Page 10 of His Wicked Wants (West Coast Mobsters #6)

CHAPTER 9

GAbrIEL

I’m usually up just before the sun, ready to catch the gardens at their most beautiful. But this morning it’s tough to drag myself out of bed when the alarm goes off. I’m late for work—not that I have set hours, but I do have my set routines—and by the time I’m fed and showered, it’s almost eight o’clock.

I’ve had too little sleep, and I’m frustrated about last night’s job. It didn’t go well. Too many cops passing by, and not enough time to do the work. We agreed to leave it and try again in a few days, but by then the police might have surveillance on the area.

And then there was a shadowy predator waiting for me when I got back to my cottage.

Is Nero Andretti following me? Stalking me? The thought should fill me with dread, but instead I feel a sense of pleasurable satisfaction about it. His face when I lied about having a one-night stand with someone…

He was furious. And then murderous.

That shouldn’t make my insides flutter like they’re fluttering right now. The man stands for nothing but death. He’s greedy. Possessive. Even over things that don’t belong to him—like me.

I should probably talk to Julian and Sandro about him. Let them know he’s behaving inappropriately. They wouldn’t hurt him, but they’d make sure I never caught sight of him again at Redwood.

And I don’t like that idea. I hate the man and everything he stands for, but he is lovely to look at, in those moments when I catch sight of him.

Before he opens his mouth.

I head down to the Retreat today, where Julian has summoned me. Julian and Leo’s home is neither fully part of the main grounds nor completely separate. Unlike the attempted old-world grandeur of the main house, the Retreat is made up of clean lines and reflective surfaces, as though Julian wanted to create his own distinct kingdom.

I’m not looking forward to this meeting, because I know the infamous Roxanne Rochford will be there. But in the first moments, I’m nothing but charmed by her.

“Julian says you’re the absolute best ,” she gushes, as I climb up the exterior stairs to the deck that hangs into the redwood grove. “A miracle worker. And that’s what I’ll need, I think, because everything has to be perfect, and we’ve barely any time to do it in.”

“Gabriel will do whatever you need,” Julian says vaguely. He looks bored already. Not a good sign.

“I’ll do whatever is in my power,” I substitute to Ms. Rochford. “The estate can be difficult to work in due to?—”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be happy with his work,” Julian says, and stifles a yawn. “Can I leave you in Gabriel’s capable hands, Roxanne Rochford?”

“Of course,” she says, and there’s something in her smile that tells me these two don’t much like each other—but are resigned to working together.

“I thought Mr. DeLuca was supposed to come with us,” I say in surprise. “For security planning.”

“Raffaello is otherwise occupied,” Julian calls over his shoulder as he slides open the deck door and disappears inside.

Roxy Rochford twinkles at me. “Just us, I’m afraid. But don’t worry, I don’t bite.” She slides her arm into mine. “Now, let me tell you all about my ideas…”

She leads me down off the deck of the Retreat, back to the path that heads up to the main house. And as she goes, she explains everything she wants and needs. Most of her requests are simple, even predictable. An arch of flowers under which the marriage ceremony will be held. Enough space for seating. A separate space for a garden reception, since she doesn’t want it held in the house.

But as we progress through the grounds, her vision becomes increasingly invasive, threatening to alter the estate’s carefully maintained balance. Spaces changed. Plants moved around. New paving so her heels won’t dig into the grass during her walk down the aisle.

We’ve wandered around much of the lower estate, and now Roxy’s feet turn north. She’s still holding my arm as though we’re the closest of confidants. But now we’re heading toward the pool, and the sun has climbed high enough in the sky that it could be a danger zone.

As we round the corner, my suspicions are confirmed. Nero Andretti is sprawled out on one of the lounge chairs as usual, his bronze skin glistening with oil, sunglasses in place, legs spread and bent, as though in invitation.

Roxy gives a high-pitched squeal. “Nero! I didn’t expect to see you still here. I thought you were due back in Italy weeks ago.”

But something about the way she says it seems almost practiced—an actress who’s learned her lines too perfectly.

