Nicolo: The Powerful Sicilian. Sandra Marton
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given him and slipped quietly inside.
What came next had been like a punch in the gut.
His lady was in bed with her boss, the bank’s CEO, laughing as she assured him that Nicolo Orsini was absolutely, positively going to make an offer for the bank that far exceeded its worth.
“An Orsini and you, babe,” the man had said. “It’s a classic. The princess and the stable boy…”
The delicate champagne flute shattered in Nick’s hand.
“Merda!”
Champagne spilled on the jacket of his tux; a tiny drop of crimson oozed from a small cut on his hand. Nick yanked a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed at his tux, at his finger…
“Hey, man,” an amused male voice said, “the champagne’s not that bad.”
It was Rafe, coming toward him with a bottle of Heineken in each hand. Nick groaned with pleasure and reached for one.
“You’re a miracle worker,” he said. “Where’d this come from?”
“Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.” Rafe frowned, jerked his head at Nick’s hand. “You okay?”
“Fine. See? The bleeding’s stopped already.”
“What happened?”
Nick shrugged. “I didn’t know my own strength,” he said with a lazy smile. “No problem. I’ll get something and sweep it up.”
“Trust me, Nick. One of the catering staff is bound to come out of the woodwork before you can—” A woman appeared, broom and dustpan in hand. “See? What did I tell you?”
Nick nodded his thanks, waited until the woman was gone, then touched his bottle to his brother’s.
“To small miracles,” he said, “like brothers with bottles of beer at just the right moment.”
“I figured it would do away with that long face you were wearing.”
“Me? A long face? I guess I was—ah, I was thinking about that Swiss deal.”
“Forget business,” Dante said, as he joined them. He, too, had a bottle of beer in his hand. “It’s a party, remember?” He grinned as he leaned closer. “Gaby says that little caterer’s assistant has been eyeing you all afternoon.”
“Well, of course she has,” Nick said, because he knew it was expected.
His brothers laughed. They talked for a few minutes and then it was time to say goodbye to the bride and groom.
Finally, he could get out of here.
He went through the whole routine—kisses, hugs, promises to his mother that he’d come to dinner as soon as he could. His father wasn’t around. Perfect, he thought as he made his way down the long hall to the front door. He never had anything to say to Cesare beyond a perfunctory “hello” or “goodbye,” and if the old man got hold of him today, it might take more than that because—
“Nicolo.”
Hell. Think of the devil and he was sure to turn up.
“Leaving so soon, mio figlio?” Cesare, dressed not in Brioni today but in an Armani tux, flashed a smile.
“Yes,” Nick said coldly.
Cesare chuckled. “So direct. A man after my own heart.”
“You don’t have a heart, Father.”
“And you are quick. I like that, too.”
“I’m sure I should be flattered but you’ll forgive me if I’m not. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Have you forgotten you were to meet with me the day of Dante’s wedding?”
Forgotten? Hardly. Cesare had cornered Falco and him; Nick had cooled his heels while Falco and the old man were closeted in his study and after a few minutes Nick had thought, What am I doing, waiting here like an obedient servant?
Besides, he’d known what his father wanted to tell him. Safe combinations. Vault locations. The names of lawyers, of accountants, everything the don felt his sons had to know in case of his death, when truth was none of them would ever touch the spoils of what the media called the Orsini famiglia.
“Five minutes,” Nick said brusquely. “Just so long as you know in advance, Father, that whatever speech you’ve prepared, I’m not interested.”
Freddo, Cesare’s capo, stepped out of the shadows as father and son approached the don’s study. Cesare waved the coldeyed hoodlum aside, followed Nick into the room and shut the door.
“Perhaps, Nicolo, I will be able to change your mind.”
Ten minutes later, Nick stared at his father.
“Let me be sure I get this. You want to invest in a winery.”
Cesare, seated behind his oversized mahogany desk, hands folded on its polished surface, nodded. “Yes.”
“The Antoninni winery in Florence, Italy.”
“In Tuscany, Nicolo. Tuscany is a province. Firenze is a city within it.”
“Spare me the geography lesson, okay? You’re investing in a vineyard.”
“I have not made that commitment yet but yes, I hope to invest in the prince’s winery.”
“The prince.” Nick laughed, but the sound was not pleasant. “Sounds like a bad movie. The Prince and the Don, a farce in two acts.”
“I am pleased you are amused,” Cesare said coolly.
“What’d you do? Make him an offer he couldn’t refuse?”
The don’s expression hardened. “Watch how you speak to me.”
“Or what?” Nick leaned over the desk and slapped his hands flat on the surface. “I’m not afraid of you, old man. I haven’t been afraid of you since I figured out what you were two decades ago.”
“Nor have you shown me the respect a son owes a father.”
“I owe you nothing. And if respect’s what you want from me—”
“We are wasting time. What I want from you is your professional expertise.”
Nick stood straight, arms folded. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning, I need to know the true value of the vineyard before I make a final offer. A financial evaluation, you might call it.”
“And?”
“And, I am asking you to make the evaluation for me.”
Nick shook his head. “I evaluate banks, Father. Not grapes.”
“You evaluate assets. It is your particular skill at the company you and your brothers own, is it not?”
“How nice.” Nick’s lips drew back from his teeth in a lupine smile. “That you noticed your sons own a business so different from yours, I mean.”
“I am a businessman, Nicolo.” Nick snorted; Cesare’s eyes narrowed. “I am a businessman,” he repeated. “And you are an expert on financial acquisitions. The prince offers me a ten percent interest for five million euros. Is that reasonable? Should my money buy me more, or will I lose it all if the company is in trouble?” The don picked up a manila envelope and rattled it. “He gave me facts and figures, but how do I know what they mean? I want your opinion, your conclusions.”
“Send an accountant,” Nick said with a tight smile. “One of the paesano who cooks your books.”
“The real question,” his father said, ignoring the jibe, “is why he wants