An Aria in Venice: A Musical Interlude Novel (17 page)

“Gio
invited us here tonight. Both of us,” Rafe explains. “Including Luca, my
brother, whom you’ve taken the time to nickname.” Luca’s head snaps in Rafe’s
direction, his mouth hanging slightly open. This news has obviously shocked
Luca, too.

“Giovanni
always had a sense of humor. Have to admire that in a man who beats the shit
out of people for a living.” His eyes slide to me, and I receive an oily smile
as his gaze travels up and down my body, one deliberate second at a time. “I
see you still know how to pick a classy piece of ass.” Luca’s body goes on
alert; I can sense the change in his posture even though we’re only holding
hands. “Wanna dance for me tonight, sweet cheeks?” Marcello takes a step toward
me and Luca loses it.

“Back
the fuck off!” he yells, and grabs Marcello by the collar of his shirt, shoving
the man back a couple of steps. Rafe moves toward his brother, and the two men
who’ve been hanging out in the shadows behind Marcello stalk toward Rafe. Dread
slams through me. Rafe and Luca are outnumbered and I don’t think Marcello’s
the type who smiles about getting his expensive designer clothing all rumpled
up. I find myself torn between fighting a notion to run and grab something to
slam over the henchmen’s heads, or calling the carabinieri. We’ve also
attracted the attention of a few partygoers.

“What
the hell is going on here?” another male’s voice booms over the music. Giovanni
strolls toward the group, his strut filled with just as much confidence as it
was the last time I saw him. Everyone pulls apart at once.

Marcello
points at Luca, his finger trembling. “I told you this one is never allowed in
here, Gio. I have a notion right now to set my pit bulls on him. Why are you
here?”

“My
question exactly,” Rafe says, his dark hair tousled and hanging in his face,
his eyes searching Gio’s face for an answer no doubt.

“We
have business to discuss. For Mama. Remember, Rafael?” Gio remarks.

“Why
didn’t you show up at the hotel today?” Luca interrupts. “Was it too much to
ask? Instead, you suggest we meet here. You might as well spit on our mother’s
grave.”

“That
would be fitting, considering you’re the one who put her there. Maybe I’ll spit
on you, instead,” Giovanni growls.

“Don’t
talk to him that way. He’s your brother,” I interrupt. All eyes turn on me,
including Marcello’s, which makes me feel like covering every single exposed
area on my skin.

“Ah,
the little dolly speaks, yet again,” Marcello says as he smooths his hair back
into place.

“I
know your type. You’re just jealous,” I accuse, sounding a bit lame, I know,
but someone needs to stick up for Luca.

Marcello
laughs sarcastically. “Jealous of a fuck up who killed his own father? I think
not.” This statement floors me for a bit, but it doesn’t stop my desire to
defend Luca. “Fucking Prince Paris wannabe who betrayed his brother and jilted
my sister after he stole her heart away.” He glares at Giovanni when he says
this, and right away I understand the argument between Luca and Giovanni at
Simona’s house last week. “Why you’ve chosen to forgive him, Gio, goes beyond
my understanding. However, if he touches me again, then he’ll be meeting his
father in the afterworld.”

“Marcello,
that’s enough,” Gio warns.

“You
brought him here. So deal with my wrath,” Marcello hisses.

“Your
wrath? Seriously. What is this? A medieval night club ripped out of Game of
Thrones?” I tease, unable to control the waves of heat I feel toward this man
for putting Luca on the spot this way. Sure, Luca has some explaining to do
later on. No, I’m not surprised to find myself in a confrontation with some
girl’s brother, who is furious about something crappy Luca did to his sister in
the past. Regardless, what most concerns me is that this meeting has something
to do with Simona’s well-being, and this slime seems to play a large part in
making the mystery thing happen.

Marcello’s
expression brightens at first, but then he narrows his eyes until they’re
nothing more than black slits. He takes a step forward, and so does Luca. His
pitiful attempt to intimidate me is so not going to work.

