What a Sicilian Husband Wants

Inhaling Lily’s scent brought some control to her careering thoughts, and the fogginess clouding her brain began to abate.

Under no circumstances could she let the shock of all that had just occurred control her actions. She needed to take control, now, before it was too late.

Too late?

Who was she trying to fool? Of course it was too late.

What did she expect? That Luca would take her shooting him and hiding the existence of their child on the chin and walk away?

And she’d so nearly got away with it.

She’d managed to get hold of the gun only a couple of months ago, when she had been unable to sleep for fear of Luca’s men finding them and tearing Lily away from her. She had seen the evidence of what her husband was capable of, evidence that burned her retinas and flourished in her nightmares.

The threat of prison if she were caught with an illegal firearm had not deterred her from purchasing it. She’d got it from the son of the farmer she rented the cottage from, a young man with a few unsavoury acquaintances. She hadn’t cared where it came from; she was safer with it. Lily was safer with it. Knowing it was in the house allowed her to sleep. Sometimes.

Luca’s men were always armed. And they were dangerous. Prison had seemed preferable to falling into their clutches.

They were also stupid. She had outwitted them before when she made her escape. She could outwit them again.

Except Luca had come for her personally, something she had not anticipated. She had imagined him like a king in his castle, waiting for his soldiers to bring his erring queen home, so she could be locked in the tower for the rest of her days.

Luca was not stupid. Luca was the sharpest person she had ever known, which made him infinitely more dangerous than his lackeys, and much harder to outwit.

Some sixth sense had been nagging at her for weeks that it was time to move on. Why, oh, why had she not acted on it sooner?

Prison did now loom dark. Not a traditional cell of iron bars and a tiny slot for a window, but a towering pink sandstone nightmare.

Lily finally stopped whimpering. Soothed and snug, she fixed her trusting, night-blue eyes on her mummy.

Her mummy, Grace reminded herself. 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.