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Lorenzo handled the narrow, curving roadway in his car like a daredevil. The coastal villages zipped by as the speedometer climbed to the point of dipping into the red zone. Still he drove faster.

He also had a nasty habit of taping men. I hear he has tapes, very interesting tapes, of conversations he’s had with you.

Anger gripped him so tight he could barely suck down a breath. It was a lie. There was no tape. He remembered sitting in the bar drinking, bemoaning his existence and Giuseppe feeding his ego. When did the slug have a chance to tape him? Which conversation did he record? The one where he joked that Don Tomosino’s death was the only way he’d have his birthright? “No dammit! No!” he hit the steering wheel. There was no tape. The fucker was lying.

What he’d done because of his pride and jealousy of his cousin could destroy everything they’ve built. He could feel time and plausible excuses slipping away from him. His life was spiraling out of control, and he was powerless to prevent it. Making a sharp turn the car engine revved then sputtered. Lorenzo frowned, checking the gauges. He rarely drove the car and had it tuned regularly.

Soon he arrived at the Battaglia gates, avoiding a roadside stall in his favorite spots car. The men opened the gates and granted him entrance. No one came or went without a face to face. He drove up the drive and parked behind an American made motorcycle. He wondered which of the boys had bought the toy. Outside of the car with the door slamming shut behind him, he approached it.

“Nice, isn’t it?”

He glanced to his left. Carlo flicked his hand rolled cigarillo and smirked. “Been waiting.”

“Need you to have someone come pick up my car to have it tuned. The engine sounds funny.” He was in no mood for questioning from his friend or anyone. He just needed to get somewhere and cool off to think of his next move.

“What the fuck I look like, your errand boy?” Carlo asked, catching the keys tossed to him mid-air.

Lorenzo didn’t break his stride. He entered the house and beat a hard path to the lower rooms. He heard the soft sounds of laughter. He slowed and looked to the left. It was a woman’s laugh.

Smoothing out his hair he sucked in a deep breath and walked into a sunroom that led out to the open terrace. Seated around a table was Mira, Catalina, and Fabiana eating and drinking wine. Fabiana’s eyes lifted and locked on him. She rose from her seat and came to him immediately. “I was wondering when you’d come back.” Lorenzo pulled her in his arms grateful to feel her. She kissed him sweetly on the lips then offered him more. Amazing how calm he felt after one kiss from her. Fabiana withdrew. She turned and grinned at the women while holding his hand. “Mira and Giovanni brought back some wine from the vineyard. Do you want some? Have you eaten?”

Lorenzo looked at the ladies staring at him and then back at Fabiana, “Where’s my cousin?”

“Villa Rossoprobably.” Catalina said.

The night dragged on without him. Laughter, wine, and the excited chatter of the pending nuptials from Catalina filled the evening. Several times she caught Lorenzo checking his watch. She wondered about this place called ‘Villa Rosso’and why Lorenzo didn’t go there to summon Giovanni. He never did. Eventually he and Fabiana retired for the evening, and she was left alone with Catalina.

“Where is thisVilla Rossoplace?” Mira asked.

Catalina lowered her wine glass, her nose wrinkling. “Outside. It’s the cottage Papa built at the end of the garden trails. Giovanni lives there mostly. Sometimes for days.” Catalina gave an eye-roll. “I try to keep it nice, for him and the men, but he won’t allow me in there without his permission, and they make it messy always. The staff is never allowed there. It smells of whiskey and his stinky cigars.” She shrugged her shoulders. “He’s like Papa, likes to be there alone, no matter the state. Mama had a kitchen and bedroom made up in there so he's fine.”

“Days? You said he lives there? Not here?”

“When he wants.” Catalina smiled. “Don’t worry, he’ll come back. He always does.”

She felt a presence behind her, the deep blush to Catalina’s cheeks made Mira turn to see who had entered. The one Giovanni called Dominic stood in the doorway. He wore a look that Mira recognized. A mixture of love, lust, and shame. She saw that look in Giovanni’s eyes after he ravished her in the bed and caused the bite to her shoulder. Mira's gaze swiveled between Dominic and Catalina, and her brows lowered with concern. Dominic was staring at the young bride to be.

