The Sicilian's Banished Bride Page 5

  Shame flooded her as she recalled how she’d begged and pleaded for him to take her back. For one month, she’d rung him every day, emailed him over a dozen times and in the end resorted to letters, which she’d pleaded with one staff member in his mail room to hand-deliver.

  The messenger had assured her he’d delivered it, and she knew Rocco had received it because that last letter, where she’d begged him to take her back for the sake of their unborn child, had been one of the letters exhibited at the dreadful hearing. It had been read out loud in court, earning her a pity-filled look from the judge. But it hadn’t stopped him from issuing the restraining order, banning her from ever contacting Rocco Vitelli, in person or via electronic channels, before strongly advising her to seek help for her obsessive condition.

  She’d staggered from the courtroom, dazed, from the ashes her life had turned into seemingly overnight. She’d lost her temp job almost immediately and found out very soon that all other employment avenues were closed to her, the Vitelli name an iron-clad guarantee to overpower the name of Gallagher.

  Thank God for her grandmother’s unquestioning support when Mia had turned up on her doorstep, pregnant and broken.

  Her painful introspection ceased when she opened her eyes and encountered designer-styled shoes planted in front of her. She looked up and up into Rocco’s stony face. The grey pallor was back, tingeing his skin and making his eyes look gaunt. His mouth was set in a flat, immoveable line as his hands balled into fists at his sides.

  ‘You have levelled one absurd accusation after another since I walked through this door today, Mia, but this...’ he shook his head in stunned disbelief ‘...this outshines them all.’ He retreated to the far end of the room, his broad shoulders stiff, as if trying to keep a tight rein on his control.

  ‘I know we didn’t part on the best of terms three years ago. I can understand that having the truth of your actions brought to light would’ve been upsetting for you, but this bizarre story you’re concocting is beyond my understanding. I don’t know what you mean to achieve by pursuing it—’

  Astonishment lent strength to legs as she lurched upright. ‘Wait a minute. Are you accusing me of making this up? Are you crazy?’

  Rocco’s head went up as if he’d been struck. ‘On the contrary, I think you’re the one who’s impaired in some way.’

  ‘Damn it, I am not making this up. You know I’m not!’

  ‘Prove it. Show me some concrete evidence that my child is not in the care of a delusional excuse for a mother. Prove what you are saying or, so help me, I will take immediate steps to have him removed from your care.’ He spoke in such a controlled, even tone and perversely that made Mia want to lash out at him even more.

  Stark anger at his threat made her gasp in outrage. ‘You bastard! You utterly heartless bastard. Haven’t you done enough?’

  ‘Obviously not. I should have kept a closer watch on you after we parted. You’re not the first aggrieved ex-lover to attempt to keep a father from his child.’ His jaw clenched hard on the words.

  Mia clenched her fists and tried to take a deep breath. With every bone in her body, she wanted to tell him for the hundredth time to go to hell.

  But what good would that achieve? Rocco had already been here far too long. Gianni had been asleep far longer than normal, but he wouldn’t be asleep for much longer. And whatever the cost, she had to make sure Rocco wasn’t here when her son woke up.

  ‘You want evidence? I’ll show it to you. But first I want something from you.’

  ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘I don’t care what you think. You claim you don’t know what I’m talking about. Fine. I’ll prove what I’m saying. But first, I want your written assurance that your being here won’t be held against me in any way.’

  She saw his puzzled frown and pre-empted his objection. ‘Please spare me another I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about episode. If you want to see the evidence, then you’ll agree.’

  After a terse silence, he nodded. ‘Very well.’

  She stifled a sigh of relief. ‘Secondly, once I show it to you, I want you to leave.’

  Immediately he shook his head. ‘That would be impossible.’

  ‘Then you leave me no choice.’

  Trying to hide her trembling, she crossed the room and picked up the phone.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I have an intruder in my house. I’m phoning the police.’

