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Because within five minutes Antonio Gallo’s car had arrived to pick him up and take him back into central London, while two hundred and fifty thousand—thousand—pounds had been transferred into her account. And there, from the side of the road, watching the car whisk Antonio away, Ivy made the call to the rehab centre to book her brother a place that would save his life.
CHAPTER ONE
Antonio Andrea Gallostalked down a South West London street towards an almost offensively bland building in Wandsworth, feeling a distinct sense of déjà vu. With his mobile phone glued to his ear and his eye assessing every single person on the street for nefarious intent, he tried to find the patience to not shout at his lawyer.
‘This is what I pay your extortionate fees for, Simon,’ he growled into the phone.
‘It’s never happened before,’ the Englishman replied apologetically. If it hadn’t been for Simon’s obvious confusion, Antonio would have suspected that the man was on the take.
‘Well, it’s happening now.’
‘It’s highly irregular, sir. Highly. Is there maybe something you haven’t told me?’
Only the fact that the words were forced through a significant amount of discomfort allowed Antonio to excuse the man for even suggesting that it was somehowhisfault.
‘I have told you everything,’ he bit out.
‘Then I don’t know why Mr Justice Carmondy overruled our appeal. The divorce should have been granted before it could be put before him.’
They had fought the summons as hard as possible, convinced that the judge would give up long before now on a matter such as this. But he hadn’t. Which was why, reluctantly and without any other option, Antonio was here.
‘What does he want?’ he demanded. ‘Money?’
‘No. And don’t try to offer him any. The English courts are different to what you’re used to,’ his lawyer warned.
‘Everyone wants something, Simon,’ Antonio insisted, speaking from experience.
He checked his watch. He didn’t have time for this. He’d flown to the closest private airfield that morning and needed to be back in Italy later that afternoon. The fallout from the reading of his grandfather’s will had sent so many ripples into an already turbulent pool that if he hadn’t already been dead, Antonio would have willingly murdered the man.
‘The only thing he seems to want is to see you and Mrs Gallo—’
‘Don’t call her that,’ Antonio snapped down the phone.
‘You andMs McKellenin his chambers to discuss reconciliation.’
‘Reconciliation? I haven’t seen the woman since the day we married, six years ago!’
‘For heaven’s sake, don’t say that to the judge! If he thinks you tried to game the system—’
‘I wasn’t trying to game the system, I was trying to game mygrandfather,’ Antonio growled, just as he arrived at the unassuming concrete steps leading to the Wandsworth Courts where Simon, who had been waiting for him, put away his phone.
Antonio took a moment to glare between the tall bespectacled man and the court, as if that alone might bend them to his will. And when that didn’t work, he turned and marched up the steps to fix this himself, stopping only when Simon didn’t immediately follow behind.
‘We’re waiting for Ms McKellen,’ Simon said in response to Antonio’s raised brow.
Antonio glanced at his watch. There was still some time before their court appointment, but not for Antonio.
‘I plan to have this resolved before she even gets here,’ he said, continuing up the steps with determination.
The judge, however, had other plans and made him wait. First, outside his chambers, in a hallway where he was subjected to the curiosity of nearly every single passerby, as if he were some rare breed on display. Which, he conceded, was probably true, seeing as he doubted that many billionaires lived in this small London borough.
Antonio caught glimpses of the pale, balding man behind the desk every time someone entered and left the room. And each time they made adversarial eye contact to the point where Antonio firmly believed the judge was purposely wasting his time.
And then, even after Antonio and Simon had been ‘invited’ into the judge’s office, they were made to wait as he sifted through various batches of paperwork. As someone who personally abhorred the stuff, Antonio should have felt some sympathy for him.
Should have. But didn’t. Because this entire farce was a waste of his time.
‘No Mrs Gallo?’ the judge asked without preamble.