Bought by Her Italian Boss(30)

"You Donatelli men get stamped out with the same mold generation after  generation, don't you?" She glanced from his great-grandfather, to his  grandfather, then to his uncle and then to him. "The girls take after  your grandmother. Except this one." She pointed at Antoinietta, barely  twelve.

"Sì," he agreed, giving himself one last moment for reservations, but he  had none. "That's why I look so much like a Donatelli. She is my actual  mother."

* * *

Gwyn didn't know what to say, and Vito's profile gave nothing away as he moved to unlock a door and hold it for her.

She entered a private suite that was much smaller than his penthouse in  Milan, but had such a similar decor, was stamped so indelibly as his,  she felt as though she had come home.

"I don't understand," she told him, and the phrase covered many topics. Why had he told her that; why did it matter?

He moved to a photo on the wall in his lounge. The midnineties fashions  weren't quite as painful as the seventies had been. A stout man wore a  dark suit with a narrow tie that made his barrel chest seem more  pronounced. His wife wore a black dress with a scoop neck. Young Vito  actually pulled off the red suspenders over his white shirt, but his  sisters' hairstyles, all wisped to look like a sitcom star's, were  priceless.

She studied his image, realizing he looked...unlike the others.

Maybe she wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't told her this was not  his biological family, but he was taller, leaner, more intense as he  gazed into the camera while the rest of them beamed warmly. They seemed  relaxed the way a family should when they were together, but he had that  smoldering personality that never stopped emanating danger.

"Mia famiglia. I love them. My parents taught me generosity and  acceptance. They love me every bit as much as they love their daughters.  I would die for any of them. But my sisters have never been told," he  said, making her swing her attention to him in surprise. "Paolo knows,  but he's likely the only one in our generation or lower who does. He  hasn't even told Lauren. I know some of my great-aunts and uncles have  suspicions, but none has ever breathed a word..." He shook his head and  shrugged. "This is something that was put in the vault and meant to be  left there."

"Because your mother was young? Unmarried?" she guessed. His grandfather  might have progressed to including his daughters in his will, but  illegitimate babies had still been a scandal for a man in such a lofty  position. It wasn't a big deal now, though. Was it? Why continue to hide  it?

"My mother was eighteen. I'm a bastard, yes. And I won't tell you the  name of my father, but that's for your own protection as much as mine.  He was mafioso, cara. A truly dangerous and reprehensible man."

She blinked, shocked, and moved blindly to sit on the edge of the sofa. "How-?"

"-does the daughter of a banker get mixed up with a thug? He singled her  out. I'm sure he had his moments of charm. I've seen photos and I  imagine any woman would call him attractive. According to my uncle, my  mother might as well have been the youngest daughter of a church  minister, rebelling at her father's attempts to keep her cloistered. My  grandfather was ready to disown her, but my uncle kept fighting to bring  her home. I mean that literally. He had scars. She went back,  regardless. Again and again."                       
       
           



       

"Got pregnant."

"Indeed." He pushed his hands into his pockets, rocked on his heels,  scowl remote and dark. "Even though she came away bruised at different  times. I will never understand-"

His profile was hard and sharp.

"She was late into her pregnancy when he bashed her around and she left  for the last time. She called my uncle to come take her to the hospital,  but she was far into labor when he got there. He caught me and held her  as she died. She begged him to keep me from my father. If you could  have seen his face when he told me these things..."

"Oh, Vito," she breathed, rising to go to him, hand reaching for his  arm, but he was a statue, unmoved by her touch, barely seeming to  breathe, face still and harsh as though carved into marble.

"This is what I am, cara. A mixture of impetuous Donatelli  rebellion-have you met Paolo? I have that same cursed need to dominate  and it is a monumental task to hold all of that back. Then I have this  streak of brutality on top of it. My father killed people. And the dead  ones are the victims who got off easy. His other son turned out as  conscienceless, trafficking in women and drugs, winding up dead in the  gutter outside his own home, like a rat. I even have a nephew. He's  already been arrested for assault. There but for the grace of the  Donatelli family go I."

"Vito," she chided. He didn't really think he would have turned out like  that, did he? She frowned, hurting for him, feeling how tortured his  soul was by a bloodline he didn't want and couldn't escape.

He ran his hand down his face. "I cannot perpetuate that sickness into  another generation, not into the very family that took me in, kept me  this side of the law and out of the hands of a man who would have turned  me into himself. I won't risk it. Do you understand? Do you see now why  I can't marry you and give you that dream I see in your eyes every time  you rock a baby or hold a child's hand?"

She lowered her eyes, aching inside. He saw through her every single time.

"When your brother came to Milan that day," he said heavily, "all I  could think was that it was better to let our separation happen then,  before you were pregnant with an abomination-"

"Don't say that!"

He held up a hand. "But it tortures me, cara, that he made it sound like  you were only a convenience to me. Our affair served many purposes, not  all of them romantic, sì. That's true. But to let you think that was  all it was is a lie. We are honest with one another if nothing else, are  we not?"

"Are we?" she asked, mind reeling from all he'd told her, which made  certain suspicions rise that were so sweet and fragile she barely let  herself touch them. But why would he tell her all this, with that  tortured look on his face, if he didn't care for her, trust her, not  just a little, but a lot.

"Does some part of this sound made-up to you?" he asked, voice chilling and shoulders going back.

She made a noise. "Well, it is quite a story. But I do believe you. No, I'm questioning why you've told me."

She thought back to that day in the elevator when he'd been so angry at  what she hadn't been able to see in him. All this time he'd presented  her with the thick wall of the vault that fronted the man inside. Of  course she'd had trouble seeing his true thoughts and feelings.

But now, now she thought she saw very clearly. It wasn't just wishful thinking, was it?

"I just explained," he said testily. "I didn't want you hurting unnecessarily."

"So I'm supposed to not hurt when you leave again? Secure in the  knowledge that your rejection is for my own good? You know I love you,  don't you?" There. She flung her own vault wide open, crashing it into  the wall.

He flinched, dragging in air like he'd taken a knife to the lung. "I hoped that you didn't," he said through his teeth.

"Oh! Another lie!" she charged, stabbing a finger at his chest, hard enough to hurt her fingernail.

He grabbed her hand and glared, dark brows a fierce line. "I'm not lying!"

"You knew I was in love with you and you sent me away to get over it,  but the minute you thought I might, you came back to see exactly how  deep my feelings went. This-" she pulled free of his grip and pointed  wildly to encompass all the photos he'd shown her "-is a test."

"Untrue. I'm explaining to you why I can't marry you and give you the family you've always wanted."

"Fine. I accept," she said, crossing her arms.                       
       
           



       

He grew cautious. "Accept what?"

"That we'll never marry and have children. Maybe we can talk about  adopting someday, but that's not a condition. I'll accept simply living  together without all those picket-fence trappings I always wanted."

"No!" he growled. "That's not what I'm saying. You deserve those things,  Gwyn. Your brother is right. That's why-" He cut himself off with an  impatient noise, palm scraping up his cheek, creating a raspy sound.

"So I should go marry another man and have his babies?" she confirmed.

"No! Damn you, no. I hated seeing you with that man. It made me sick.  No. And damn you for forcing me to admit that." He stalked away a few  steps, hand raking into his hair. "I'm trying to think of you, Gwyn, but  I keep acting for myself. That is who I am. Greedy. Selfish." He  pivoted. "Don't you see that's what I'm trying to protect you from? I  want that deal you're offering. I want to take you into my home as my  lover and shortchange you on all the things you have a right to. What  does that make me? How could you love someone like that?"