  He didn’t so much as flinch at her threat. ‘Don’t be stupid. How do you think the police will react when they find out just how long the intruder has been here?’

  ‘Then go! I don’t want you here.’ Tears threatened, joining all the tumultuous emotions raging through her. ‘Please, just go.’

  For a beat he stared at her. Examined her face with an intensity that shook her insides. Then, he jerked out a nod. ‘Va bene. You have my word. I will leave once you show me this evidence you have. But before you look so pleased, rest assured, I will be back tomorrow morning, when I expect to be properly introduced to my son. After that we will have a long talk.’

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’ Her voice held a desperate edge she prayed he hadn’t picked up on.

  ‘Show me the evidence, Mia.’

  ‘Then you’ll go?’

  He heaved a frustrated breath. ‘Sì.’

  She walked over to the cabinet set against one side of the tiny room. Opening the first drawer, she took out a key, which she used to open the second drawer. She hated the way her hands trembled as she pulled out the file, hated the way pain ripped through her as she nudged closed the drawer and turned around. Most of all, she hated the way Rocco stared so intently, witnessing every emotion she struggled not to feel as he held out his hand calmly for the file.

  Taking it without a word, he retreated and seated himself on her favourite chair—and earned himself another black mark.

  She stood in front of the cabinet and watched him leaf slowly through the file. He thumbed through copies of the emails she’d sent in desperation after he’d refused to take her calls; through photos his investigators had taken of her outside his office, chasing down his car on the road that last morning when he’d taken his private elevator to the garage instead of the front lobby as she’d been led to believe. That day she’d spent six hours in his reception waiting for a chance to speak to him, only to glance up and see him outside, preparing to slide into his Ferrari.

  That memory brought a fresh wave of humiliation.

  ‘Haven’t you seen enough?’ She moved to take the file from him.

  He looked up. ‘These pictures, when were they taken?’

  ‘When do you think?’ He continued to stare at her. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. There’s a date stamp on the back.’

  He flipped a few over and stared at the dates. ‘This is dated six weeks after we parted.’

  So he remembered when he’d ended their engagement? Why wouldn’t he? He’d documented her every move to use as evidence against her. ‘We didn’t part, Rocco. You threw me out of the Palermo villa and the Milan apartment.’

  The brief flare of his patrician nostrils was the only indication that he’d heard her. ‘You remained in Milan all that time?’ He was frowning again.

  ‘I remained in Milan for two months, as you well know.’

  He didn’t answer this time as he set down one photo and picked up another. After examining each one, he finally picked up the transcript. Again he took his time reading the two-double-sided court document that forbade her from ever contacting Rocco Vitelli or coming within speaking distance of him.

  Finally, he closed the file and stood. His face had grown gaunt; his pallor even more ashen, as if he’d received the worst shock of his life. But with his back against the window, Mia couldn’t be certain. What she could see was that he was staring at
the file as if it were an alien being.

  ‘Makes grim reading, doesn’t it, seeing it all in black and white? Now that you’ve refreshed your memory, can you please go?’

  He lifted his gaze to her and Mia bit back a gasp at the stark torment in the dark depths of his eyes. When he exhaled, it emerged a harsh, cracked sound.

  ‘I have no idea who did this to you, Mia. But it wasn’t me.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘EXCUSE ME?’ Mia was sure her hearing was playing tricks on her.

  ‘This—’ Rocco lifted the file ‘—was not my doing.’ His voice was as stark as the look in his eyes. With abrupt movements he slammed the file on the chair. ‘I swear it.’

  Light-headed with the rapid drain of blood from her head, she swayed against the cabinet. ‘This is not your doing,’ she echoed the words through numb lips. Her brain struggled even harder to grasp their meaning.

  ‘No. It is not.’ He advanced as he spoke until he stood right in front of her. Up close, she could see the terrible tension that gripped his face, held his body taut. ‘If the evidence in that file is to be believed...’ he paused at her outraged gasp ‘...then someone has perpetrated a terrible injustice on both of us.’

