Il Bestione (The Golden Door Duet Book 2) Read online

  For all the time she’d been his captive, for all the times since she’d gone to the Little Italy Community Society for their lessons, she had not been so close to him to truly realize his size and strength. When he’d fallen on her, they’d been this close, but he’d been ill and frail, and her mind had been on other things.

  Her chest was against his. He still held her hand. His keen, pale eyes caught hers and held on. They weren’t cold any longer, not now—and, she realized, hadn’t been for some time, at least when he looked at her.

  A flutter in her belly swooped low and made her clench. Right now, she wasn’t wary or contemptuous of this man. Right now, there was only attraction. If he bent down to kiss her, she’d let him.

  The moment had gone on too long; she felt too strongly how close they were, how much of his body she could feel, how much of it she wanted.

  But she didn’t want him. She wanted a life she could choose for herself.

  Mirabella took her hand from his and stepped out of the pull of his presence. “Five minutes,” she said and went back to change.

  XI

  Paolo knew his mistake as soon as he led Mirabella from the shop to his waiting carriage.

  Of course he’d heard the talk churning from the Five Points to this northernmost point of Little Italy, the edge of the neighborhood close enough to acceptable territory that a comfortably successful businessman and his wife might deign to dirty their soles here to have their suits and dresses made. He had boys whose only task was to lurk in corners and shadows like mice and bring all the rumors to him, so he knew full well what people thought had happened between Mirabella and him while she’d been in his house. He’d been managing that rumor for weeks now, proving to those who might think he’d gone soft that he very much had not.

  Mirabella had been coming to him a few times a week for their mutual lessons, but he’d been careful not to be seen alone with her. Each time, she had come to the Little Italy Community Society, in daylight, when others were around, including his secretary.

  The reasons for such precaution had been two: first, he didn’t want it said that he’d let the woman who’d nearly killed him go with such slight recompense as a roll in the sheets, and second, he didn’t want the stain on her honor.

  The first had been far easier to control than the second. All he’d had to do was deal harshly with a few debtors, and he’d crushed the notion that he was any weaker or softer at all. But people would whisper about Mirabella, and Aldo had advised him—correctly, he had no doubt—that trying defend her would only stoke the fire under the rumor.

  So he’d done the only thing he could, and avoided being seen with her.

  Today, when he’d arranged to meet with architects regarding his plans for Long Island and saw that tomorrow was the day that worked best for that meeting, his first thought had been of Mirabella. He wouldn’t be back in time for their usual lessons.

  That thought had very nearly made him reschedule the architects.

  It had only been a few seconds’ fancy, but for those few seconds, he had seriously considered rearranging a meeting on which his entire future balanced so that he could spend a couple of hours telling Mirabella the English words for things as she told him which fork to use.

  That was his first warning, a brilliant flame to illuminate what he’d already known was true but refused to let himself consider: he was growing far too attached to this young woman. Far too attached.

  But he’d doused that warning flare. He wanted his way and didn’t care about warnings.

  He’d snapped back to the proper focus on his business when he’d decided to send for her and change their appointment to tonight. That itself was a risk, sending for her later than usual, so that she’d both come and go after dark.

  That had been his second warning, but he hadn’t cared.

  Then, when she hadn’t been home, he called for his carriage—not the car; he used that primarily for long drives out of the city or business meetings uptown when he wanted to impress—and went looking for her.

  That had been his third warning, but he hadn’t cared.

  Then he’d seen her standing on that platform in that magnificent red and black dress, her slim shoulders showing clearly under gossamer black lace, her willowy arms high, holding her wild curls up, showing the sweep of her graceful neck, and he’d been stunned to a standstill.

  She looked like a society lady. The kind who batted suitors away like moths at a flame.

  And that haughty, wry look of hers as she met his eyes in the mirror. Not anger but ready for it, even as she smiled. That look showed her temper and passionate nature, and it went through him like a hot blade, every time. Straight to his cock.

