Page 15 of His Wicked Wants (West Coast Mobsters #6)

CHAPTER 13

NERO

I am chauffeured to Sandro’s apartment the next night. I have dressed for the occasion in a crisp white shirt and the last pair of dress pants I acquired before I left Italy. I know Sandro will appreciate the effort.

In his apartment building, which is staffed 24/7, the reception calls up to Sandro’s penthouse. “He’ll be right down to collect you, Mr. Andretti,” the woman says. The place is guarded by a night guard, a doorman, and this woman, too.

Soon enough, the private elevator dings, and I turn with a warm smile—but the man exiting the elevator is not Sandro Castellani. No, this man is much smaller, fairer, sweeter-faced. I’ve met him once or twice before but never alone.

“Nero!” Teddy MacCallum greets me, clasping my hand in both of his. “I’m so glad you could come tonight. Alessandro has told me so much about you.”

“Ah, but I can tell you so much more about him,” I say with a wink.

“I hope so,” he says eagerly. “I came down to collect you because Alessandro is in the middle of cooking.”

“Cooking?” I say blankly.

Teddy laughs. “He says most of the Italian food in LA isn’t even as half as good as what you’re used to, so he insisted on cooking something himself. He’s really very good when he gets the time to do it. I think his mother taught him—but I’m sorry,” he says, ushering me into the elevator with him. His eyes are downcast as he pushes the button for the penthouse. “I didn’t mean to mention his mother. I know there’s some bad blood there.”

“Please do not temper your words on my account. Sandro’s mother is still his mother, and I respect that relationship.”

When I first asked Sandro for sanctuary, I told him that his mother had turned on me. This must be the same story he has fed to his lover, Teddy. And as I study the young man during our elevator ride, I see why Sandro has suddenly become so interested in domesticity. With a man like this warming his bed, he probably doesn’t want to get out of it.

But such sweetness doesn’t tempt me. I prefer something more fiery, as Sandro himself noted after my slap on the wrist.

“I really do hope that you and Alessandro can talk about old times tonight,” Teddy says sincerely. “He rarely mentions his life in Italy, and I’m so interested to know more about him.”

And I am just as fascinated to find out how the son of an FBI agent came to find himself in such a trusted position. La Contessa wants my opinion on him, too.

“I’ll tell you as much as I can before he cuts out my tongue,” I say to Teddy with a grin. “But you must promise to tell me all about his life here in LA, as well. And all about you .”

He flushes prettily. “Well, we’re very happy. Oh, here we are—” The doors slide open once more. He gestures for me to enter first, and I do, carried along by the rich scent of herbs and garlic.

Sandro really is cooking.

Teddy leads me through the polished concrete and chrome of Sandro’s apartment to the kitchen area, where the man himself stands with sleeves rolled up, red splatters on his white shirt, and a frown of concentration as he chops up some fresh basil.

But when he looks up to see me, his face relaxes in a smile. “Nero,” he says, raising a hand in greeting. “I’m at a vital part of the process, so I’ll leave you in Teddy’s capable hands for now. Give him the tour, topolino ?”

“Yes, I’d love to show you around,” Teddy says with childlike enthusiasm. I follow him around the place, taking mental notes not only of the layout, but of what the place reveals about Sandro.

Modern luxury with industrial touches. Polished concrete floors that would feel cold if not for the strategic placement of floor rugs in deep charcoal. I even admire the exposed beams and pipes that run across the ceiling. This place is completely transparent about what it is—unlike Redwood Manor.

The most striking aspect of his home, however, is what it lacks. There are no mementos of his life in Italy, and no traces at all of his work. Sandro has crafted here a space that exists entirely in the present and entirely apart from Redwood Manor.

I see why Sandro wanted me to come here. And even why he wanted to show off his lover.

La Contessa is very fond of Teddy. I always assumed he was a honeytrap of some kind, or disposable. But hearing him talk about Sandro, I think he honestly loves my old friend. And I can’t believe him to be some mastermind working for law enforcement, especially after he eagerly shows me his website on his phone.

“Cute…Crims?” I echo, not quite believing I’ve heard him correctly.

“That’s right. I’d love to feature you, if you wouldn’t mind. Do you have an Instagram I could link to?”

I stare at him, wondering if he’s making some sort of joke at my expense. “I’m afraid not,” I say slowly, when it becomes clear that he is not. “And as for putting my photograph online—it’s out of the question.”

His face falls, but only a little. “I thought you might say that. Sandro’s mother never lets me take her picture either—oh, not for the site, of course,” he adds, and laughs. “But I wish she’d let me. It would be nice for Alessandro to have a few photos of her around. You know?”

I have to hide a smile as I imagine both Sandro and La Contessa’s reaction to Teddy’s request to have her face plastered around his home.