“I
suggest someone tell this little girl who she’s dealing with, and how she might
want to hold that tongue,” he says in a flat tone, emphasizing his last three
words.

“I
think that person should also tell this jackass who I am and that he might want
to do the same.” What in the world has happened to my good sense?

Marcello
scoffs, “And who are you? Ballerina Barbie’s little sister?” The two guys
standing behind him all start laughing.

“Adriana
Dostovsky,” I answer, and all laughter ceases at once. An uncomfortable silence
fills the space between us, tension heating the air as stunned faces glance
back and forth among one another, Gio’s included. I admit during moments like
these, my name comes in a little handy.

The
man standing before me shifts on his feet and moves his neck as though his
collar’s suddenly too tight. “A living, breathing Dostovsky in my place.
Impressive.”

“Wish
I could say the same,” I say snidely.

Marcello
tilts his head to the side, his gaze still locked on my face, and gives me a
bright smile. “Careful, Martuccio. I like this one. She could easily get
stolen.”

“In
your wettest dreams,” I answer, holding his gaze. Marcello’s group laughs at my
comeback, but the Martuccio brothers are standing strong, refusing to give in
to any hint of weakness. Gio glances at Luca, a silent conversation passing
between them.

“Come
on. Let’s go, Adriana.” Luca laces his fingers through mine, breaking the stare
war going on between Marcello and me. Taking my hand, he leads me outside
without saying good-bye to his brothers.

Adriana

We
don’t stop walking until we reach one of the piers closest to the club. I can
still hear the music blasting in the distance. Gondoliers are rolling in,
dropping off their last fares of the night. A fog has settled over the city,
shrouding the structures around us in an eerie mist highlighted by the glow of
streetlights, making the cobbled streets appear as though they have become
hidden pathways to another world. The differences between the Venetian
nighttime and daytime hours astounds me, but the contrast reminds me of the way
Luca’s two personalities go back and forth inside him, showing themselves when
he’s at his most vulnerable and explosive alike. He’s wound up and can’t stop pacing
in circles around me as we walk further down the pier. I think I’m about to
find the answer to whatever secret Luca Martuccio has been holding inside.

“What
were you thinking? I don’t need you fighting my battles,” he says, stopping in
front of me.

I
get heated. He definitely needs someone to fight on his side and just doesn’t
see it. “Somebody needed to stand up for you. I mean, hello, your brothers
didn’t seem to be stepping up to the dirty job.”

“Dirty?
I see. Dealing with me is a bad thing, you think.” His eyes are wide and his
nostrils are flaring. Yeah, I probably should have used a better word.

“That’s
not what I meant and you know it.”

“It’s
true. I am dirty. You heard what Marcello said. I’m a man whore. Outside of
designing, fucking is my specialty.” He starts pacing back and forth while he
says these things. “Yes, I screwed my brother’s girlfriend and her sister, as
well as my mother’s friend. Want to know why I call every single female
Juliette? Because half the time I don’t even remember their fucking name the
next morning. That’s why you are here. I didn’t want Mama to learn her son is a
lost cause, a nymph who can’t ever commit to anyone for even a short period of
time. And yes! My father’s blood is all over my hands. He would never have gone
in that mine if it weren’t for him trying to save me.” He thrusts his hands
into the air for me to see as though there’s blood on them for real.

“It
wasn’t your fault.”

Giving
me an incredulous look, he scoffs, “How would you know that? Did you not listen
to anything I just said?”

I
hesitate, wondering about the answer to that question myself.

