Kate Hewitt - Inherited By Ferranti

It wasn’t until she was out on the street that her breathing started to return to normal, and it took another twenty minutes of driving out of Palermo, navigating the endless snarl of traffic and knowing she’d left Marco Ferranti far behind, before she felt the tension begin to unknot from her shoulders.

The busy city streets gave way to dusty roads that wound up to the hill towns high above Palermo, the Mediterranean glittering blue-green as she drove towards the Nebrodi mountains, and the villa where her mother was buried. When di Santis had rung her, she’d thought about not going to Sicily at all, and then she’d thought about simply going to his office and returning to London on the very same day. She had nothing left in Sicily now.

But then she’d reminded herself that her father couldn’t hurt her any longer, that Sicily was a place of ghosts and memories, and not of threats. She’d forgotten about Marco Ferranti.

A trembling laugh escaped her as she shook her head wryly. She hadn’t forgotten about Marco; she didn’t think she could ever do that. She’d simply underestimated the effect he’d have on her after seven years of thankfully numbing distance.

When she’d first caught sight of him in the office, wearing an expensive silk suit and reeking of power and privilege, looking as devastatingly attractive as he had seven years ago but colder now, so much colder, her whole body had trembled. Fortunately she’d got herself under control before Marco had swung that penetrating iron-grey gaze towards her. She had forced herself not to look at him.

She had no idea how he felt about her seven years on. Hatred or indifference, did it really matter? She’d made the right decision by running away the night before her wedding. She’d never regret it. Watching from afar as Marco Ferranti became more ingrained in Rocci Enterprises, always at her father’s side and groomed to be his next-in-line, told her all she needed to know about the man.

The road twisted and turned as it climbed higher into the mountains, the air sharper and colder, scented with pine. The hazy blue sky she’d left in Palermo was now dark with angry-looking clouds, and when Sierra parked the car in front of the villa’s locked gates she heard a distant rumble of thunder.

She shivered slightly even though the air was warm; the wind was picking up, the sirocco that blew from North Africa and promised a storm. The pine trees towered above her, the mountains seeming to crowd her in. She’d spent most of her childhood at this villa, and while she’d loved the beauty and peace of its isolated position high above the nearest hill town, the place held too many hard memories for her to have any real affection for it.

Standing by the window as dread seeped into her stomach when she saw her father’s car drive up the winding lane. Fear clenching her stomach hard as she heard his thunderous voice. Cringing as she heard her mother’s placating or pleading response. No, she definitely didn’t have good memories of here.

But she wouldn’t stay long now. She’d see her mother’s grave, pay her respects and then return to Palermo, where she’d booked into a budget hotel. By this time tomorrow she’d be back in London, and she’d never come to Sicily again.

Quickly, Sierra walked along the high stone wall that surrounded the estate. She knew the property like her own hand; she and her mother had always stayed here until Arturo called them into service, to play-act at being the perfect family for various engagements or openings of the Rocci hotels that now graced much of the globe. Her mother had lived for her husband’s summons; Sierra had dreaded them.

Away from the road she knew the wall had crumbled in places, creating a gap low enough for her to climb over. She doubted her father had seen to repairs in the last seven years; she wondered if he’d come to the villa at all. He’d preferred to live his own life in Palermo except when he needed his wife and daughter to play at happy families for the media.

She stepped into the shelter of a dense thicket of pine trees, the world falling to darkness as the trees overhead shut out any remnant of sunlight. Thunder rumbled again, and the branches snagged on her silk blouse and narrow skirt, neither a good choice for walking through woods or climbing walls.

After a few moments of walking she came to a crumbled section of wall and with effort, thanks to her pencil skirt, she managed to clamber over it. Sierra let out a breath of relief and started towards the far corner of the estate, where the family cemetery was located.

She skirted the villa, not wanting to attract attention to herself; she had no idea if anyone was in residence. Arturo had installed a housekeeper when she’d lived here with her mother, a beady-eyed old woman who had been her father’s henchman and spy. If she was still here, Sierra had no wish to attract her attention.

In the distance the ghostly white marble headstones of the Rocci family plot appeared through the stormy gloom like silent, still ghosts, and Sierra’s breath caught in her throat as she approached. She knew where her mother’s marker lay, in the far corner; it was the only one that hadn’t been there when she’d left.

Violet Rocci, Beloved Wife

She stared at the four words written starkly on the tombstone until they blurred and she blinked back tears. Beloved mother, yes, but wife? Had her father loved her mother at all? Sierra knew Violet believed so, but Sierra wanted to believe love was better and bigger than that. Love didn’t hurt, didn’t punish or belittle. She wanted to believe that, but she didn’t know if she could. She certainly had no intention of taking the risk of finding out for herself.

‘Ti amo, Mamma,’ she whispered, and rested her hand on top of the cool marble. She’d missed her mother so much over these past seven years. Although she’d written Violet a few letters over the years, her mother had discouraged contact, fearing for Sierra’s safety. The few letters she’d had were precious and all too rare, and had stopped completely well before Violet’s illness.