But my amusement dies as I follow Teddy back to the living area and think of everything I have learned here tonight. This is the domain of a man who has fully arrived, while I remain perpetually in transit. Forever a guest, never truly belonging. A servant, not the master.

The unfairness of it spears through me, makes me want to be cruel.

“And how do you like your life with Sandro?” I ask Teddy. Sandro is absorbed in his work in the kitchen, his expression familiar under the scar. Pure concentration. He used to wear that same look when we were planning a secret night out from the boarding school.

Teddy smiles his pretty smile. “I love it.”

“But your future,” I prompt quietly. “Don’t you worry what might happen? Your lover is a target—and so are you.”

“Alessandro will always protect me.”

Such complete confidence. I’ve heard men declare similar confidence in La Contessa, and always thought it foolish. Both mother and son have a streak of selfishness in them that means they will always protect themselves first.

But Teddy seems completely fooled.

The meal reminds me too much of home, and I find a sense of nostalgia creeping over me, though I’m not a man who likes to dwell on such emotions. “You remember, eh?” Sandro asks.

“How could I forget?”

The housekeeper made it for us again and again one summer when I stayed with Sandro and his mother during the school break. It was the only thing we would eat for two whole months, despite Rosa’s protests and attempts to feed us something—anything—else.

“She gave me the recipe when I left home,” Sandro says, passing the bread across to me. And by “home,” I believe he means “Italy.” That’s telling, I think.

Or perhaps he’s also caught up in the nostalgia.

“It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten,” Teddy says blissfully.

I catch Sandro’s eye. “She loved you like her own child. Rosa, I mean. She never gave the recipe to me, no matter how hard I begged.”

Everyone loved Sandro. The little general, striding around his mother’s empire, doted on by all. I was only ever his shadow.

“She was a good woman,” Sandro says. “I wish I could have been at her funeral.”

I was there. He didn’t miss much. La Contessa didn’t bother to go, but I wanted to represent her, all the same. “Her family were well taken care of.”

He gives a nod, his face closing slightly.

“What was Alessandro like in school?” Teddy asks. Either he does not feel the atmosphere, or does not care.

“He was a hellraiser.”

“No more than you!” Sandro scoffs.

“My reputation wasn’t fairly earned. Remember when I took responsibility for a fire you set?”

Sandro actually flushes. “Don’t bring that up,” he groans. “I’m ashamed of it, even now.”

I wave a hand. “It earned me the popularity I sought. I was happy to take the blame. There are many things you should be much more embarrassed about, Sandro.”

“Like what?” Teddy asks eagerly.

I launch into a story about the time Sandro convinced me to break into a nearby archeological dig overnight to beg the blessing of Jupiter at a newly uncovered altar, and Teddy is transfixed by every word, his sapphire eyes round and adoring as he stares at Sandro. By the end of the story, when Teddy is doubled over laughing, and Sandro is ruefully hiding his face, I feel an odd twinge. And when Sandro pulls Teddy into his arms to kiss away the tears of laughter affectionately, that twinge turns into an ache.

Why does life always turn out for Alessandro Castellani, I wonder? Was he truly touched by the Gods that night?

Or am I simply fated to always live in the shadow of greatness, never to seize any of it for myself?

For a long time I was satisfied living in the warm glow of Sandro’s brotherhood. I was young and I was overwhelmed by the new world I found myself in. The money. The glamor. The doors that opened for me. But the boy grew into a man, and Sandro and I grew apart. He came here. I stayed there. His attention moved on to others. Jack. Teddy. And the warmth between us has significantly cooled.

Perhaps that’s why I enjoy the sunshine so much. I’m seeking to recapture a little of that warmth I felt during the friendship of Sandro Castellani.

“You are lucky,” I tell him later, when we have wandered out to the pool on his majestic balcony, looking out over Los Angeles.

“Not long ago I would have thought you were making fun of me,” he says meditatively. We lean over the railing, looking down at the little dolls scurrying the streets below, the miniature cars puttering here and there.

From this vantage point, the whole world must seem like a toy box to Alessandro Castellani, stuffed full of things to play with. This view. The apartment. His lover…

No. There, I can’t fault his sincerity. Sandro is a different man when he looks at Teddy. But I can’t envy him that softness. It’s a weakness, and I see now why his mother mentioned the lover as a concern when she sent me here. If Teddy is not playing Sandro—and I don’t think he is—he’s still an easy way to get to the Boss.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, and I glance over to see him looking at me.

“I’m thinking that you’ve changed.” I straighten up. “Not just the face, either.”

He thinks it over, then nods. “I have. Since my father’s death, I’ve realized how little I knew before. These days, everything is different.”

