Page 6 of On Ice

Luca

I watch Evan flee down the corridor, scratching my jaw. The little shit caught me unaware. I know he’s into me so I don’t understand why he’s running away. Why won’t he give me what I want? He wants it too.

If I had my way, Luca, I’d never. See you. Again.

I don’t believe him for one minute. He was hard as a rock just now in that closet. I know he enjoyed our night together. That was obvious. He was in a state of bliss with me inside him. Now he’s acting like he wants nothing to do with me? Pfft. Please. That can’t be true.

My phone buzzes and it’s a text from Marco.

Sorry to interrupt. Isabella’s heart has been broken again.

I groan, and text him I’ll be right there. Isabella is my younger sister. She’s a free-spirited artistic type who is constantly falling in love with the wrong men. Tucking my phone away, I go to say my goodbyes to everyone. Unlike Evan, I can’t just run out of the building without saying a few words to the team and management.

Once I’ve done my duty, I leave the building and meet Marco by a black Mercedes. He’s leaning against the car, texting. He looks up as I near, a dark lock of hair on his forehead. “It’s bad, boss. She really liked this guy.”

I exhale harshly as he opens the door for me. “Why can’t she fall in love with you, Marco? It would be so much more convenient.”

He laughs. “I agree, but she only dates non-mafia types.”

“She’s such a traitor.” I slide into the back of the car, inhaling the scent of leather and lemon car freshener.

Marco joins me in the back, and my driver Danny starts the engine and we’re on our way. “ Marco clears his throat. “Apparently this guy was married.”

I snap my head toward him. “What?”

Marco nods. “A wife and three kids.” Marco curls his lip. “He’s not even Italian. He’s Polish or something.”

“He wasn’t even Italian?” I growl, shifting to face Marco. “Since when does she not date Italian men?”

He sighs. “You know Bella, she does what she wants.”

“We’ll see about that.” I clamp my jaw, seething. It’s bad enough that Isabella refuses to date anyone in the syndicate, but now she’s dating men who aren’t even Italian? That’s sacrilege. Father is probably spinning in his grave.

The drive to the family estate takes twenty minutes, the sleek black Mercedes handling the winding road with practiced ease. Iron gates bearing the Barone family crest part silently as we approach. The long driveway curves through manicured grounds until we reach the house.

Late afternoon sunlight gleams off the limestone facade of the mansion, its Italian villa styling a testament to my great grandfather’s determination to recreate a piece of the old country here in Seabrooke. Twin fountains flank the circular drive, and to the right is Mama’s garden. There, pristine rose bushes and carefully tended lavender are planted to remind her of her family home in Tuscany.

Giuseppe, our groundskeeper for the past thirty years, is trimming the hedges. He touches his cap as I pass, but doesn’t meet my eyes directly. Father was very old school and preferred things like that. He wanted the staff to know their place. I don’t have the same feeling about such things. I don’t care if Giuseppe looks me in the eye. He watched me grow up and has been loyal to my family. He’s like is a fixture on the property, and it would be weird if he wasn’t puttering around the garden. But he prefers to keep to the old ways, and I don’t want to make him uncomfortable by insisting he meet my gaze.

We park next to my younger brother Tony’s ostentatious Lamborghini. He’s very different from me, more prone to flashy cars and clubs. My mother always says I was born middle-aged because, even as a child, I was responsible and did what I was told. Perhaps that discipline was simply ingrained in me because I knew, one day, I’d be the head of the Barone Syndicate, whereas my siblings were free to do what they wanted with their lives.

Marco and I hurry up the marble steps to the massive oak front door. It opens before we reach it, and Williams, our butler, greets me with his usual unflappable demeanor. “Welcome home, Mr. Luca. The family is in the kitchen.”

“How’s Isabella?” I ask, handing him my sports jacket.

Williams wrinkled face tenses. “I fear she’s suffered yet another heartbreak, sir.” He glances around and softly adds, “I believe the fellow in question wasn’t even Italian .” He says that the same way he might divulge information about Isabella dating a dragon.

“Shocking, isn’t it?” Marco looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

“I’m sure she’ll feel much better now that you’re here, sir,” William says smoothly.