  ‘Someone?’ She’d found her voice, even though it emerged higher than she would have wished. ‘You seriously expect me to believe that this had nothing to do with you? That someone else did this? How stupid do you think I am?’

  He let out another harsh breath and grasped her arms. ‘You need to calm down so we can talk about this rationally.’

  ‘No!’ She wrenched herself away from him. ‘Enough. Please, enough. Whatever game you’re playing, it’s gone on long enough. You said you’d leave once I showed you the evidence. You’ve seen it. Now leave.’ She was hanging by a thread, and she didn’t know how much more she could take. Rushing to the door on unsteady feet, she reached for the doorknob.

  ‘I understand you’re emotional—’

  She rounded on him. ‘Of course I’m emotional. I’m human, not a robot like you. I don’t revel in mind games the way you do. At least have the decency not to insult my intelligence. You know every single shred of evidence in that file is the truth. The charges may have been trumped up, but it’s based on the truth, or a twisted version of it. I sent you those emails. I made those phone calls. I camped outside your office for a chance to talk to you. For two months I tried to get you to talk to me, and I used every means available to me because I thought you had the right to know about your unborn child. But to use it against me that way? To accuse me of stalking?’ She stopped to swallow a sob that threatened to escape. ‘You disgust me, you know that?’

  ‘Basta! If you would just calm down and think this through properly, you’ll realise I speak the truth.’

  ‘No. You listen to me for a change. I want you out of my house, and out of my life. Here, take the file with you. You can refresh your memory over a glass of Chianti. But know this. If you ever turn up on my doorstep again, I will take action against you for harassment.’

  Her rant went unanswered as he slowly dug his hand into his breast pocket. ‘Did you hear what I said?’ she demanded, fighting a wave of hysteria that threatened to suck her under.

  When his hand emerged, he held his passport. He turned to retrieve the file. ‘Come here.’ His terse command achieved the opposite. She held her ground and remained by the door. After a moment, he looked up. ‘Mia, if you want this nightmare to end for both of us, indulge me for a moment. Per favore.’

  Against her better judgement, she moved towards him, morbid curiosity biting into her. He had the file opened to where his statement was etched in grim black and white. Words like dangerous, unhinged, obsessed jumped out at her and she cringed as tears prickled behind her eyes.

  Rocco flipped the statement to the last page. Opening his passport, he held it next to his signed statement. ‘Do you see a difference?’

  Blinking, she frowned. ‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’

  ‘Purportedly, I signed this statement, no? Look at the signature in my passport. Now look at the two signatures and tell me what you see.’

  She looked closer. A tingle shot down her spine and a strange buzz started in her head as the pages blurred. Blinking hard, she stared, her eyes darting between the two documents. Slowly, the implications began to sink in.

  She raised her gaze to him. ‘Are...are you saying this is not your signature?’

  He gave a grim nod. ‘Io sono spiacente.’

  It took another few seconds for his meaning to sink in. She flew at him, landing blows everywhere she could reach. ‘You’re sorry?’ she shrieked. ‘For over three years I’ve lived in fear of being hauled off to jail on a whim, lived in fear of losing my child in case I somehow violate the terms of the restraining order...and all you can say is, you’re sorry?’ Tears streamed down her face as her emotions finally burst their bank.

  Rocco didn’t move. Not a muscle as her anger and despair ripped free. Finally, overcome by racking sobs, she collapsed against him. Then he caught her to him, holding her in his arms as she shuddered with emotional overload. Through her distress, she heard him murmur soft words in Italian, words meant to soothe, but that only made her cry harder as she continued to slam her fists against his arms, shoulders, anywhere she could reach, until she was drained and wretched.

  It was only when her tears lessened to unladylike hiccups, that she heard it. The sound she should have been listening out for. The sound that should have been her first concern in all this madness.

  The impatient wail that was Gianni’s waking call.

