Claiming His Wedding Night Consequence

The man’s arrogance was astounding!

Chiara took her hand off the door and folded her arms across her chest. ‘No, I don’t know who you are. Now, if you have nothing better to do than interrogate me on my own doorstep then I’ll ask you to leave. We had a funeral here this week—it is not an appropriate time.’

His eyes gleamed. ‘To the contrary...now is the most appropriate time for this conversation. May I?’

He sidestepped her neatly and was walking into the vast stone hallway before she could stop him.

Spiro whined and Chiara whirled around. ‘Excuse me, what on earth do you think you’re doing? This is my property!’

Except it’s not really, reminded a little voice.

The man turned around to face her and Chiara got the full impact of him. It was almost too much. He made the majestic reception area seem small. He had to be well over six feet, and broad with it. He wore a dark suit that could only be custom-made as it clung to his well-honed physique like a second skin. His air of intense physicality made Chiara think of bare-knuckle fighters she’d seen in a documentary once. It was as if his suit was just a flimsy concession to urbanity.

His gaze slid down to beside Chiara and his lip curled. ‘What is that?’

Chiara glanced down to see Spiro, looking in the general direction of the man and emitting a low growl. She put her hand on his head and looked at her uninvited guest. ‘He’s my dog and you’re upsetting him. This is my home and I’d like you to leave.’

His gaze came back to rest on her and Chiara fought not to fidget under that exacting expression.

‘This is precisely what I’ve come here to discuss—the fact that this home is not actually yours at all.’

Chiara’s insides seized. Was this man from the bank? She forced herself to ask, ‘What are you talking about?’

He didn’t answer right away. Instead he put his hands in his pockets, drawing Chiara’s eye to his mid-section. Heat climbed up her neck and face and she diverted her gaze before he might notice. But he didn’t notice. He was looking up at the walls and turning around in a small circle.

He said, as if to himself, ‘I’ve waited a long time to be here...’

Then he started walking towards the reception room Chiara had just vacated. She went after him. ‘Excuse me, Signor Domenico...’

He turned to face her from the middle of the room and Chiara had the strangest sensation that she was the guest—and not a very welcome one.

‘It’s Santo Domenico.’

Chiara bit out the name. ‘Signor Santo Domenico. I insist you tell me what on earth this is all about or I will call the police.’

Now she was beginning to panic. He must be from the bank. But were they allowed to show up like this? Why had the solicitor not warned her this might happen so soon?

Chiara’s head was starting to hurt again.

He looked around. ‘Where are the staff?’

Chiara felt defensive and wasn’t sure why. ‘There are no staff—not that it’s any business of yours.’

He looked at her, incredulous again. ‘How have you kept this place?’

Chiara knew that was also none of his business, but this whole meeting had taken a surreal turn and she found herself saying, ‘We closed up the rooms we weren’t using and just maintained the few we needed.’

‘You and your parents?’

‘Yes. They were buried in a double funeral two days ago, in case you weren’t aware.’ She was hoping to shock him into some kind of realisation that he was here at a very inappropriate time.

He nodded his head. ‘I am aware, and I’m sorry for your loss.’

He couldn’t have sounded less sorry.

Before Chiara could formulate another word he said, ‘You had a meeting with your solicitor the other day?’

‘Yes,’ Chiara said faintly. ‘How did you know?’

‘It’s customary to have the reading of the will and such after the funeral.’

‘Of course.’

She cursed herself for feeling paranoid. She had no reason to feel paranoid. If he wasn’t from the bank then he had to be the businessman her solicitor had mentioned. She forced herself to calm down. There would have to be due process before anyone evicted her from her own home.

‘So you will now be aware that this castello is in danger of being possessed by the bank unless you can drum up the necessary funds.’ Here he stopped, and looked around again before saying, ‘Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, but I don’t think that’s likely.’

Chiara wanted to point out that he’d been speaking out of turn since the moment he’d materialised on the doorstep, but that wasn’t the issue here. ‘Are you from the bank?’

He shook his head and a small smile played around that disturbing mouth, as if her question was amusing for some unknown reason. It made her want to slap him when she’d never before felt violent towards anyone in her life.

‘So how do you know that information, then?’

He shrugged minutely and looked back at her. ‘I have my sources and I’ve had a...a keen interest in the castello for some time now.’

‘A keen interest...?’ Chiara struggled to make sense of his cryptic response.

He faced her squarely then, and she had the uncomfortable sensation that he was about to be a lot less cryptic.

‘Yes, a keen interest. For my whole life, in fact. Because, you see, the truth of the matter is that this castello actually belongs to me. To my family, specifically—the Santo Domenicos.’

* * *

Nico looked at the woman standing just a few feet away. She couldn’t be more nondescript, in a black shapeless dress, with long light brown hair and not a scrap of make-up. His first impression of her had been that she had to be the housekeeper, but now he noticed the proud bearing of her form. Spine straight, shoulders back...

His conscience pricked—her parents had just died. But he quashed the spark of compassion. This day had been coming for decades and now it was finally here.

His father had died a bitterly disappointed man, and countless other members of his family had suffered as a result of this woman’s family’s actions. He’d suffered too, enduring jeers and taunts his whole life.

‘You’re not one of the powerful now, Santo Domenico—you’re nothing...’

But he wasn’t nothing any more. He had singlehandedly pulled himself out of the streets of Naples and achieved stunning success, and now he was finally ready to reclaim his family’s heritage from the people who had stolen it so many years ago.

His one regret was that his father hadn’t lived to see the castello returned. That he hadn’t lived to see where his ancestors were buried and pay his respects. His father had come here once, with his own father’s ashes, and asked if he could scatter them in the family plot, but he’d been turned away like a beggar.

Nico would never forget the humiliation etched into his father’s face and the rage burning in his eyes.

He’d said to Nico that day, ‘Promise me you’ll walk through those gates one day and reclaim our legacy...promise me.’