“I’ll do my best to make it all better.” Comforting people isn’t my specialty, but breaking bones is. If I can get enough info out of Isabella, I’ll make this ex-lover of hers pay dearly.

Our family mansion is a blend of old-world grandeur and modern luxury, crystal chandeliers hang alongside sleek, recessed lighting, and priceless antiques share space with contemporary art. Every surface gleams with the care of our household staff, yet Mama somehow keeps it from feeling like a museum. Fresh flowers brighten the window sills, family photos crowd the side tables, and the warm, inviting aroma of something cooking in the kitchen always fills the air.

Like now. The scent of Mama’s special occasion marinara hits me before I reach the kitchen. She only makes it when one of us is hurting. The recipe is older than the mansion itself, passed down through generations of Barone women.

I pause in the doorway, taking in the scene. The kitchen is the heart of our home, with its huge marble island and professional-grade appliances. Copper pots hang from the ceiling, and herbs grow in terra cotta pots along the window sills. The space somehow manages to be both enormous and cozy.

Isabella sits at the island, wearing a floral sundress, looking lost. Her pale face is streaked with tears, and Tony hovers nearby, his muscular frame making the roomy kitchen seem almost small. The contrast between his street enforcer appearance and the worried, soft expression on his face as he watches his baby sister, are striking. He could rip your head off if you piss him off, but he’s soft as putty when it comes to family. Same as I am, actually.

Mama is at the stove, stirring her sauce with practiced moves, her silver-streaked hair is pulled back in its usual elegant bun. When she sees me, she gives a subtle shake of her head, as if to say, “Don’t be the angry big brother. Be the comforting big brother.”

I nod and take a steadying breath, trying to push down some of my anger.

When Isabella sees me, her bottom lip starts quivering. “Luca, he was married,” she wails.

And not Italian, which is almost worse.

“He was married?” I pretend I haven’t already been briefed on all the sordid details. I move toward her, schooling my expression into an empathetic one. “You can’t be serious?”

“I am.” Isabella starts sobbing. “And he even has kids .”

I slip my arms around her thin body. “It’s okay, Tesoro. That’s on him, not on you.”

Her body shakes as she cries in my arms. It breaks my heart to see her pain. She’s headstrong, but a truly sweet girl. She always wants to see the best in people. Little does she know, most people are trash.

After thirty minutes of crying and declaring she’s through with men forever, she begins to calm. I’m relieved that my presence has helped to soothe her. She trusts me to protect her, and I’m going to make that son of a bitch who hurt her pay. It’s the one thing I can do for her. What good is being a crime boss if I can’t even protect my sister’s heart and reputation?

Isabella presses a tissue to her red eyes. “Mostly I’m just so confused.”

“What’s to be confused about? The guy was a jerk,” Marco booms.

“Yeah, he sounds like a complete asshole,” I say and earn a chiding glance from Mama.

Isabella’s warm brown eyes are red-rimmed, but there’s still fire simmering. “He made me a cheater, Luca. That isn’t right. I’d never have dated a married man.”

I ruffle her wavy brown hair. “I know that, Tesoro. He’s the cheater, not you.”

She wipes roughly at her damp eyes. “I feel so betrayed. How could he do that to me?” She blinks up at me. “Why would he trick me and lie to me? I never did anything to him. I was only nice to him. He acted like he really liked me, but the whole time it was just an act to get me in bed.”

When she says that, for some reason, Evan comes to mind, and an unexpected stab of guilt hits me. The memory of his wounded expression this morning, when I told him the truth about who I am, makes my chest ache. Unsure of how to respond to Isabella, I simply pat her head.

She sighs, picking up a spoon and stabbing it into the pint of chocolate gelato in front of her. “He used me and that’s just not right. You’re going to make him pay, aren’t you, Luca?”

Marco laughs gruffly. “You won’t date men in the mafia, but you want your brother to handle this like mafia?”

She scowls at him. “This is different.” She takes a big bite of gelato, glowering at Marco.

“How?” Marco asks, moving over to sniff the sauce Mama is cooking. “If Luca wasn’t head of a syndicate, you wouldn’t be asking him to handle anything.”

Tony gives Marco a warning look. “Hey, Marco, why are you picking on Isabella? She’s the victim here.”

