Loving the Don

Chapter 1

1

Daniela

When I was a small girl, my grandmother raised me on stories of how the Rossinis saved our family from the fascists. I didn’t really understand what fascism was, or why these people killed half my family before the rest managed to flee to America. At the time, I thought they were like the monstrous army from Lord of the Rings—all hair and tusks and tiny glaring eyes. I didn’t know that they were men.

Nonna told me that they didn’t like our heritage and that they didn’t like our politics or the fact that my great-grandmother had married a Frenchman. She also said that the fascists wanted our money and our land. But the law kept us from leaving. The only people we could rely on to save us were those who lived outside the law.

La Famiglia. The men, we all know about, but nobody talks about. The Rossinis were the only heroes our family could find. And now—decades later and under much different circumstances—they’re the only people that I can go to.

As a kid, I used to wonder what it was like for my grandparents and their families to cross the vast black sea on freighters bound for New York Harbor. They had to leave almost everything behind and sold their land to the only men in Sicily with the strength to face the fascists. My family became Americans by the skin of our teeth, begging for asylum beside a million others, most of whom were turned away.

We were among the lucky ones. I wonder, now, if the Rossinis didn’t grease those wheels as well. But whatever they did, it saved my family.

“These new gangsters, with their fancy cars and their big guns, they don’t know what the old families from Sicily and Barri were really like. How much they did for people. Daniela, those are tough, dangerous men—but sometimes you need tough, dangerous men. We will always owe the Rossini crime family our lives.” Nonna’s words ring in my ears as I take the off-ramp and head for the Upper East Side.

I park my battered Volkswagen two blocks away from the gates of the Rossini’s massive limestone townhouse and walk the rest of the way, shading my face with my old umbrella to keep from sweating off my makeup. The July sun is merciless today, and I have to look my best. I make sure to hide the ratty umbrella in the bushes before walking up to the intercom to press the button.

“If you ever need work, Daniela, if you’re ever desperate, you can go to them. They’ll give you an ordinary job with good pay. All you have to do is never talk about what you see or hear there.” Nonna told me that a few years after Mom and Dad’s funeral, when she was just starting to get sick.

I never thought I would actually take her advice. But here I am, a girl who has never had so much as a parking ticket, about to beg for a job from the most powerful crime family in New York City.

I just hope that, three generations later, they haven’t degenerated into a bunch of scumbags like all the other mobsters Nonna used to complain about.

I take a moment to pull myself together and check myself in my compact mirror as I wait for a response. The old compact, with its rose gold case and silver mirror, was left to me in Nonna’s will. She’s gone now, just like everyone else, or I would be going to my own family instead. What the fascists couldn’t take from my family, time, illness, and bad luck have.

I look all right, I think, as I check the mascara around my wide blue eyes. My small mouth is painted a demure shade of rose; with my dark hair and pale skin, I can’t wear dark lipstick or I instantly look Goth.

There is a click, and the two cameras at the gate angle in at me like the eyes of a chameleon. “May I help you?” a calm female voice asks.

“Um, I have an appointment with Mr. Rossini today, about the job opening? I’m Daniela—”

“Right,” her voice cuts in. “Look at the camera for a moment?”

I raise my face to it, holding still. I don’t know if she’s checking me against the ID image I emailed them or doing something more esoteric, like using facial recognition. I know she won’t find anything suspicious in my background anyway, no matter how deep she digs. But that doesn’t keep my stomach from jumping around.

“All right, Miss Orsino, welcome to the Rossini mansion. Please proceed down the path to the main entrance. My office is the first door down the left-hand hallway.” There is a buzz and a click, and the gate swings open.

I focus on calming myself as I walk down the crushed shell driveway, determined to land this job. I have no choice. If I end up on welfare, I’ll be sleeping in my car.

“Be strong, Daniela,” I murmur, walking with care so I don’t scuff my one good pair of work shoes. “You can do this.”

The townhouse, built from slabs of limestone, looms above the narrow, black-fenced garden surrounding it. It’s a Gilded Age wonder, its arched windows gleaming in the sun. I step up onto the gorgeously tiled porch and look in through the glass-paned doors at the foyer beyond. It’s as grand as a theater lobby: tile, white walls, a grand staircase with red carpeting, and a hallway branching from either side.

