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“At the bathroom, I forgot to tell you. Francesco cornered me.”

“Wait… slow down.”

“He’s Lorenzo’s cousin. He’s the one who Lorenzo was speaking to.”

“Dial it back to Francesco. What happened?”

“He cornered me. It got all heated, and Giovanni came. The man went running. I just put it together.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“No. Not really. He introduced himself, and that was it. Really nice looking guy, Tall, with crystal blue eyes.”

“Sounds like Lorenzo’s cousin.” Fabiana nodded. “Why are you grinning like that?”

“Nothing,” Mira chuckled. Her insides felt warm and her head fuzzy from the wine. All she could do was smile. It had been a weird night. Her debut was in less than seventy-two hours. If the Battaglia’s could get her back into her building then so be it. However, she would not take on investors. No way in hell. She wanted nothing to do with the Mafia mess. Mira rose, bone weary tired. “I’ve had enough of this intrigue over the Battaglia men. I’m done. Going to bed.”

Fabiana shot to her feet. She grabbed Mira by her hand and dragged her toward the doors to their outside balcony. “What are you doing?”

Mira was forced outside into the warm night. “Look out there!” she exclaimed. “We did it! You and I together. We’re finally here.”

She held Fabiana’s hand and stood at her side on the balcony. They always vowed to celebrate their successes. Tonight was the first night she truly believed in her talent without reservation. Maybe it was the wine.

“What’s that over there?” Mira pointed.

“Egg Castle. Isn’t it pretty?” Fabiana said in a wistful tone.

“Yes. All of it is. The cathedrals, monuments, bridges and mountains. All of it is like some dream.”

“It is a dream. Our Dream.” Fabiana squeezed her hand. “And it’s just begun. So is your new life, social or whatever. From this day forward you are going to live it. We both are. Deal?”

“Deal.”

****

Giovanni reclined in his smoking chair. He didn’t sleep often. The dreams overwhelmed him when he let his defenses down. He had it within his power to do away with the prostitution houses they owned under his father’s reign. He allowed Lorenzo to operate to send a message to his enemies, to give the appearance of not being soft. The thought of it turned his stomach. They were not good men; he had no illusions that they would ever be. But women were not to be abused and used in this way. He thought of his mother’s suffering, and his adoration for Catalina. He could not face her or Zia with his family sullied this way.

He closed his eyes.

After a bullet was put in the head of the dying scoundrel Francesco, who dared bring dishonor to his family, he gave the order. There would be no more prostitution brothels, period. The men didn’t seem shocked. Even Lorenzo held his tongue against any protest. He was done with the shit.

A nightmare lingered in his memory, and he forced the hot ache in his chest to subside. Tonight he thought he might have awakened with the sounds of his own screams still lodged in his throat. He wasn’t sure. No matter how hard he tried to understand his failure as a son, he found no peace. The first life he actually took with his own hand was the life of the bastard he believed shot his father. Even now he took no satisfaction in revenge.

It was my fault.

He rose from his chair, his shirt hung open and his feet were bare. The clock declared the time to be closer to three in the morning. He had the bitter taste of tobacco and whiskey in his mouth. The room to his suite opened to a balcony and he decided to spend the rest of the evening smoking his cigars waiting for the sun to rise on the Amalfi. Soon he’d return home. Catalina would be expecting him. He needed his family strong. He could forgive or try to forgive this one time to gain his cousin’s faith and trust.

They were brothers. In blood.

Chapter Two

For twenty-eight hours she and her team worked. Nothing would be missed. Determined, committed, she fretted over her final choices for her collection. Her line had been inspired by autumn’s seasonal colors she’d often watch bloom out of her bedroom window over the rolling hills of Virginia. It had better translate well for her showing.

Fabiana’s voice rose above the chorus of staff members buzzing around half-clothed models and cosmetologists. Each one marched to an explicit directive from Mira on how they were to serve the needs of her big event. Through it all she remained frazzled and over sensitive when mistakes or accidental mishaps occurred. The last thing she needed or desired was Fabiana ‘her bossy best friend’ Girelli inserting herself in the midst of pandemonium.

“Where is she?” she heard Fabiana’s voice crack like a whip over the apologies of an assistant. Mira cut her gaze away. On her knees with pins in her mouth, she hand stitched a ruffled hem that unraveled along the train of the evening gown.

“Mira! What are you doing? Let Eduardo or Angelique handle the retouches. We don’t have time for this. You’re supposed to be in hair and makeup.” Mira glanced up. Her vision blurred a bit, and her stomach rumbled. She’d survived on 3 to 4 hours of sleep at a minimum. The day of a show often became this melodrama between them. Fabiana would harp on how she needed to be cared for, and Mira would escape her tyranny to tend to the necessities often forgotten before her clothes graced the runway. Food, even grooming herself, all came in second to last on her list of priorities.