  Sometimes in his dreams, his mind confused Caterina and Mirabella, and all those horrible memories, of what he’d done, what had happened, how he’d tried, how he’d failed, became about her and not his sister. He’d thought it was because he saw similarities between the two, but really they couldn’t be more different. They were similarly thin, seeming frail but not. Otherwise, they were day and night. Sweetness and spice. Endurance and strength. Courage and bravery.

  Sorrow and rage.

  That rage, always flickering in her eyes, even when she laughed, it spoke to him. He understood it. Perhaps that was why he’d never been angry at her for her attack, and had, truthfully, let her off far too lightly. He respected the attack as an act of vengeance, and he admired the fiery heart that had impelled her to do it.

  He wanted to reach that part of her and pull it close. Share his with hers and be understood. Maybe then he’d find some kind of peace.

  But if he reached so deeply, he’d tear her apart.

  This little arrangement they’d made was as close as he’d allow, and he craved each meeting like it was air or water. He hadn’t been able to tolerate missing one.

  Still, as he helped her into his carriage and noted the surreptitious attention they were getting from others on the street, he realized that he’d made the rumors, every damned one of them, true. It didn’t matter that he’d scarcely touched her, and in no way intimately. He’d just helped into his carriage the woman everyone thought had traded her virtue to him for her life.

  By the morning, the gossips would have her on her way to one of his bordellos.

  There was nothing to be done about it now, so he climbed in after her and sat with as much distance between them as possible.

  She was looking out the window, and she sighed as he knocked on the roof and got Cosimo moving.

  “They’re all saying they were right,” she said in Italian.

  He wasn’t surprised in the slightest that she was thinking the same thing. She was sharp as a stiletto; more than once she’d spoken his own thought aloud.

  But he wanted her to do it in the language she was learning. “In English, Mirabella.”

  She turned to him. “You know what is say of me.”

  They’d spoken directly of the rumors twice. “Yes.”

  “Now say have reason.”

  “You said you didn’t care about gossip.”

  “I no say…”

  She sat with her lips parted. Paolo knew she was formulating her words in an unfamiliar language, but all he could think was how soft and lush her lips looked, how inviting was that slight gap between them.

  After a long moment, she scoffed quietly and spoke in Italian. “I don’t feel ashamed. I know who I am and what I do. But it makes me angry, how these people whisper and condemn as if they don’t have cause to kneel after confession. I have hurt no one—”

  Paolo pointedly cleared his throat. A smile tried to form on his face, but he caught it. It hurt him to smile, real physical pain, as if the muscles in his cheeks had stiffened. He didn’t know if it was a result of the beating he’d taken that first night in New York, or if he’d simply gone so long without the impulse for the expression that the muscles had lost the knack for it. Whatever the reason, it hurt him to smile.

  M
irabella, on the other hand, smiled broadly at his catch. “Well, I’ve hurt none of them. You deserved it.”

  “Did I?”

  Her smile faded. “I don’t know anymore. But I’m glad you didn’t die.”

  “And I’m glad I didn’t kill you for trying.”

  Aldo leaned his girth forward and set the papers on Paolo’s desk. Then he leaned back and said nothing, but stared at Paolo as if expecting him to read his mind.

  Mastering a flare of irritation, Paolo said, “Your job is to advise me.”

  “You know my thoughts about this already.”

  He did. His second hadn’t been shy in disagreeing with him from the moment Paolo had raised this idea. “You still think I’ll be spread too thin.”

  “How can you not be? Paolo, this takes a lot from your reserves and puts it where you can’t get it.”

  “Real estate is the best investment. I’ve studied enough to know that’s true.”

  “Not the best. The safest—because it’s stable. It’s hard to move. It’s best for legitimate businessmen whose cash doesn’t need to flow like ours.”

  Irritation flared again, and Paolo slammed his fist on his desk. Aldo didn’t flinch or blink.