“I’m not picking on her,” Marco murmurs, returning to us. “I just think it’s hypocritical of her to turn her nose up at dating men in the mafia, when she wants Luca to break her ex-boyfriend’s legs.”

“I never said he should break anyone’s legs,” she mumbles around her mouthful of ice cream.

“But that’s what you want, right?” Marco shrugs. “You want him to hurt this scumbag who lied to you.”

Isabella swallows and avoids Marco’s gaze. “I just think he should pay in some way for using me like that. It’s not right.”

I meet Marco’s gaze, smirking. “ I mean, to be fair, I’d break his legs even if I wasn’t head of the syndicate. He messed with my sister and that’s not something he can get away with.”

And he’s not Italian .

Isabella laughs as she watches me. “You have that look, Luca.”

“What look?” I slide onto the stool next to her, loosening my tie.

“The same one you had when Bobby Castellano stood me up for prom.” She manages a watery smile. “Did they ever find his car?”

“How would I know?” I steal her spoon and take a bite of gelato. The rich chocolate flavor bathes my tongue. “Although I think I heard something about the police finding his car at the bottom of Seabrooke lake. Can’t imagine how it got there.”

That gets a laugh from her, which makes me feel a little better.

I nudge her slender shoulder with mine. “Why don’t you give dating a rest for a while? You keep picking real jerks.”

She sighs. “There are so many of them out there. God, I can’t believe I fell for his lies.” Her eyes fill up with tears again, which makes me feel vaguely panicked. “He seemed to really like me. I can’t believe it was all fake.”

That damn guilt about Evan returns.

“He wanted what he wanted,” Mama interjects, adding fresh basil to her sauce. “Sometimes you have to lie to get what you want.”

“Mama.” Isabella looks betrayed. “You’re on his side?”

Mama’s face gentles. “Of course not, Piccola. I think breaking his legs is too good for him. He needs his dick cut off.”

Marco guffaws. “That’s what I love about you, Mrs. Barone. You look so sophisticated and demure, but you’re Cosa Nostra through and through .”

She smiles, looking flattered. “Well, I was married to Giovanni from the time I was eighteen.” She makes the sign of the cross. “He didn’t suffer fools.”

“No, he did not.” Tony nods, lifting his dark brows. “Father didn’t even suffer non-fools very well.”

Isabella slumps. “I feel like such an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot, Tesoro.” Mama sighs, looking at her daughter. “Men are idiots. Present company excluded.”

Tony quirks a brow. “Did you hear that guys, we’re excluded this time.”

Marco chuckles. “Whew.”

Mama turns down the heat under her sauce and comes over to us. “That man is garbage for cheating on his wife and for using Isabella. It’s one thing to steal and run rackets, but when you start manipulating people’s emotions, that seems wrong.”

It feel as if she’s talking directly to me and my face warms. “Sometimes you have to trick people to get things done.” I glance at my sister. “I don’t mean like what happened to you, Bella. That man was using you for his own personal rewards.” I clear my throat. “But sometimes you do have to manipulate people’s emotions in business to get things done.”

Mama studies me and I feel like an ant under a microscope. “It’s never right to make people think you like them romantically, if you’re just using them,” she says. “That isn’t how the Barone’s operate.”

I lift my chin. “I’m not sure I agree. Father emotionally blackmailed lots of people over the years. It was one of his best strategies for getting what he wanted.”

Mama hesitates. “That’s true, but he didn’t sleep with them to get them in line.”

My face is hot as I hold her gaze. I almost wonder if Marco has said something to her about what I’ve been up to with Evan and the Ice Hawks. I shoot him a suspicious glance but he simply lifts his brows in question.

“You can threaten people till the cows come home, but you shouldn’t abuse their hearts.” She looks at Isabella. “Look at how hurt she is. How anyone could think using another human that way is okay is beyond me.”

Once more shame washes over me, but I shove it away. I don’t agree with her. Evan enjoyed our night together. It’s not like I tortured him all night. He was a hundred percent on board with me. He loved the sex. Hell, I loved the sex. It was probably the best sex I’ve ever had. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop my thoughts from going any further.

“Anyway,” I say gruffly, “I’ll need this guy’s name, Isabella.”

She hesitates, biting her bottom lip.

