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He always seemed more attentive, warmer, when he slipped it on instead of the necklace. As if the spirit of the old Mafia don who had worn the pendant before still haunted the gold and infused Dario with his mercilessness.

“You do,” I agreed. “But I think I know most of them by now.”

He raised a brow as he finished drying himself and tucked the towel around his hips. “We fuck in the dark, Fiammetta, and even then, not frequently enough for you to chart my body like a cartographer. I have many scars because I have had many lives. It’s not so surprising you do not know most of them.”

“The scars or your past lives?” I countered.

He shrugged one big shoulder. “Both.”

“I could, you know,” I said, trying for casual as I moved to my vanity and started to moisturize. “I’m all ears for anything you want to share. Including what happened to turn your meeting sour enough you couldn’t be reached for twenty-four hours.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, my business is my own,” Dario returned flatly as he made his way to the door. “You worry about what you’ll wear tonight and put your thoughts to better use.”

I bared my teeth at him even though he wasn’t facing me anymore. “What are you talking about?”

Already halfway out the door, Dario tucked his head back into the room and shot me a wolfish grin that was more threat than contentment. “Someone tried to fuck with us both, and I think I have told you before, that is unacceptable. Tonight, we smoke the fox out of its den.”

Chapter Twenty

Fiammetta

I didn’t see Dario for the rest of the day, which wasn’t in and of itself unusual.

Everything else, though, was very strange.

First, I descended to the kitchen to find Chef offering me a plate filled with a glass of lemon granita, which was a sweet shaved ice, and fresh, still-steaming brioche alongside a frothy cappuccino. When I stared at her blankly, shocked to see the classic Sicilian breakfast when she had only ever made me American offerings that were heavy on the protein, she’d shrugged with an impish grin and told me Dario suggested she make it for me.

Dario.

How the hell did my husband know what I used to eat as a girl in Palermo? Papà hadn’t liked granita, nor had my brothers, but as the Mafia princess, I had it made special every morning without a word of protest.

It had been six years since I had warm brioche dipped in the frosty citrus ice.

I was glad to eat it alone on the patio, because, for some inexplicable reason, the first sweet-salt bite made me want to cry.

Then, later, when I finished reading the Chicago Tribune and returning pressing emails on my tablet, and I was collecting my Chanel tote to head to the office, I was shocked when Stefan and Luigi told me to leave Cerberus at home and led me into the front yard instead of down to the underground parking garage.

Parked illegally at the curb between the parted gates around our home sat a gleaming red Lamborghini Miura, the same car Papà had driven in Sicily. I could still remember the day he brought it home when I was five or six, pulling into the drive on a growling purr of the engine that drew me out of doors before I knew who had arrived. It was considered the first true supercar, and the sleek, almost arrowlike design spoke to its speed and maneuverability.

I had been looking at buying one for myself through a Chicago dealer for the past year but couldn’t bring myself to spend that much money on a car that simply wasn’t practical when you constantly carted around at least two bodyguards.

When I stepped forward to touch my fingers to the spotless garnet-red paint, I noticed a business card tucked under the windshield wiper.

Dario Ferretti. Ferretti Corp. CEO.

On the other side, in a spiky, masculine script, read:

“Cars are like women. You need to know how to touch them in their most sensitive places.”—Enzo Ferrari

“Che significa tutto ciò?” I demanded of Luigi, who was nearest to me.

What is the meaning of this?

He shrugged. “He does not explain himself to us.”

Stefan leaned his narrow face around his colleague and grinned at me. “But I did overhear him tell Cesare he never got you an anniversary present.”

“Dario has never bought me a present for anything,” I corrected, looking back at the gorgeous car that had been a secret desire of my heart since girlhood. “Why the hell would he give me one now?”