  Pushing his chair back, Paolo stood and went to the window. There was no view to speak of, only the street and its bustle. No one would ever make a picture postcard of the Five Points at midday.

  “I want more than money, Aldo.”

  “I know you do. You want legitimacy. You think you can buy it.”

  Turning from the grimy view beyond his gleaming window, Paolo stared hard at Aldo.

  The only man he trusted completely. One of few whose counsel he respected, and the only whose unvarnished honesty he allowed.

  “I was able to buy a seat at Martin Deller’s table. An invitation into his own home.” In a few days, he’d collect Mirabella and ride northward, and upward, to the highest echelons of New York society.

  Him. Once a peasant, and a slave. Once a beggar. Now a don. Invited to mingle with New York’s elite. He’d made that happen.

  “What if instead of welcoming you, they cut Deller out? That seems more likely—and a lot easier for them.”

  Paolo shook his head. “You know why that won’t happen.”

  He’d chosen Deller carefully. Not only did he have truly depraved vices, but he was one of the most influential financiers in the city. Possibly in the country. Many others of the highest tier of society were in debt to the man, or otherwise beholden. In his studies to plan for this move, Paolo had learned how much of the top-tier families’ wealth rested on a foundation of rotting sticks. Many were in deep holes, trafficking on the pull of their name and status to keep the illusion of wealth and stability going.

  Most of those families owed Martin Deller. He would not be so easy to cut.

  And Paolo Romano had made Martin Deller bend over for him.

  Aldo shrugged. “This is what you want. My job is to tell you what I think, yes. But really, it’s to help you get what you want. So I will do that.”

  Coming back to stand behind his chair, Paolo rested his hands on the tufted-leather back and asked, “You’ve never liked this plan.”

  “No.

  “If I’d died, you’d have the Five Points, all of it, to do what you want.”

  “Likely.” Aldo’s eyes narrowed. “What’s your point?”

  “I’m wondering why you fought so hard to keep me alive.”

  It was a question that had poked at him occasionally in the weeks since he’d recovered enough to have a clear thought and keep it. Especially when they talked about this Long Island deal, and Aldo grumbled and resisted, Paolo wondered. Aldo was older. He was wiser, or at least more experienced. He would make a good don. Possibly, he’d make a better don than Paolo, because he was more experienced and slower to act.

  There had been a chance, right after Paolo had killed Fausto and the others, when Aldo, who’d been a man in the room for Fausto, too, could have fought for control of this family. But he’d stepped at once, without hesitation, to Paolo’s side.

  He didn’t want to be don, and he’d thought Paolo, though barely a man, had earned it.

  That had been years ago now, and Aldo had been unfailingly loyal. But they disagreed seriously about this Long Island plan. Paolo was changing the family business in a way Aldo didn’t want.

  Paolo sometimes wondered what he would have done, if their positions were reversed, and he’d had an opportunity to stop something he didn’t want to happen from happening. Would he have been so quick to get Aldo the medical help he needed, defying his orders to do it?

  He wasn’t sure.

  But this was the first time he’d put the question out in words.

  Aldo was staring at him, perfectly silent. The crease between his bushy brows had deepened to a trench.

  “With respect, Don Romano, fuck you.”

  Understanding, Paolo nodded. “You’re right. You’ve never given me cause to question your loyalty, but you’ve given me plenty to trust it. It was a bad thing to ask.”

  “It was. I fought to keep you alive because I love you, Paolo. You’re like a brother to me. You’re like a son to me. I’m here at your side, whatever you do, for the same reason. I love you.”

  Those three words left Paolo cold. He no longer knew what it meant, to be loved. His mother had loved him—and told him he was a murderer and doomed. His father had loved him, and his mother, and his sister—and abandoned them all to slavery and horror. His sister had loved him—and turned from him when he was no use to her.

  Love was a judgment of worth, and he’d been found unworthy by everyone who had ever mattered.

