A pair of surly blue eyes stared back in rebellion.
Sawyer ignored the look and tapped his ear in a demand for the kid to take the earbuds out. Vincent, now named Wolfe, shifted on the bed and muttered a curse. ripping the bud from his right ear, above which his hair was shaved, he glared. “What?”
“How about cleaning up your mess?”
A snort. “you got a cleaning lady, so why do you care?”
“She only comes once a week, and it already smells.
ever hear of a hamper?”
“you leave your stuff out.”
Sawyer refused to sigh; it was so cliché. “yeah, but not clothes that are breeding. I’m letting you crash here so you don’t have to pay for a room. The least you can do is buy food once in a while.”
Wolfe’s response was a long sigh. “Sure. Sorry.”
“Why don’t you get out of this place for a while? Take a walk. Shop. Do something.”
The kid looked at him as if he’d won the dummy award of the year. The gold hoop in his brow and in his ear winked in mockery. Why did Sawyer suddenly feel like shuffling his feet? How could a nineteen-year-old boy intimidate the crap out of him? He reminded himself to be patient.
Patience and understanding would eventually allow him to win. The kid had been through a lot, and he was supposed to be helping. “Why? So I can wear those ridiculous clothes you bought me and parade myself around like I’m some kind of designer toy? or sip espresso and pretend I’ve got my shit together to score a supermodel? No, thanks. I’ll stay here.”
Sawyer glanced at his regular uniform that rarely changed. Faded jeans with a hole in the knee. Battered black boots. White T-shirt. The matching leather bomber jacket completed the look of bad-ass, young Johnny Depp wannabe in the current century. Not that he cared what the kid wore, as long as he cleaned it up a bit for the office. He tried to change the subject. “you don’t have to wear the clothes if you don’t like them. I thought you’d enjoy getting out to explore. your Italian is amazing—you picked it up faster than I ever did.”
“It’s a sissy language.”
Sawyer bit back a laugh. The kid was a pisser. “Fine. Stay here, but don’t steal my last bottles of Peretti—you’re still underage. And don’t use my house as a base to get women.
Did you contact the sales team for me on those issues I pointed out?”
“yeah, it’s done.”
“Thanks, Vincent.”
The name slipped from his lips before he remembered. Hot blue eyes narrowed with rage, and the boy’s fists clenched. Sawyer stood still, as the kid battled with his inner demons. Demons Sawyer knew way too much about.
“Don’t ever call me that again,” the kid hissed. “ever. My name is Wolfe.”
He threw his hands up. “Sorry. Still getting used to it.”
Sawyer turned on his heel and left the boy alone. Shit, talking to him was like crossing a viper pit. one wrong step and you lost a fucking leg. He must have been crazy to think he could make some sort of difference. even worse, he’d had a big enough ego to drag the kid from New york all the way to Italy to show him the business. They shared no blood. Didn’t owe him a thing. And the kid—Wolfe, as of now—had stolen from him, then spit in his face when he threatened his ass with jail time.
The legal court records stated his name was Vincent Soldano. Three months ago, the boy told him he would no longer answer to the name and requested to be called Wolfe.
The significance of his appeal burned deep and stirred bad memories that Sawyer still battled. Hell, he’d done the same exact thing. remade himself and taken a new name in an attempt to start fresh. Creating a new identity helped him let the old crap go. Still, he occasionally slipped and the old name Vincent escaped. He needed to try harder to remember.
A half smile tugged at his lips. But damn Wolfe had fire in the pit of his belly. Sawyer realized immediately fire like that took a person one of two ways: toward a life of crime where a sharp brain and some decent skills could score money to deaden enough of the pain. or to the high road.
Which usually sucked, wasn’t as profitable, and hurt a hell of a lot more.
He offered the high road. The kid took it. The rest was fucking history. And a dirty home.
His cell phone buzzed and cut off his thoughts. He didn’t recognize the number but punched the button anyway.
The familiar voice drifted across the line, and Sawyer froze. Memories shot past: a tangle of good, bad, and a turning point that he’d never forget. He switched to Italian and exchanged a few words of greeting. She spoke for a while and he listened until she fell silent, awaiting his answer. He closed his eyes and dragged in a breath. Tension squeezed the sides of his head, but he refused to take a stroll into the past, which reminded him of a jacked-up Tim Burton movie rather than Disney.
“yes. Thank you for the invitation. I’ll be there.”
He hung up the phone and went to change.
…
Julietta walked up the cobblestone pathway and began to truly relax for the first time in the past week. The muscles in her neck and shoulders eased with each tap of her heel, and the warmth of her family home embraced her in a comforting hug of familiarity.
The three-tiered terra-cotta villa held simple lines and soaring archways. Michael had urged Mama to leave so he could buy her a castle befitting the empire she built, but she laughed and announced she’d die in the home that Papa had lived in. Julietta didn’t blame her.