Nero, hearing her scream, doesn’t react as he usually does—with a lazy yawn or ostentatious stretching as if waking from a deep sleep. Instead, he pulls off his sunglasses at once and stands, opening his arms. “ Bellissima! What a delight!”

She yanks her arm away from me and rushes over to be embraced by him. Their reunion plays out like a scene from a movie, complete with air kisses and exclamations. The pool area becomes their stage, with me relegated to the role of unwilling audience.

“How go the wedding preparations?” Nero asks.

“Oh, Gavin has been marvelous,” she says, waving a hand vaguely in my direction.

“Gabriel,” I supply dryly.

Nero’s eyes meet mine, full of mischief. “Yes, he is a marvel.”

Roxy turns toward me. “Would you be a darling and give us ten minutes or so? I haven’t seen Nero for ages, and we’re old friends. It would be wonderful to catch up for a moment.”

Nero grins at me. “Why don’t I escort Ms. Rochford around to the fountain by the hedge maze when we’re done? You can meet her there— Gavin .”

I raise one eyebrow but don’t take the bait. “I should call down a security guard to make sure?—”

“Oh, I’m quite safe with Nero,” Roxy laughs, a silvery tinkle like the trickling of the waterfall at the end of the pool.

That wasn’t what I was thinking. Security is necessary to protect the Castellanis, not Roxanne Rochford. But now that she’s mentioned it, I suddenly realize she has no bodyguards with her. And every time I’ve seen Roxanne Rochford, whether in person at Redwood or in the media, there’s always been the inevitable hulking shadow behind her, signifying safety and security.

But not today.

“Run along, little gardener,” Nero says with a hint of warning.

I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t want to. If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that the Castellani brothers are more than capable of knowing what’s going on in their own—literal—backyard. So I turn and stalk off toward the fountain and wait there impatiently.

They aren’t long. Nero and Roxanne are laughing and talking together so loudly that I hear them before I see them as they come around the far corner of the house. The morning has given way to the heat of the afternoon, and even the fountain’s spray offers little relief.

“This is definitely where I want the wedding ceremony,” Roxanne says firmly, framing the fountain in a square of her fingers and thumbs as though she were a director planning a shot. “With a flower arch above us and the guests massed around here.”

“Unfortunately,” I point out delicately, “there isn’t much space here. I doubt your guests would fit.” She told me herself that the wedding list holds hundreds of names.

She smiles, but it’s not her usual flirtatious smile. This one has a streak of cruelty in it.

It’s the smile of a woman who is not used to hearing the word No .

“Well, that’s why the hedge maze will have to be dealt with. You can tear down a few old bushes, can’t you?”

“I’m afraid not.” I don’t bother coating my words in niceties. The fact is, Julian Castellani will never allow the hedge maze to be touched—not even for the bride of one of his brother’s greatest allies.

“ I’m afraid it will have to be done.” Roxanne’s tone is as implacable as I’ve ever heard.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Rochford, but it’s not possible. Mr. Castellani would never allow it, and frankly, I don’t know if the maze would recover. It’s not a matter of merely?—”

Her face darkens like a brewing storm. “I don’t want to hear excuses. I’m telling you what will happen. Make it happen. You’re the gardener, aren’t you?”

“Gabriel is a landscape architect, not a gardener,” Nero interjects, surprising both of us. He’s been silent through the whole exchange, and I can’t quite read his tone now. “But Bellissima , you cannot mean to marry in front of this ill-omened fountain, can you?”

Her delicately drawn brows twitch together. “What do you mean?”

“This is the site of the late Mrs. Castellani’s drowning,” Nero says quietly, as though he doesn’t want to be overheard. “Not the best place for a new marriage, surely?”

I’m horrified to hear that—and so is Roxy. Her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh,” she gasps. “I completely forgot. And I kept telling Julian about it, too. I hope he doesn’t think I was being rude.” She turns on me, as though the fault is mine, and snaps, “You should have told me before.”