She drew a deep breath and willed the tears away. She wouldn’t cry now. There had been enough sadness already. Another deep breath and her composure was restored, as she needed it to be. Cloak herself in coolness, keep the feelings at bay. She turned away from the little cemetery plot and started walking back towards her car. She hoped Violet Rocci was at peace now, safe from her husband’s cruelty. It was the smallest comfort, but the only one she could cling to now.

Thunder rumbled and forked lightning split the sky as the first heavy raindrops fell. Sierra ducked her head and started hurrying back to the section of wall she’d climbed over. She didn’t want to be caught in a downpour, and neither did she relish the drive back down the steep mountain roads in this weather.

She climbed over the wall and hurried through the stand of pines, the branches snagging on her blouse and hair as the rain fell steadily, soaking her. Within seconds her pink silk blouse was plastered to her skin and her hair fell out of its chignon in wet rat’s tails.

She cursed under her breath, thankful to emerge from the trees, only to have her insides freeze as she caught sight of a second car, a dark SUV, parked behind her own. As she came onto the road the door to the car opened, and an all too familiar figure emerged.

Marco Ferranti strode towards her, his white dress shirt soon soaked under the downpour so every well-defined muscle was outlined in glorious detail. Sierra flicked her gaze upwards, but the anger she saw snapping in his eyes, the hard set of his mouth and jaw, made her insides quell and she looked away. The rain was sheeting down now and she stopped a few feet from him, sluicing rainwater from her face.

‘So.’ Marco’s voice was hard, without a shred of warmth. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing here?’

CHAPTER THREE

SIERRA DREW A deep breath and pushed the sodden mass of her hair away from her face. ‘I was paying my respects.’ She tried to move past him to her car but he blocked her way. ‘What are you doing here?’ she challenged, even though inside she felt weak and shaky with fear. Here was the real man Marco had hidden from her before, the angry, menacing man who loomed above her like a dark shadow, fierce and threatening. But, just as with her father, she wouldn’t show her fear to this man.

‘It’s my home,’ Marco informed her. ‘As of today.’

She recoiled at that, at the triumph she heard in his tone. He was glad he’d got it all, and that she’d got almost nothing. Of course he was. ‘I hope you enjoy it then,’ she bit out, and his mouth curved in an unpleasant smile.

‘I’m sure I will. But you were trespassing on private property, you do realise?’

She shook her head, stunned by the depth of his anger and cruelty. So this was the true face of the man she’d once thought of marrying. ‘I’m leaving anyway.’

‘Not so fast.’ He grabbed her arm, his powerful fingers encircling her wrist, making her go utterly still. The commanding touch was so familiar and instinctively she braced herself for a blow. But it didn’t come; Marco simply stared at her, and it took Sierra a moment to realise the fingers around her wrist were actually exerting only a gentle pressure.

‘I want to know why you were here.’

‘I told you,’ she bit out. ‘To pay my respects.’

‘Did you go inside the villa?’

She stared at him, nonplussed. ‘No.’

‘How do I know that? You might have stolen something.’

She let out an incredulous laugh. If she’d had any doubts about whether jilting Marco Ferranti had been the right thing to do, he was dispelling them with dizzying speed.

‘What on earth do you think I stole?’ She shook his hand off her wrist and spread her arms wide. ‘Where would I hide it?’ She saw Marco’s gaze flick down to her breasts and too late she realised the white lace bra she wore was visible through the soaked, near-transparent silk. Sierra kept her head held high with effort.

‘I can’t be sure of anything when it comes to you, except that you can’t be trusted.’

‘Did you follow me all the way from Palermo?’

His jaw tightened. ‘I wanted to know where you were going.’

‘Well, now you know. And now I’m going back to Palermo.’ She started to move away but Marco stilled her with one outflung hand. He nodded towards the steep, curving road that led down the mountain.

‘The road will be impassable now with flash flooding. You might as well come into the villa until it is over.’

‘And you’ll frisk me for any possible stolen goods?’ Sierra finished. ‘I’ll take my chances with the flooding.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’ Marco’s voice was harsh, dismissive, reminding her so much of her father. Clearly, he’d decided to emulate his mentor.

‘I’m not being stupid,’ she snapped. ‘I mean every word I say.’

‘You’d rather risk serious injury or even death than come into a dry house with me?’ Marco’s mouth twisted. ‘What did I ever do to deserve such disgust?’

‘You just accused me of stealing.’

‘I simply wanted to know why you were here.’

Above them an ear-splitting crack of thunder sounded, making Sierra jump. She was completely soaked and unfortunately she knew Marco spoke the truth. The roads would be truly impassable, most likely for some time.

‘Fine,’ she said ungraciously and got into her car.

Marco unlocked the gates with the remote control in his car, and they swung silently back, revealing the villa’s long, curving drive.