“I’m sorry for his death,” I offer. I haven’t said it yet. It didn’t occur to me.

“I’m not.”

I turn back to look at the view. “I must apologize again for my conduct at the Chateau, Sandro. Jack told me on the way over to Redwood, but I truly had no idea it was where?—”

“Forget it.”

“Your face. Did you never consider?—”

“Plastic surgery? Of course I tried. If you think it’s bad now, you should have seen me before. They told me to let it settle, try again in a few years—but then I met Teddy. He’s never minded about the scar. And so now, neither do I.” He gives a grin, the old Sandro peeking through. “And it doesn’t hurt to remind my enemies that I’m indestructible. No matter what they do to me, I will survive it.”

“Are your enemies still so dangerous? I thought the Bernardi splinter faction was on the run.”

“We dealt them a blow with AJ’s death. But…” He sighs, turns his back to the view, and so do I, and we both watch Teddy moving in the kitchen window, tidying up. “Let’s not talk business.”

Damn him. Not even a morsel of information. I try a new tack. “You never asked me the details of what I did to have your mother turn on me.”

He shrugs. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters. What if it was an issue of disloyalty?”

He scoffs. “ You? No, I know you, Nero. You would never be disloyal.” I’m surprised at the squeeze my heart gives at his approval. “So, what do you think of Teddy?” He changes the subject eagerly, a man in love wanting to share his new discovery. Surely no man has ever loved before, no man has ever felt like Sandro feels. But I see that same wonder in his eyes that I’ve seen a thousand times over in a thousand other men who have fallen in love.

I’ve never envied it before.

“He is… dolce . Sweet as candy.” Be careful he doesn’t rot your teeth , I want to add, but Sandro has taken the opportunity to begin prattling about the wonders of Teddy.

“You and Julian,” I break in at last, “seem to have found a detente.”

Sandro considers for a moment. “That’s a good way to put it,” he says at last. “A detente.”

“You hated him so much when we were children.”

He is quiet for a very long time, and then in a low voice, he says, “I hate him still, Nero. Why do you think I pushed him out of the main house at Redwood? Or sent him after AJ Bernardi? I didn’t expect him to come back from that.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to offer my own services in removing that particular problem, but I catch the words back—because the light has gone out in the kitchen, and Sandro is watching my reflected face carefully in the now-dark window.

“It’s a shame,” I say instead. “I had hoped you’d found peace with each other.”

Later, as Sandro sees me down in the private elevator, I finally learn the point of this visit as he says softly, and in Italian for once, “Ms. Rochford has requested that you oversee security for her wedding preparations.”

I stifle an internal sigh. La Bellissima has been too demanding of late, and wanting to spend more time with me suggests she will have further, increasingly outlandish requests for La Contessa. But all I say is, “I see.”

“I was not sure about it myself, you understand, Nero. You are not yet…well, you understand.”

I understand. I haven’t proved myself, not to his satisfaction. “Have you made her see sense?” I ask. “Pedretti or DeLuca would do just as well?—”

“She won’t hear of DeLuca being involved,” Sandro sighs. “And I can’t spare Pedretti. Besides, she trusts you , Nero, for good or ill. All I need you to do is draw up the security concerns for Pedretti to address, once you understand her plans for the wedding. But to do that, you will need to work closely with Ms. Rochford…and with Gabriel Carstairs.”

The elevator stops, not with a jolt, but a smooth cessation, and the doors open noiselessly. I follow Sandro into the foyer. “It will be my pleasure to serve,” I tell him, still in Italian.

“Yes. But Nero...” He switches to English. “Once again, I will ask you: Please do not fuck my staff.”

I grin. “If that’s your only requirement, Sandro, it’s easily done.”

Sandro does not look as though he believes me. And then he adds insult to injury. “The security work will not be onerous. Make sure you fit your work for Legs Liggari around it.”

And as I’m chauffeured back to my small dwelling place on the estate that Sandro owns, I begin to feel the familiar anger building once more.

Don’t outshine him with my hard-earned skills. Don’t play with his toys. Don’t fuck his staff.

I take out my phone to check the location of the tracker in Gabriel’s bag out of habit more than anything else. Every time I’ve checked it has been static, no movement. But with a jolt that shakes me out of my smoldering anger, I see that he has gone out tonight once more. And the street name is the same as last time.

Don’t fuck my staff .

The thing about Gabriel Carstairs, though, is that he was hired by Julian Castellani. Sandro admitted that to me himself. So technically…

I smile to myself, leaning my head back against the soft cushion of the town car. Once I get back to Redwood, I’ll set out on a field trip. Because whatever Gabriel is doing, it’s clearly something he doesn’t want anyone to know about.

That makes it all the more important that I find out what it is.