benito?’

      ‘Morto!’ her mum said. ‘I still remember the night they died. My sister rang and I turned on the news….Don’t you remember?’ And a memory unfurled then. Ella would have been about twenty. She could see her mother standing by the television screen, shouting, a huge warehouse fire being shown on the news. It had meant nothing to Ella at the time, but it meant so much more now. She listened more carefully than she had back then as her mother spoke of that night. ‘It was no accident, whatever anyone says.’

      ‘They were killed?’ Ella felt a shiver run down her spine.

      ‘Who knows?’ Gabriella said. ‘They have a lot of enemies. Some people said it could have been an insurance scam that went wrong. These are the people you are dealing with—you should remember that at all times.’

      ‘Santo is nothing like that,’ Ella said.

      ‘Please,’ her mother scoffed. ‘He is Carlo’s son. He could be no other way. Carlo was obsessed with power, with money, with women—he could not stay faithful to his wife for even five minutes. Oh, but he was a charmer too.’ Maybe Santo did take after his father after all. ‘Salvatore was the worst.’

      ‘Did he cheat too?’

      ‘Who knows?’ Gabriella said again. ‘He was just pure bad—the Battaglia family too. How they ever slept at night with their consciences…’ Gabriella said. ‘Their wives were as bad too. Lording over everyone as if they were royalty, holding their fancy dinner parties. Your aunt worked in the kitchen of Salvatore’s wife, Teresa, once for a dinner party. Their money was filthy—you ask your aunts. They will tell you—oh, the