I don’t bother protesting that I had no idea. I just take the chance Nero has given me. “My apologies, Ms. Rochford. I did think the great lawn at the front might be a better place for the wedding ceremony. There’s another fountain there, of course?—”

“Yes, yes,” she sighs, as though I personally drowned Mrs. Castellani in this fountain just to inconvenience her. “I suppose we could have a look.”

Nero accompanies us around the front of the house. He’s still wearing nothing but his tiny, shiny black swim briefs, sunglasses, and expensive Italian slides on his feet. And if I didn’t know better, I might think he was the groom, based on his comments and suggestions, and the way Roxy drapes herself on him.

We end up at the estate’s crown jewel—the great green lawn that sweeps up to the main house. The sun now sits high overhead, turning the grass into an emerald carpet between the even pillars of pencil pines, stretching up toward the mansion’s imposing facade. A fountain featuring Venus stands near the top, the water dancing in the sun.

This view has graced countless magazine covers, but Roxy seems unimpressed, as though even perfection isn’t quite good enough. “I suppose it will do,” she says dubiously.

The heat has become oppressive, making Nero’s near-nakedness seem almost reasonable. But I pull my eyes away from him and turn them back toward the lawn. “There’s plenty of room for up to a thousand guests—and media,” I point out, “if you plan to have official coverage.”

“Of course I don’t,” she snaps. “This is a private wedding, which is why I wanted it held at Redwood Manor. Honestly, what a ridiculous suggestion. Now tell me about the flowers.”

“The flowers?” I echo blankly. “Whatever flowers your florist provides, we’ll be able to?—”

“No,” she interrupts, teetering on the edge of a tantrum. “I’m not going to a florist. You can’t trust anyone in Hollywood—they’d sell me out to the paparazzi. Redwood will have to supply the flowers. So what do you suggest?”

What do I suggest? I have no idea what this woman wants and cast around wildly. “There are some amazing native desert flowers we could?—”

“I don’t want cacti at my wedding,” she sneers. I’m beginning to understand all too well why the household staff loathe her. “I want something rare, unique, expensive—just like me.” She practically preens.

I know my job is to satisfy the customer. The thing is, Roxanne Rochford is not my customer—not as far as I’m concerned. So instead of agreeing with her, I push back.

“Sustainability is very on trend,” I point out. “I really think?—”

“Imported black orchids,” she declares with finality. “Delaney Harris had them at her wedding last week to that ice hockey player,” she says, naming the biggest pop star in the world and her now-husband. “That’s what I want at mine. The theme can be black and white, and black orchids would go well with…” She looks at me, narrowing her eyes. “What’s the rarest white flower in the world?”

I’m going to lose it. I’m definitely going to lose it. I take a deep breath, preparing to tell Roxanne Rockford exactly where she can stick her flowers, when Nero interrupts.

“Black orchids have been done.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “No, Bellissima , you are unique, as you say. Far too unique to follow some tired trend. Why copy a has-been when you can blaze your own trail? You are a flame among dull coals, after all.”

“True. They used to call me one of the Four Flames back when…” She trails off, and I could swear for a second she looks scared .

Nero swoops in. “You burn so brightly. Why not choose red, orange, and yellow flowers to symbolize that fire—and your magnificent hair?”

She considers this, tossing her red mane back seductively before a slow smile spreads across her face.

“Yes, perfect!” she says, clapping her hands. “I wish I had your sense of style, Nero; it’s impeccable.”

“A woman with beauty such as yours has no need for style,” Nero replies, and she gives him a coy look from beneath her eyelashes. I think I’m going to vomit. “What do you say, little gardener?” he goes on, his gaze sliding toward me.

What I should say is thank you for saving my job . But all I manage is a curt nod. “I can get a list of suggested flowers together for you by this afternoon,” I tell her.

“Wonderful,” she says, but her attention never wavers from Nero. “Well, I have places to be, movies to star in—” She giggles. “—you know how it is. And I think that’s my limo coming now.” A sleek black car with darkened windows rounds the last curve of the driveway. “Will you walk me up to the house, Nero?”

“Of course,” he says gallantly, offering his arm. But as they walk away, Nero glances over his shoulder at me.

I wish I knew how to interpret his expression.