  She wrenched herself out of Rocco’s arms and stumbled backwards. ‘Go. Now!’

  ‘Cara, you are not in a state to be left—’

  ‘No, you said you would leave. You promised!’

  ‘Sì, and I will, when you’ve calmed down.’

  Gianni let out another plaintive cry. Torn between going to her son and making sure his father disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived, she paused. And nearly jumped out of her skin when the doorbell pealed. With a sharp cry, she whirled towards it. The hand that closed over her shoulder stopped her in her tracks.

  ‘Go and get the boy. I will get the door.’ Rocco’s authoritative voice was couched in helpful charm. As much as she wanted to tell him to go to hell, Gianni’s demand to be let out of his cot was getting to the stage where Mia knew that if she didn’t get upstairs immediately, he’d attempt to climb out himself.

  Reluctantly, she nodded, and, swallowing down the last of her hiccups, she headed for the stairs.

  ‘Mia?’

  She turned to find him behind her, pulling out a cotton square from his pocket, which he held out to her. ‘Unless you want to upset our son, I suggest you try and remove some of the evidence of your distress.’

  Belatedly, she lifted a hand to her face and realised her cheeks were still wet with her tears, not to mention her runny nose that must make her resemble a wet scarecrow. With a deep flush engulfing her face, she snatched the handkerchief, not bothering to murmur her thanks as she fled up the stairs.

  She’d reached the top of the stairs when she heard Mrs Hart greeting Rocco as if they were old friends.

  Pursing her lips at the further unwanted intrusion, she hurried down the hall and arrived in time to see Gianni swing one plump leg over the top of the cot, ready to escape his perceived prison.

  She rushed to him and swung him into her arms. ‘No, no, sweetheart. I told you, you mustn’t do that.’

  Hiding her face against his chubby neck, she hugged him close to her, all her anger and anxiety draining out of her to be replaced by the rush of love she felt for her little boy.

  When he pulled at her hair and repeated her words—‘No, no, tweehar...’—her smile wobbled and she clutched him closer. He protested and began to squirm.

  But knowin
g what faced her downstairs, Mia held on for a moment longer, selfishly basking in her son’s innocence until he wriggled harder, eager to be set free.

  ‘All right. But you know the drill. First a nappy change. Okay?’

  Immediately he shook his head. ‘No nappy.’

  Her smile widened. ‘Yes nappy, then you can play with your racing cars.’

  It could’ve been the change in his normal routine or the instinctive warning that all was not right with his mother. But far from crowing with joy the way he normally did at the prospect of playing with his beloved racing cars instead of sitting in his high chair in the kitchen for his pre-dinner fruit plate, he regarded his mother solemnly for several seconds with a gaze so shrewd and reminiscent of his father’s, Mia’s heart twisted in pain.

  Then a smile broke over his face. ‘Racing car!’

  ‘Yes, but first, nappy change.’

  And then, please, God, let Rocco have disappeared quietly without making a fuss by the time she returned downstairs. The notion that she was grasping at straws stayed with her as she changed Gianni’s nappy, but she refused to let go of the hope as she clutched her son—who in turn clutched one yellow and one red racing car in his fists—and made her way downstairs.

  With each step she recalled her conversation with Rocco just before Gianni woke up. Was it true? Had someone instigated the accusations against her, dragged her to court under fabricated charges, all without Rocco knowing? That seemed too unthinkable, so impossible, that she couldn’t begin to wrap her head around it. She paused as another, equally unthinkable, thought struck her.

  If Rocco hadn’t known of his son’s existence, what would he do now that he knew? The image of his face when she accused him of knowing and deliberately ignoring Gianni’s existence rose in her mind.

  What had he said?

  You think anything will come between me and my flesh and blood?

  What did that mean? Her veins filled with ice as possible new interpretations tumbled through her mind. Did Rocco mean to take her son away from her? Somehow declare her an unfit mother and demand full custody and spirit her son away to Italy?