Page 12 of His Wicked Wants (West Coast Mobsters #6)

CHAPTER 11

GAbrIEL

I’ve just finished dinner and am settling down to read for the evening when there’s a knock at the door. My heart is racing before my mind can catch up, my thoughts slower than my body: Nero .

But when I open the door, I find myself strangely disappointed. “Oh! Good evening, Mr. Castellani,” I say in surprise.

Julian stares at me for a moment with those unblinking eyes before he turns his lips up in what I’ve learned is his best impression of a friendly smile. “Good evening, Gabriel. I wondered if I might…”

I take a hasty step back. “Please, come in.”

Julian has never been inside my cottage since I’ve lived here, and he looks around sharply as he strolls in, as though expecting traps. I’d take offense, but I’ve seen this behavior many times from men like him. Men who have reason to expect traps.

I look around my home, trying to see it through Julian’s eyes. The shelves stacked heavily with botanical reference books, the potted herbs thriving on every windowsill, my plans and draft suggestions for the estate pinned to a corkboard over an antique desk—the only thing I brought with me from Boston. It’s been in my family for generations and I couldn’t bear to leave it behind.

Apart from the desk, the cottage was furnished when I moved in, but I’ve put up my own touches here and there—the second-hand linen tablecloth and the hand-tied rug of recycled fabrics on the floor in the living area were both my own purchases.

“Can I make you some tea?” I ask politely, when he says nothing more. “I have a good stock of the peppermint and spearmint blend the gardeners make?—”

“I loathe mint.”

“Orange and cinnamon, then? Or?—”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he says, sniffing the air. “It smells like…apple pie.”

In the kitchen, my hands move through the familiar ritual of tea-making, grateful for the momentary escape from Julian’s slightly unnerving presence. Steam rises from the kettle in ghostly wisps as I measure out the dried herbs. It’s a blend I’m trying to perfect, and it is indeed supposed to mimic apple pie. I add a little honey to his mug as well, the thin drizzle catching the light in gleaming amber. The gardeners set up for beekeeping last year, and this is the first honey from the harvest.

“How did it go with Roxanne Rochford?” he asks when I’ve returned to the living area and handed over the mug.

I pause before answering. “We had a robust discussion,” I say at last.

Julian gives a thin smile. “I can imagine. But whatever her demands, I’m sure you handled them with grace.”

That’s not entirely true. I was about to lose my temper at one point, when thankfully, Nero stepped in. “I did my best, Mr. Castellani.”

“She likes to have her own way. Unfortunately for her, so do I.”

“And this is your property,” I point out.

“The property belongs to my brother.”

I’m not sure what to say to that. Technically, it’s true, but I’ve never seen Sandro take much interest in Redwood Manor. Even when I went with Julian to have some plans approved for the grounds around the Retreat, Sandro had just impatiently waved his hand in acquiescence. Whatever you want to do, Julian , he’d said, with the air of someone who had more pressing matters to deal with.

But the gleam in Julian’s eye and his quiet air of satisfaction as we left suggested to me that Julian had sought Sandro’s approval at precisely that time in order to make sure the Don’s attention was divided.

“I hear she wanted to marry her ridiculous man in front of the fountain where my mother died,” Julian goes on, no inflection in his voice whatsoever.

“She did,” I have to admit. “I talked her out of it. Well—” Honesty demands I refine that answer. “Nero Andretti talked her out of it. She was more willing to listen to him than to me.”

Julian takes a sip of the tea. “What’s in this?” he asks.

“Dried apple, cinnamon, a chamomile base.”

He says nothing, but sets it down. “To business, Gabriel.”

“To business, Mr. Castellani.”

“Does she know?”

“Ms. Rochford? No. I got the sense…” I hesitate, shrug. “I got the sense she was only interested in her wedding, and, well…”

“Nero,” he supplies. “And the man himself? Does he know?”

Once again, I hesitate. “He has shown some interest in my movements,” I admit at last. “But…not around the estate.”

Julian tilts his head slightly on an angle, the expressionless blue eyes seeming to darken. “If Nero is a problem?—”

“Oh, he’s not,” I assure him. Not in the sense that Julian Castellani means, anyway.

Satisfied, Julian picks up his cup again and takes another sip. “There’s something very comforting about you, Gabriel Carstairs. Did you know that? That was also the word Tara Donovan used when I asked her for a reference.”

“She was very kind to provide one.”

“Kind? Or seeking absolution?” He leans forward. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I only mean to remind you of the kind of man Nero Andretti is. That we all are, here on this estate.”

“Believe me, Mr. Castellani, I haven’t forgotten.”

How could I forget?

I grew up the youngest son of the Carstairs, raised in privilege and wealth. Only later did I learn the reason for all those uniformed men who wandered the estate, the silent bodyguards who shadowed me from the moment I could walk. The Carstairs made their money through organized crime. We were one of the most feared Families in Boston.

I was only thirteen when my father began bringing me into the fold, teaching me how the business worked, having me sit in on meetings. I was excited by it, thrilled to feel so much closer to my older brothers and my father. He boasted I had “the family instinct.”

And I was full of pride. Pride in myself and pride in the Carstairs. But the first time they took me out on a job that went wrong was the day I quit for good. All that death and destruction…

My father never forgave me. Called me a coward. Called me much worse, in fact. But not long after that, when I was sixteen, he crossed Howard Donovan in a deal.

The Donovan Family ruined us. And they did it legally, which was even worse, working with the authorities as they built an airtight case.

My father killed himself rather than face a lengthy prison sentence. We moved from a grand mansion to a tiny two-bed. My brothers looked for revenge. My mother and sisters found work wherever they could. I was lucky; I won a scholarship to college off the back of my grades, a full ride. Work placements were competitive, but I scored a job with the Boston Common Heritage Authority, and I loved it.

But I wanted out. Wanted to get away from Boston altogether and forget the past. Every time someone heard my surname, they hesitated. So last year, when Tara Donovan reached out to my mother to apologize for the actions of her now-dead father, I took a chance and asked her if she knew of anywhere that could use a landscape architect, playing on the guilt she clearly felt.

She came back a week later with a job opening at Redwood Manor and a personal reference, if I wanted either. And I figured I’d grown up around criminals; why get picky about working for them?

“Well,” Julian says, bringing me back to the present. “Since we’re laying all our cards on the table…is there anything else you need to tell me, Gabriel?”

Any minute now, I’m going to break into a cold sweat. “No.”

After a moment, he gives a nod and rises. “Then I’ll leave you alone, as you clearly wish to be. Good evening, Gabriel.”

I don’t bother protesting for politeness’ sake that he’s welcome to stay longer. I just walk him to the door. On the wide stone paver that sits outside the front door, he turns around. “Send down some of that tea blend to the Retreat, will you? It’s very good.” Surprised, I agree. And then I return to my solitude. But my thoughts wander to Nero Andretti, a problem unlike any other. I wonder where he’s conducting his business tonight?

As long as it’s far away from me, I guess I should be grateful.