“You said you wanted him to pay,” I nudge. “I have to know who he is.” If she won’t tell me, I’ll still find the guy. But it’s easier if she just hands over the name.

“I know his name,” Marco volunteers.

Isabella scowls at him. “Excuse me?”

His lips twitch. “What? I just happened to be at Paul’s Pizza the same time you were there with him. It was coincidence.”

She narrows her eyes. “How would eating at the same restaurant equal you knowing his name?”

Marco looks like he’s trying really hard not to laugh. “I may or may not have seen his credit card receipt.”

Tony laughs. “Purely by coincidence?”

“Sure. Let’s go with that.” Marco grabs an apple from a bowl of fruit on the counter. He bites into it as Isabella glares at him, but he seems unperturbed.

“Did you follow me?” she demands.

“No, I told you, it was an accident.” He takes another bite of apple, looking very pleased with himself.

Isabella turns to me. “Luca, that isn’t right of him to follow me. That’s completely out of line. I’m twenty-one years old. I’m an adult and I deserve privacy.”

“Yeah, come on, Marco. That was way out of line.” I have to hide my true feelings on the matter because, in truth, I’m very proud of my boy Marco. With Isabella’s horrible taste in men, she needs watching, whether she knows it or not.

Marco sighs. “Okay, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t look sorry. Not even a little.

“You really are so annoying, Marco,” grumbles Isabella, but to be honest, she doesn’t appear that upset anymore. She almost looks flattered.

“Luca,” Mama says, “You’re staying to dinner, right?” I appreciate that she pretends it’s an option. We both know I’m not allowed to leave. Anytime Isabella has one of her romantic meltdowns, we make a family night of it.

“Of course.” I incline my head. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away from one of your spaghetti sauce nights, Mama.”

Marco brightens. “Am I invited to stay for dinner?”

Mama laughs. “As if you don’t already know that.” She shakes her head and returns to the stove to start the pasta. “Luca, go get a good bottle of red wine from the cellar.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I go to the door that’s just off the kitchen, where narrow steps lead down to the wine cellar.

The cool air hits me as I reach the bottom of the wine cellar, a welcome relief from the heat of the kitchen upstairs. The scent of oak and aged cork lingers, mingling with the faint, earthy aroma of stone walls. The dim lighting casts a warm glow over the neatly arranged racks that line the walls.

I run my fingers over the labels, their raised text familiar under my touch. Chateau Margaux might be too bold for tonight. I crouch down and spot a bottle of Pine Ridge Vineyards Cabernet Sauvignon, 2018. The bottle is a deep, glossy black, the label understated but elegant. I grab the bottle, holding it up to the light.

My father was a wine connoisseur, and I studied wine in an effort to impress him. Unfortunately, being who he was, he never acknowledged my expertise. I’ll never know if he was hiding his feelings or simply didn’t have any on the matter. I’m nowhere near settling down, but if that day ever comes, and I have kids, I plan to be a very different kind of father. I don’t expect fatherhood to come naturally to me, but my one wish is that my children never question whether I loved them.

I frown at those unusually sappy thoughts. “Where did that come from?” I mutter, returning to the stairs with my bottle of wine.

This new heartbreak of Isabella’s has put me in a weird mood. Seeing her pain has forced me to examine my behavior with Evan. I don’t regret buying the team to use for my gambling activities, or threatening Evan into throwing games. But sleeping with Evan was never in my original plan. It was when I watched him play against the Bay City Blazers that the thought of seducing him came to me.

I didn’t even feel bad about it until I saw Isabella looking so broken hearted. Being the head of a syndicate doesn’t require me to be empathetic. I need to be decisive and brutal, but empathy doesn’t usually play much of a role in my line of work. If I started having sympathy for every slob I had to handle, that could be a real problem.

So, yeah, I can admit I crossed the line with Evan, and that probably wasn’t nice. But I’m not about to apologize. I don’t do apologies to anyone but my family, and even then, they’re as rare as a two-headed goldfish. It’s not really my fault he trusted me. Yes, he had no reason not to trust me, but still. He’s an adult.

I shrug. “He should have known better than to assume I was a good guy.”

Happy with my bottle of wine, and my conscience, I head back upstairs.