  He didn’t acknowledge Aldo’s judgment, but said, “I shouldn’t have I asked.”

  Aldo acknowledged his stunted apology with a nod.

  Then Paolo sat down at his desk. “I’m going to sign this deal.”

  “I know you are. And I’ll do what I can to help you make it what you want it to be.”

  On the night of Martin’s Deller’s ‘soiree,’ Paolo had Cosimo pull the carriage up in front of the tenement building where the Montanaris lived. He’d considered taking the Mercedes, and arriving on 5th Avenue brashly, in his bright red motorcar, but it was raining, and the canvas top on the Mercedes wouldn’t be sufficient protection from the elements, not with Mirabella beside him.

  The brougham was fully enclosed, for the riders, and would provide shelter on the ride uptown.

  It was his intention to go in and knock for her, but as he stepped from the carriage, with Cosimo there to hold an umbrella over his head, Mirabella opened the building’s main door and stepped out into the rain.

  “Go to her,” Paolo said, and Cosimo hurried to her, putting the umbrella over her instead.

  Paolo waited and helped her into the carriage.

  All that had happened in a manner of seconds, and Paolo hadn’t had a chance to really take her in. He did now, as she settled in the plush seat beside him.

  She was lovely.

  The rain wasn’t so heavy that those few seconds of exposure had undone any of her efforts for the evening. Her raven-dark hair was done in a complicated style that seemed of the fashion but also made the most of her waves. Soft tendrils curled at her temples and ears. Her cheeks were rosy as if she’d rouged them, and her lashes seemed particularly long and dark. Her lips, too were redder, nearly the color of the satin dress beneath black lace.

  Around her neck was a plain length of black velvet. Long black gloves and a heavy black velvet stole completed her ensemble.

  He’d paid for it all, yet he had the unshakable sense of being given a gift.

  Then she turned and smiled at him. It was wry and knowing, a little hard at the edges. As if this night were nothing new or special and she’d seen it all before. Mischief sparked in her dark eyes.

  “We’re off to storm the castle,” she said. “Is there a battering ram on top of the carriage?”

  They
were a pair. Riding up from the most notorious slum in the city, all the way to 5th Avenue and one of the greatest houses on it. With a crisp, engraved invitation in the pocket of his formal suit.

  “No need for a battering ram. We’re invited.”

  Paolo reached into another pocket and withdrew a small box. He held it out to her.

  She looked at it with one dark, expressive eyebrow raised high. “Cos’è?” she asked.

  She’d spoken in Italian before as well. She was a quick study, but she’d only been trying to learn English for a few weeks, and she didn’t like it. Often he had to prod her to remember. “English, Mirabella.”

  With an irritated huff, she did as he’d bid. “What is that?”

  “You’ll have to open it and see.”

  Rather than take the box from him, she lifted her eyes to his. “You me give gift?” With a quick shake of her head, she tried again before he could ask her to. “You give gift for me?”

  Suddenly, as he sat beside her holding out a box she hadn’t yet taken, Paolo felt exposed and alarmed. What was he doing, buying her jewelry? They weren’t lovers. Mirabella owed him. This was a business arrangement. Nothing more.

  He could hardly take it back now, however, so he said, “Not a gift. Something you need so you look right tonight.”

  With those words, he’d meant to insert some distance between them and this box he was offering, and he saw in her eyes, the little waver through them of hurt or disappointment or both, that he had.

  And then he felt sorry for it.

  But she took the box, at least. When she opened it, she stared at what she’d revealed: a pair of earrings, set in gold, with long jet beads that dangled, and a cluster of garnets at the top.

  He’d seen the dress as her father had been making it, and he’d described it to an uptown jeweler, who had suggested these.

  Now, he wondered what in the nine circles of Hell he’d been thinking.

  And he wanted her to say something.

  Finally, she did. One elegantly gloved finger brushed along a jet bead. “Bellissima,” she whispered, and then looked at him and said, “They are beautiful. Thank you.”