“Good night Mira. I have to talk to Domi.”

Catalina was out of her chair sashaying toward the door. Her dark curly hair swayed across her shoulders. Then she was gone.

“Stop Mira. Mind your own business. The man is too old for Catalina.” She reasoned, dismissing what she thought passed between the two. She sighed. What was she doing there? It felt ridiculous to be held up in this massive estate to only spend evenings in this man's bed. She understood he had work to do, but so did she. Maybe she’d talk to Fabiana about cutting this visit short. It didn’t mean that their affair had to end. She just needed her life back. Working on Catalina’s dress had sparked the urge to do more. She rose and walked out. As she approached the stairs she considered what Catalina said. The man wouldn’t disappear on her if it wasn’t serious. What if he needed someone to talk to? Uncanny as it was, she felt such a tie to him now. She couldn’t dismiss it.

Mira turned left instead of right, lost in her thoughts. Passing through two open rooms she stopped and looked around confused. The stairs had to be in the front of the house, so she tried to double back.

She heard a woman’s sigh. Mira stopped. It could have been the wind. The longer hallways carried drafts from all the open windows to the front of the villa. She listened and heard nothing. Glancing back over her shoulder the sound drifted to her ears again. A sweet mixture of soft sighs and moans that sounded feminine in nature. She stood alone in the hall. Curiosity seized her sensibility, and she began to trace her steps back the way she came. She stopped at a door drawn partially shut. She heard a crash and a giggle. It was Catalina. Silent and careful she positioned her left eye to the crack in the door and peered in.

Dominic advanced on Catalina who stepped back with a sly teasing smile. Mira pressed closer to the door to see, and it eased open a sliver. Dominic drew Catalina to him in a gentle manner with his hand to her hip. It seemed innocent enough if it weren’t for the glazed look of awe and desire on Catalina’s face. Mira held her breath. What was unfolding? Dominic said something. He had a deep timber to his voice that reminded her of a rhythm and blues singer—husky and sultry. Mira wished she knew the translation. Soon she needed none. Catalina threw her arms around Dominic’s neck and giggled. He spun her in his arms, and she hugged his neck tightly. What seemed like simple flirty play soon changed to an embrace of lovers. In one deft move Catalina was pressed up against the wall bookshelf. The couple kissed and clawed at each other’s clothing. The front of Catalina’s dress was yanked down and Dominic’s face was buried in her cleavage. Catalina responded by working on his zipper. Soon Dominic’s pants were riding at his hips, belt undone. Catalina’s right leg draped over the crook of his arm opening her for his thrusting cock. Catalina gasped clenching his shoulders, her head rolling back in pleasure. The bookshelf shook, a few books dropped to the floor. Dominic fucked her with slow measured thrusts. Mira covered her mouth. Dominic stopped his thrusts and lowered, sucking her nipple then going down between Catalina’s thighs. She dropped her leg over his shoulder and gripped the top of his curly hair to grind her sex against his plundering mouth.

Mira couldn’t tear away from the scene.

Catalina moaned in ecstasy. Her eyes opened and her head turned. She locked eyes on Mira who had inadvertently pushed the door ajar a bit to reveal the scene. Embarrassed Mira fled for the stairs.

Giovanni rose from his chair. He walked over to the bar and picked up a bottle. No matter how he digested the news of his cousin’s involvement with Giuseppe Calderone he couldn’t accept it. They’d taken an oath. And it meant more than words and blood, it was who they were. They believed in family and loyalty above all else. Lorenzo would not jeopardize it all to be some drug pusher. There had to be another reason for his lapse in judgment. But what?

He turned up the bottle and took a long swallow until his throat felt torched and his chest aflame. He wiped the scotch from his lips. His eyes fell upon his gun. He remembered when he first used it. How he felt. What he’d done. Could he use it again? On the man he called brother?