The Scandalous Orsinis: Raffaele: Taming His Tempestuous Virgin. Sandra Marton
Читать онлайн книгу.
jour for hoodlums.
The capo had not taken his eyes off Rafe, and nasty eyes they were. Small. Set too close together. Unblinking and altogether mean. At first Rafe had ignored it, but it was getting to him.
For some reason the pig man didn’t like him. Fine. The feeling was mutual.
Added to all that, Cordiano seemed intent on spinning endless, self-aggrandizing tales set in the glory days of his youth, when men were men and there was nothing anybody could do about it.
Rafe didn’t care. All he wanted was to get out of here, back to Palermo, back to the States and a world that made sense, but until they got down to basics, he was stuck.
His attempts to move things along had gotten nowhere.
After the handshakes, the how-was-your-trip question and his it-was-fine response—because no way was he going to tell this sly old fox and his capo that he’d been had by a doddering old highwayman and a woman—after all that plus the ceremonial handing over of the unwanted cigar and the obligatory glass of grappa, Rafe had handed Cordiano his father’s sealed letter.
“Grazie,” the don said and tossed it, unopened, on his desk. Each time he paused for breath, Rafe tried to launch into the verbal form of his father’s apology. No luck. Cordiano didn’t give him a chance.
At least the marriage proposal had not been mentioned. Maybe Cesare had already explained that Rafe would not be availing himself of the generous offer to take his old enemy’s obviously undesirable daughter off his hands.
Something must have shown in his face because the pig man’s eyes narrowed. Rafe narrowed his in return. He felt foolish, like a kid doing his best to stare down the class bully, but what else did he have to keep him occupied?
“—for you, Signor Orsini.”
Rafe blinked and turned toward Cordiano. “Sorry?”
“I said, this has surely been a long day for you and here I am, boring you with my stories.”
“You’re not boring me at all,” Rafe said, and forced a smile.
“Is the grappa not to your liking?”
“I’m afraid I’m not a grappa man, Don Cordiano.”
“And not a cigar man, either,” Cordiano said, with a quick flash of teeth.
“Actually…” Rafe put his glass on the small table beside the chair and rose to his feet. The pig man stood up, too. Enough, Rafe thought. “I am also not a man who enjoys being watched as if I might steal the silver, so tell your watchdog to relax.”
“Of course.” The don chuckled, though the sound was remarkably cheerless. “It is only that Giglio sees you as competition.”
“Trust me, Cordiano, I’m not the least bit interested in taking his job.”
“No, no, certainly not. I only meant that he is aware that I have been searching for a way to thank him for his years of dedication, and—”
“And I’m sure you’ll find an appropriate reward but that doesn’t concern me. I’m here on behalf of my father. I’d appreciate it if you’d read his letter.”
Cordiano smiled. “But I know what it says, signor. Cesare begs my forgiveness for what he did almost half a century ago. And you, Raffaele—may I call you that?—and you are to assure me that he means every word. Yes?”
“That’s pretty much it.” And still not a word about daughters and marriage, thank God. “So, I can return home and tell him his apology is accepted? Because it’s getting late. And—”
“Did your father tell you what it is he did?”
“No. He didn’t. But that’s between you and—”
“I was his—I suppose you would call it his sponsor.”
“How nice for you both.”
“He repaid my generosity by stealing la mia fidanzata.”
“I’m sorry but I don’t speak—”
“Your father stole my fiancée.” Cordiano’s smile turned cold. “He eloped with her in the middle of the night, two days before we were to marry.”
“I don’t understand. My father has a wife. She…” Rafe’s jaw dropped. “Are you saying my mother was engaged to you?”
“Indeed she was, until your father stole her.”
All that “dark passion” stuff was starting to make sense. Now what? What could he say? It was hard enough to picture a young Cesare but to imagine his mother as a young woman running away with him.
“Did you think this was about something simple?” The don’s voice was as frigid as his smile. “That is why he sent you here, boy. To offer a meaningful apology, one I would accept. An eye for an eye. That is our way.”
Rafe shot a quick look at the capo. Was that what this was all about? He’d put in his time in the Marines; he and his brothers had all served their country. He could give a good account of himself against, what, 350 pounds of fat and muscle, but in the end.
“An eye for an eye. Or, now that so many years have gone by, a deed for a misdeed.” Cordiano folded his arms over his chest. “Your father took my bride. I will show him forgiveness by letting you take my daughter as yours. Do you see?”
Did he see? Rafe almost laughed. No way. Not even a genius would see any logic in that.
“What I see,” he said flatly, “is that you have a daughter you want to get rid of.”
Pig Man made a humming sound deep in his throat.
“And somehow, you and my old man cooked up this cockeyed scheme. Well, forget about it. It’s not going to happen.”
“My daughter needs a husband.”
“I’m sure she does. Buy one, if that’s what it takes.”
The mountain of muscle grunted and took a step forward. Rafe could feel the adrenaline pumping. Hell, he thought, eyeing the capo, he could do more than put up a good fight. Angry as he was, he could take him.
“I have your father’s word in this matter, Orsini.”
“Then you have nothing, because it is not his word you need, it’s mine. And I can damned well assure you that—”
“There you are,” Cordiano said sharply, glaring past him. “It took you long enough to obey my orders, girl.”
Rafe swung around. There was a figure in the doorway. Chiara Cordiano had come to join them. A weak finger of late-afternoon sunlight pierced a narrow gap in the heavy window draperies, lending a faint outline to her thin shape.
“Have you turned to stone?” the don snapped. “Step inside. There is a man here who wants to meet you.”
Like hell he did, Rafe almost said, but he reminded himself that none of this was the girl’s fault. If anything, he felt a stab of pity for her. He’d already figured that she was homely. Maybe it was worse than that. For all he knew, she had warts the size of watermelons.
She was also a woman defeated. Everything about her said so.
She moved slowly. Her head was bowed, showing dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her hands were folded before her, resting at her waistline, assuming she had one. It was impossible to tell because her dress was shapeless, as black and ugly as her shoes. Lace-ups, he thought with incredulity, the kind he’d seen little old ladies wearing back home on Mulberry Street.
He couldn’t see her face but he didn’t need to.
It would be as plain as the rest of her.
No wonder her father was trying to