An Italian on the run from the Mafia. A reporter seeking the truth. Will they reveal their feelings before danger strikes?
*****
Reclusive writer Luca Ross...
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I tugged at my shirt collar as I settled back into the tan leather seat of my uncle's private jet. Federico had invited me to Miami, suggesting a change of scenery for a couple nights. After pacing the mansion for two days, thinking only of Skylar, I couldn't argue with my uncle's logic.
Of course, I had first sent Skylar chocolates, and she'd sounded so happy when she called to thank me, I wanted to stay on the island and invite her over. But I needed to slow my roll with her.
That's why I didn't tell her where I was going. It still felt odd to reveal my plans to anyone, even her.
So, I'd put on a real button-down shirt and pants and a jacket, recalling with a smile how Skylar would probably love to see me like this. I carried a smart-looking, black leather overnight bag, as if I were any young professional on a business trip, then left the house. I felt like an impostor, since I'd gotten so used to the beach-bum attire of shorts and a T-shirt.
I'd parked my uncle's Mercedes at the island's executive airport, tipping the security guard an extra few hundred to keep it safe.
After a quick flight across the state, a limo whisked me to my uncle's downtown Miami penthouse. He grinned when I walked in, because as tropically ostentatious as the beach house was, the penthouse was something out of a sleek Miami dream. Like stepping into a cliché. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean. Everything—the furniture, the walls, the floors—was decorated in white. What wasn't white was clear glass, as shiny and tranquil as the ocean just beyond the windows.
"I didn't take you for a minimalist," I laughed, clapping my uncle on the back as we hugged.
Federico shrugged. "It helps me think. Let's have a drink." He led me over to a chair—white, of course—and then stood at the bar. "Scotch?"
"Absolutely." Federico had great taste in booze.
Federico handed me a drink and then sank into a matching white sofa. We made small talk, and I was surprised how comfortable I felt. This was good, getting to know my only living relative.
I rattled the ice in the glass. "Zio, I meant to tell you, the workers came to fix the fence. Thanks for calling about that. If Skylar opened it so easily that day, who knows who else could come in?"
"Excellent. And, speaking of that, how is the reporter girl? She did a pretty decent story on me, actually."
I grinned. "She's good."
"So, you've seen her again?"
I nodded.
Federico leaned back into the sofa and took a sip. "Does she know about the book?"
I shook my head. "No. I've thought about telling her, though."
"Might not be a bad idea, you're not in too much danger anymore. And whatever danger you're in, you've got it under control with my help. You seem to like this girl—a lot."