Exhaling,
he shakes his head and continues, “I walked into the mine that night,
determined to convince my father I could be worth something, too. More than just
the sickly boy he worked so hard to support. More than a dreamer. That I could
make the family some money, too. I’d no idea the mine was unsafe. Nor did Papa
know I was around. I thought if I could reach the central plumbing system, and
take a few pictures of the main water line, then we would be able to use the
evidence against the mine’s owners. I did not tell him I was going to do this.
When the ground rumbled and the walls started caving in, I panicked. Tried to
get out. Papa had already heard from one of the workers that I’d gone in. He
rushed in to get me. The ceiling above us gave way. He shoved me through the
doorway and he was ...” His voice trails off as he glances out toward the
canal, his chest heaving. He turns back to me, his sculpted face twisted in
pain and says, “Doesn’t get any dirtier than that. I broke my mother’s heart.”

I
choose my next words carefully. Not because I’m trying to be flattering or
impress the famous designer who’s teetering on the edge, the outcome of his
mental state hanging on the front end of what I’m about to say, but because the
man standing here reminds me so much of myself in the way he so passionately
speaks of the father he lost, a man with whom he never got to say good-bye. My
father might not be dead in the physical sense, but his crimes against humanity
and the things he did to his own wife and son killed most of the emotional
attachment to him that I had in left me. “I know you. And more importantly, I
know someone like Simona wouldn’t have a son that could hurt the man he
worships in any kind of malicious way.”

Sighing
deeply, he runs a hand through his hair a few times and glances back toward me,
his eyes narrowed. He studies my face for so long I become restless and cross
my arms. “And here I was thinking I was the one who signed up for showing you a
good time.” We share a very nervous laugh.

“You’ve
done pretty well so far. Trust me. I haven’t thought about
the-one-who-must-not-be-named even once in the last couple of days,” I state
with honesty.

He
narrows his eyes and says, “Did you just use a Harry Potter idiom in vain?” I
didn’t expect this kind of response in the middle of our heated conversation,
but I’m not surprised, either. I raise my eyebrows, silently reminding him that
he was the one who made the proposal to begin this arrangement in the first
place. Instantly, his face brightens as though he has just heard my thoughts.
Luca number two just squashed the previous version of him, and I’m not
completely sure this isn’t a third guy that has been hanging out in the
background all this time. His mouth turns up at the corner.

“I
assume you’re referring to the Andre Peijic look-alike? Never mind.” More
nervous laughter. The tension that had been screwing up his perfect features
fades a little, and the Luca I’m used to, the poet in a designer’s body, starts
to come alive again.

“What
if I’ve screwed up things for Mama?” he asks, his voice filled with anguish and
his face twisted in pain. He squats down on the sidewalk, his elbows propped on
his knees, and grasps two fistfuls of his hair. My heart aches for him. The way
he looks right now reminds me so much of the way Father looked one night when I
caught him alone, grieving over something in our study. I kneel beside him and
massage his back, slowly taking my time to enjoy the feel of his corded muscles
under my hand, wondering why doing so fires up an ache in my chest and stomach
… and yes, especially between my legs in a way that’s almost painful. He
glances up at me, his blue eyes glittering under the streetlight, his pouty
lips moist and sensuous.

Why
haven’t I noticed how perfect his mouth is before now? The look he’s giving me
takes my breath away, my stomach clenching. Reaching out a hand, he pushes my
hair out of my eyes until there aren’t really any bangs left on my forehead to
hide me, shield me, protect me from the world and all its pain and surprises.
Life sometimes chooses a special type of torture for the ones that have good
hearts and a world of pain storming inside their eyes, lost but beautiful souls
caught up inside a world that stains the core of their existence, stealing the
goodness they hold inside the heart until there’s nothing left.

Careful,
Adriana,
my inner voice
says.

This
man is exactly your type.

“Want
to go somewhere and talk?” I whisper. “You promised me a Rose DeWitt-Bukater
style portrait, remember?”

He
nods and says, “Just what I need. More big brothers aiming to castrate me.
Aleksandr’s not tucked away in your pocket, is he?”

“Leave
my brother to me. I’m a big girl. I choose who to get in trouble with.” I give
him the fish lip pout and we both stand as he attempts a weak smile.