More than five acres of land sprawled in every direction and allowed an onlooker to gaze upon the sweeping beauty of the Alps. Bergamo was the perfect place for her family to grow up in, a combination of old and new world split into two tiers—Citta Bassa and Citta Alta—the lower and upper cities. This home boasted wrought-iron balco-nies, cooly shaded patios, and endless gardens of lemon and olive trees. Julietta opened the door and made her way toward the kitchen.
Heavily carved pine tables and chairs dominated the space that called for long family dinners and endless courses, and stood as a witness of time gone by. Hand-sewn rugs accessorized the wooden floors. The warm Tuscan colors of red, gold, and green swirled before her and tantalized all of her senses. The sharp tang of citrus and salty olives, sweet basil and rich red tomato. An endless length of granite countertop slashed down the right side of the kitchen and held various jars and baskets of fresh fruit. Steam wafted from pots of boiling water; platters contained rolled-up meats; and slices of Italian bread crowded the table. A smile curved her lips, and peace settled over her.
She was home.
“Mama?”
Mama Conte turned from her station in front of the stove. “oh, my goodness, I didn’t even hear you. Damn ears.
I used to catch the click of the window from miles away when your sister tried to sneak out to meet Dominick. Now I can’t even hear when my front door slams.”
Julietta laughed and gave her a hug. After birthing four children, launching a successful bakery empire, and burying her husband, her mother still possessed a driving force built into her core. Her long gray hair was always twisted back in a bun, and her arthritis was serious enough to warrant a cane to help her walk. She’d had a few scares with her heart problems, but she’d held strong the past few years.
She wore her favorite apron—taken out each Sunday— marked with various stains from years gone by but always freshly laundered. The logo of La Dolce Famiglia was im-printed on it, and it had been given to her as a gift from Papa after their first bakery launched. For a little while, wrapped up in her childhood home with her mama at the stove, Julietta was happy. Safe.
She stowed her bag away, grabbed her apron, and settled herself at the table to chop tomatoes and peppers. “Is Uncle Brian coming over for dinner?” she asked, expertly dicing the vegetables.
“No, he’s taking the kids somewhere after church.”
“Is all this food just for me?” she teased. “Stop trying to fatten me up, Mama. I’ll have to buy a new wardrobe.”
Her mother paused, as if thinking about her next words.
“We shall have one guest for dinner.”
“Who?”
“you will see. For now, tell me what is going on at work.
Did you close the deal with The Palazzo as you had hoped?
I know you’ve been working on it for months.”
Julietta tried to fight off the disappointment of failure and squared her shoulders. “No, they made their decision a few weeks ago. I lost the deal.”
“I’m sorry, sweet girl. I know that meant a lot to you, but it is not needed. everything happens for a reason. A better deal will be presented.”
The truth of her mother’s words struck home. An image of Sawyer sprang before her eyes: those sculpted, devilish lips quirking in amusement, as if he knew she’d eventually end up in his bed. At least he had backed off and hadn’t tried to push. Still, she needed to be on guard at all times. She didn’t trust him to play by any rules. Julietta cleared her throat.
“Umm, actually, I’m signing a pretty big contract, Mama.
For a new hotel chain called Purity. We’ll be exclusive to the hotels, and the first one launches in Milan within the year.”
Pride etched out the lines of her mother’s face. “Well done. Why don’t we celebrate with some Moscato? I have a bottle chilling in the refrigerator, and we’ll open it at dinner.
Perhaps, now that this big deal has been signed, you will finally ease up the workload?”
Julietta’s confidence slipped a notch and she avoided her mother’s gaze. of course. Business was never enough when compared to marriage and love and babies. She swallowed back the ridiculous sting of tears, wondering if she was getting her period. What was up with her lately? She was so emotional and . . . girly. “Actually, I’ll need to work harder,” she said lightly. “But I enjoy every moment. I’m doing exactly what I always dreamed.”
Mama Conte sliced off a piece of fresh mozzarella and handed it to her with bread. The rich, creamy texture sank into the warm dough, and Julietta swallowed in pleasure. “I know you enjoy your career. Without you, I don’t know if La Dolce Famiglia would have succeeded, even with Michael at the helm. you have a gift. I just want you to share it with someone special.”
She lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. Typical motherly dream. Still, the comment bit hard, as if what Julietta had done with her life wasn’t enough. It wasn’t as if she could confess to her mother something was wrong with her, and she couldn’t connect with a man. She pushed the depression to the back of her mind and tried to concentrate on enjoy-ing her visit. “Perhaps one day,” she said brightly.
“Si. one day.”
A knock at the door saved her from further inquiry.
She wiped her hands on the towel and grinned. “Ah, our mysterious visitor. I bet it’s Father richard; he’s always happy to eat your cooking.” She moved to the front door and opened it.
Her mouth fell open.
Sawyer Wells stood in the entrance. His business suit had been replaced by a pair of comfortable khakis, a thick cableknit cream sweater, and Versace leather croc boots.