No one is waiting for me on the other side of the door, and that makes my stomach flip again with nervousness. No, wait, she said to come in and come to her office. I’ll just go in.

Saying a soft prayer under my breath, I push the door open and walk inside. The air inside is fresh and cool and drier than it is outside. I sigh with relief and turn hurriedly toward the hallway on my left.

“Well, hello there.” A deep purr of a male voice caresses my ears. I look up the vast sweep of the main staircase and see a tall figure standing there. And suddenly, I can’t draw a full breath.

I’m staring up into the greenest eyes I have ever seen. Narrow and amused, they’re set in a lean, tanned face with a Roman nose and sensual mouth. There are threads of gold in those eyes, and threads of bronze in the deep brown curls spilling to his shoulders. He’s wearing a black Italian suit, cut slim around his lean, dancer’s body, with a blazing-white shirt and no tie.

His lips curve into a lazy smile as he sees my eyes widen. “Lovely. I didn’t know we were expecting guests.”

I swallow, searching desperately for something to say, knowing exactly who he is and wanting desperately to impress him. I want to tell him anything but the truth: that I’m here to work for his family. But as I meet his piercing gaze, I know at once that I can’t lie to him. He’ll know.

“Um, Mr. Rossini? I called earlier,” I confess finally, blushing deeply. “About the nanny job. Your assistant Gina took my call.”

“Oh,” he says in mild surprise, eyebrows rising as his feral-looking eyes sweep over me. I’ve worn my best dress, which I usually save for weddings or other special occasions. The soft plum A-line with its empire waist flatters my pale skin and generous curves without being too revealing. Under his eyes, though, I wish I had the money for something better … and sexier.

“Ah, there you are.” Gina’s voice rings down the hall and I jump slightly before looking her way. Her voice is as cool, deep, and authoritative as a six-foot cop’s … but she’s about four and a half feet tall, chubby, and looks like she could be someone’s grandmother. “Sir, this is Daniela Orsino.”

“Yes, we were just … getting acquainted.” His eyelids lower lazily as he gives me an amused smile. He walks down the stairs slowly, never breaking our locked gaze, and the closer he gets, the harder my heart pounds.

This is not a reaction I’m familiar with. I’m a virgin; I’ve always been pretty devout, and I’ve never dated much. Plus, I’m pretty shy around men, which I’m forcibly reminded of as Mr. Rossini’s lazy smile sends a blush across my cheeks. My s****l experience level has pretty much been stuck at novice since I hit puberty.

But right now, I’m falling into those emerald and gold eyes—and I know at once that I’m in trouble. I have no defense against this man … and if things work out, he’s about to be my boss. And I shouldn’t be thinking about f*****g my boss!

“Good. I have her file here.” The small woman steps briskly between us, breaking the spell. She hands him a thin manila folder, and he glances at her distractedly and nods. She steps to his side and faces me, offering a supportive smile—and then eyeing her boss like she’s worried he’s about to misbehave.

He opens the folder, l*****g his fingertips to turn the pages and winking at me once. I suck air quietly, dizzy and not sure how to feel. He’s incredibly hot. He’s hitting on me.

This is not something that happens in my life. It’s as powerful as it is unexpected, and I can barely keep my composure under its influence. That saucy smile of his, as his gaze slides over my body, makes me shiver with desire for him.

But we’re at a job interview. One that could make or break me.

Of all the times, why does this have to be happening now? With him?

“Orsino. You’re on the family list from the old country.” He’s either reading very fast or barely skimming what’s there. “You have any experience with small children?”

“Two nanny jobs, multiple babysitting jobs, and helping to raise my cousins. My references are on the last page.” I don’t know how I keep what I’m saying from sounding forced. It’s hard to talk when someone’s stealing your breath.

His posture is relaxed as he pages through the thin examples of my talents and qualifications. I know I can do this—I’ve always been good with kids—but if someone with a better-looking résumé has already applied, I may end up in the kitchens or something instead.

Fine, so be it. Better peeling potatoes than dumpster diving for my food.

He looks from the folder to me and back again, and he lifts an eyebrow slightly. “Any problems with moving in and starting by tomorrow?”

My heart leaps into my throat and suddenly I can’t talk. I just shake my head.

“Good.” He licks his lips, and his eyes sweep over me again. “I’ll take you, then.”

I smile mutely, a tingle running through my body as I wonder how many meanings that statement has.