Shaking
his head, he stares at me, a disbelieving expression on his face. “You aren’t
afraid of anything, are you?”

I
scoff, “That’s hardly true. I’m scared of everything.” I get the one-sided
smile, the grin that highlights his left dimple.

“After
all the crazy shit you just heard, you’re still willing to take a chance on
me?” he asks, closing the distance between us.

“Everybody
deserves to have someone who believes in them,” I answer, keeping my gaze
locked inside his.

“I
could lose everything because I’m messing around with the boss’s daughter. Yet
another notch for Luciano’s belt of darkly delicious fuck ups,” he says, but
there’s a sparkle in his eyes, a glow on his face that tells me the idea of
being with me, in spite of everything he just said and everyone we’re going to
tick off, excites him.

“Not
this time. You won’t be losing anything else,” I promise. “I’ll make sure of
that.” And I will.

Sighing,
he glances at the canal, blinking, his handsome face caught up in deep
thoughts, making this serious Luca desirable in a way that touches my heart.
Suddenly, he turns to me and says, “I know the perfect place for us.”

“Where?”
I ask, focusing on the way his mouth parts and how the light plays on his
features, giving his flushed face one of those Renaissance-type of vampiric
auras. He hesitates, his jaw working, and I begin to think I won’t be getting
my answer tonight. Then his expression changes and I can almost see the war
between the things going on inside his mind, giving way to the part of him I
hope he feels can trust me enough to tell me something I think could be a
milestone for both of us.

“Make
a deal?” he asks after a long moment.

I
sigh, feeling a bit frustrated, but not wanting him to know just how much I
want to hear, need to hear, what he has to say. “Name your terms, Martuccio.”

“I
tell you my secret. You tell me one of yours.”

I
glance at the buildings we’re walking by, choosing to focus on the way the fog
covers each one instead of what he’s asking me to do. “Okay.”

Holding
a hand up to his ear, he says, “What’s that? I don’t think I heard you
clearly.”

I
turn back to him. “I said okay. Do you know a good place where we can go talk?
Preferably, somewhere quiet.”

“Yes,
I know of a spot.” He turns to me, a wicked gleam in his eye. There’s a part of
me that hesitates to give in to whatever he’s thinking. His behavior’s all over
the place right now, and I can tell he’s still upset by the way he’s avoiding
any mention of his brothers’ reasons for inviting him to the club when it was
clear he wasn’t supposed to have been there. But then, I can’t imagine how it
must feel to have both of your brothers pretty much turn on you in the same moment.
I truly despise the way they treat him. It makes me feel protective, even when
he’s acting a bit strange and erratic like right now, for example.

“Are
you feeling courageous, my little badass ballerina?” he asks, tracing a line
with his finger from my wrist to my forearm, to the skin of my neck, and
finally taking a firm hold on my chin so I’m unable to move my gaze away from
his. Chill bumps race across my skin, making me tremble. I don’t feel brave,
yet I feel reckless at the same time. A war rages inside my body and Luca’s the
referee. My response to his touch widens the one-sided smile on his face.

“I’m
always brave.” I won’t let him intimidate me.
Right, so why are you
whispering?

“Strong
enough to handle a ride underneath the Bridge of Sighs … at night?” he asks,
emphasizing the last couple of words, his normally bright blue eyes dark and
filled with mischief. Luca number two, the shady, damaged, and sexy one, has
arrived on the scene. And even though I know this proposition probably has more
to do with the scene we experienced back at the club than it does any fake
arrangement or whatever’s going on between us, the idea of taking a stroll down
the canal in the dark appeals to the reckless side of me. Luca has this ability
to bring that side of me out in a way I didn’t realize I could do. And I like
it. Wait. I love it!

“Trust
me. I got this,” I answer.

A
sly grin crosses his face. “I hear you.”

Behind
my back, I’ve crossed two sets of fingers.