PROLOGUE

      MATTEO DI SIONE knew only too well his shortcomings.

      He didn’t need to have them pointed out to him.

      Again.

      Summoned by his grandfather, Giovanni, it was with a sense of dread that Matteo drove towards the Di Sione estate—a magnificent, sprawling residence set in the Gold Coast of Long Island.

      On the death of Matteo’s parents, Giovanni had taken in the seven orphans that his son, Benito, and wife, Anna, had left behind. For Matteo, then only five years old, this place had become home.

      Now he had a penthouse apartment in Manhattan with glittering views of the skyline and the city that never slept at his feet.

      This was home though.

      For better or worse, this was where his fractured, scattered family met on occasion, or returned to at times.

      Now, Matteo assumed that he had been called here to be served a lecture.

      Another one.

      The previous weekend had been particularly wild, even by Matteo’s licentious standards. The press, who were eagerly awaiting his downfall, had been watching. They couldn’t wait for a Di Sione to hit skid row and so had taken delight in reporting Matteo’s million-dollar loss in Vegas on Saturday night. They had, of course, failed to mention that he had recouped the loss twice over by dawn. What hurt him the most, though, was that a prestigious paper had written a very scathing piece.

      Arriving in Manhattan this morning, he had gone from his jet to the waiting car and checked the news—the headline he had seen had been the one he had dreaded the most.

      History Repeats!

      There was a photo of him coming out of the casino, unshaven, with his hair falling over his eyes. He was clearly a little the worse for wear. On his arm was a blonde.

      Beside that image, there was another, taken some thirty years ago, in the very same year that he had been born.

      Benito Di Sione coming out of a casino, unshaven with the same straight black hair falling over the same navy eyes and clearly a little the worse for wear. On his arm the beautiful requisite blonde, who was not Matteo’s mother.

      Matteo doubted his father would have remembered who the woman was, whereas Matteo always remembered his lovers.

      On Saturday night her name had been Lacey and she had been gorgeous.

      He adored women.

      Skinny ones, big ones and anywhere in between. Matteo had a slight yen for the newly divorced—he had found that they were only too happy to rekindle that long-lost flame of desire.

      Matteo always made it perfectly clear that he was here for a good time not a long time and he was never with anyone long enough to cheat.

      The