The Forbidden Ferrara. Sarah Morgan
Possibly. Either way, their relationship had been like a blast from a rocket engine, the sudden heat tearing through both of them, burning up common sense and reason. He should have known there would be a price. And clearly he’d been paying that price for the last three years.
‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’ His tone was raw and ragged and he watched as her breathing grew shallow.
‘For a supposedly clever man you ask stupid questions.’
‘Nothing—nothing—that has happened between our two families should have prevented you from telling me this.’ With a slice of his hand he gestured towards the open door. ‘This’ had vanished into the night with the accommodating Gina and letting him out of his sight was one of the hardest things Santo had ever done. Soon, he vowed. Soon, the child would never be out of his sight again. It was the only sure thing in this storm of uncertainty. ‘You should have told me.’
‘For what purpose? To have my son exposed to the same bitter feud that has coloured our entire lives? To have him used as some pawn in your power games? I have protected him from all of that.’
‘Our son—’ Santo spoke in a thickened tone ‘—he is my son, too. The product of both of us.’
‘He is the product of one night when you and I were—’
‘—were what?’
Her gaze didn’t falter. ‘We were foolish. Out of control. We did something stupid. Something we never should have done. I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Well, tough, because you’re going to talk about it. You should have talked about it three years ago when you first realised you were pregnant.’
‘Oh, don’t be so naive!’ Her temper flared as hot as his. ‘This was not some cosy romance that had unexpected consequences. It was complicated.’
‘The decision whether or not to tell a man he’s the father of your child is not complicated. Cristo—’ Floored by the monumental issues facing them, he let out a long breath and dragged his hand over the back of his neck, seeking calm and not finding it anywhere within his grasp. ‘I cannot believe this. I need time to think.’ He knew that decisions made in the heat of anger were never good ones and he needed them to be good ones.
‘There is nothing to think about.’
Santo cast his mind back to that night, a night he never allowed himself to think about because the good was irrevocably entwined with the really, really bad and it was impossible to unravel the two. ‘How did it happen? I used—’
‘Apparently there are some things even a Ferrara can’t control,’ she said coolly, ‘and this was one of them.’
He looked at her blankly. The whole night had merged for him. Pulling out details was impossible. It had been crazy, wild and—she was right—ill-advised. But what they’d shared hadn’t been the product of rational decision-making. It had been sheer animal lust, the like of which he’d never experienced before or since.
She’d been upset.
He’d put his hand on her shoulder.
She’d turned to him.
And that had been it—
Such a small spark to light such a raging fire.
And then, even before the heat had cooled, she’d had the call telling her that her brother had been killed. That single tragic phone call that had sliced through their loving like the blade of a guillotine. And after, the fallout. The recriminations and the speculation.
The young waiter appeared in the doorway, his eyes on Fia. ‘Is everything OK? I saw Luca awake, which is always nice because I managed to snatch a lovely cuddle, but I heard raised voices.’ He shot Santo a suspicious look, which Santo returned tenfold. The news that everyone appeared to be cuddling his son except him simply fuelled his already fiercely burning temper. An unfamiliar emotion streaked through him—the primal response of a man guarding his territory.
So his child was called Luca.
The fact that he’d learned the name from this man drove him to the edge of control.
What exactly was his relationship with Fia?
‘This is a private conversation. Get out,’ he said thickly and he heard Fia’s soft intake of breath.
‘It’s OK, Ben. Just go.’
Apparently Ben didn’t know what was good for him because he stood stubbornly in the doorway. ‘I’m not leaving until I know you’re all right.’ It was like a spaniel challenging a Rottweiler. He glared at Santo, who would have given him points for courage had he not been way past admiring the qualities of another man. Especially a man who was making puppy eyes at the woman who, only moments earlier, had been clutching his child.
‘I am giving you one more opportunity to leave and then I will remove you myself.’
‘Go, Ben!’ She sounded exasperated. ‘You’re just giving him another reason to throw his weight around.’
Ben gave her one last doubtful look and melted away into the darkness of the night, leaving the two of them alone.
Tension throbbed like a living force. The air was heavy with it. He could taste it on his tongue and feel the weight of it pressing down on his shoulders. And he knew she could feel it too.
His head was a mass of questions.
How had no one guessed? Had no one questioned the identity of the child’s father? He didn’t understand how she could have hidden such a thing.
‘You knew you were pregnant and yet you cut me out of your life.’
‘You were never in my life, Santo. And I was never in yours.’
‘We made a child together.’ His low growl came from somewhere deep inside him and he saw her recoil as if the reminder came as a physical blow.
‘You need to calm down. In just ten minutes you’ve frightened my child, virtually seduced his nanny, bawled me out and been unforgivably rude to someone I care about.’
‘I did not frighten our child.’ That accusation angered him more than any of the others. ‘You did that by creating this situation.’ And he still didn’t understand how she had kept her secret. His usually sharp mind refused to work. ‘This is your grandfather’s idea of revenge? Punishing the Ferraras by hiding the child?’
‘No!’ Her chest rose and fell, her breathing shallow. ‘He adores Luca.’
Santo raised his eyebrows in disbelief. ‘He adores a child who is half Ferrara? You expect me to believe that age has finally gifted a Baracchi with tolerance?’ He broke off, alerted by something in her eyes, some instinct that went bone-deep. And suddenly it fell into place. Finally he understood the truth and the reality was another blow to his already aching gut. ‘Cristo, he doesn’t know, does he?’ It was the only possible explanation and one that was confirmed by the look in her eyes.
‘Santo—’
‘Answer me.’ His voice didn’t sound like his own and he saw her take a step backwards. ‘You will tell me the truth. He doesn’t know, does he? You haven’t told him.’
‘How could I tell him?’ Underneath the desperation was a profound weariness, as if this issue were a heavy weight she’d been carrying for too long. ‘He hates everything about your family, and he hates you more than any man on the planet. Not just because your surname is Ferrara, but because—’ She didn’t finish the sentence and he let it hang there because to get involved in a discussion about her brother’s death would mean being sidetracked, and he refused to be sidetracked.
They had a child.
A child that was half Ferrara, half Baracchi. An unimaginable bloodline.
A