"What the hell did you do that for?"

We were in the backseat of my uncle's Mercedes. An armed driver was behind the wheel.

Federico laughed. "My boy. For all of your talent, you're sometimes kind of dense. You were a journalist and best-selling author. You should know it's better to control the press than have the press control you. Never turn down a chance for publicity. And I think the better question is, how are you already so acquainted with a local reporter?"

Shifting my body to face him, I tried to tamp down my irritation. I didn't mind much that Skylar had met Federico, but I'd never imagined she'd want to write a story on the old man. It was a complication I didn't need.

"We met when that plane crashed the other day. She came over and had a glass of wine afterward, and..." I waved my right hand in the air in a circular motion.

Federico continued to chuckle. "Good for you."

"I just didn't think we'd run into her, or that she'd try to interview you. I really don't want her poking around and mentioning me in her article about you."

"Relax, Luca. I'll make sure she doesn't mention you. This is The Palmira Post, not The New York Times. I know the publisher. I can always make a call if we think it's going to be a problem. And anyway, don't worry about Bruno Castiglione or the mafia finding you because of a Florida newspaper article. If I were hiding you, would I go out of my way to be in the news? I'm in the papers all the time. Castiglione is awaiting trial. Your book did its job. Your days of worrying are over."

"I'm not so sure about that," I said slowly.

I didn't want to rail at my relative out of a sense of old-world respect, but sometimes, I wondered if Federico took my concerns about safety seriously.

It was difficult to tell. Even though Federico was my blood relative, I barely knew him. He was the older brother of my father, and the two men had been estranged for the entirety of my life for reasons unknown. Federico had come to America before I was born, and had lived here long enough to assume the country's breezy, anything-goes facade. Which was why it was difficult for me to tell if Federico's concern for his situation matched its gravity. I'd feel safer when Castiglione—Naples's biggest mafia boss and the subject of my first book—was convicted and in prison.

Soon.

"And you didn't have to come to the store with me," my uncle chided.

I rolled my eyes. "I've been in the house for two weeks. I needed to get out. You're the one who said it was safe."

"Palmira is safe. And don't worry about the reporter. She won't put two and two together. She's young. Is she even old enough to drink? She won't find out anything. There's so little about you online. That was the benefit of writing your book anonymously, no?"

I snorted. "Yeah, only my agent and editor knew I wrote the book. And my parents. And you." I made a fist and crushed it on the leather seat. "It still burns me that Castiglione found out I'm the author. I'd love to kill whoever told him. I'm doing my best to lay low until the court case is over. God knows enough people disappear in the months before a trial..."

"Then don't worry about my interview, Luca. Worry about yourself. Have you started on your second book?"

I grunted. I didn't want to tell my uncle I'd spent the last few days moping around, wondering if it was even worth it to write anymore. I didn't want any more complications, violence, or death—three things I abhorred. The inertia had lately morphed into a more sinister emotion: apathy.

Usually, I was outraged by the corruption that had seized my country in a death grip, and I wanted justice for my parents' murder. But justice hadn't done me or my prosecutor father any good. A desire for justice had gotten my parents killed and forced me to go on the run.

I constantly reminded myself there were far worse places in the world to hide out. I'd been in some of them in my attempt to disappear from Bruno Castiglione's scrutiny. Going on the run had worked, because I was still alive.

But when would I stop running?

My uncle's summer home was as good a sanctuary as any, but sometimes I wondered if it was more like Alcatraz—a jail on an island with 300-thread count sheets, a home gym, and wine cellar. Worse, I felt added guilt for my life of luxury in the wake of my parents' murders, and guilt at my ingratitude.

Guilt on top of guilt on top of guilt.

Maybe I wouldn't write the second book after all. It wasn't like I needed the money. Between my parents' inheritance and the profits from my first, best-selling exposé, I never had to work again. And my rich-as-fuck uncle, who had never married or had children, made it clear he would help me any way he could.

Still, I was itching for something different. My round-the-world trip hadn't quenched my restlessness or made me feel any safer. I was unsettled, unmoored, tense.

Was it the girl? Skylar?

Had that scorching kiss sparked this? What would it be like to really get to know her?

But why would I want to, at this perfectly wrong time? I'd always had short, meaningless flings—always made sure the women were aware I didn't want attachments.

"Zio," I said, using the Italian word for uncle. "Why didn't you ever marry?"

It was an intimate question of a man I barely knew, but I'd been without any meaningful encounters for so long, I hoped my uncle would forgive my curiosity.

Federico stared at me for several seconds. "I almost did. Once, back in Italy. No one since. You? Did you have a girlfriend before you left?"

I laughed. "Many."

"Ever been in love?"

I snorted. "No. I'm not even sure about love. Not after what I saw my parents go through. I don't know if you were aware, but they were pretty nasty to each other while I was growing up. I never understood why they didn't divorce."

Federico stared out the window and cleared his throat. "Luca, here's what I can tell you about love. Love is when you feel regret decades later for making the wrong decisions. That's love."

What an odd statement.

I frowned, and there was silence in the Mercedes for several moments. Only when the car pulled into the gated community did my uncle turn to me and add, "I know you're anxious, and I know you miss your parents and Italy. Anyone would feel like that after what you've been through."

Federico continued, speaking in rapid-fire Italian. "You should relax while you're on Palmira. I invited you here so you could work on your second book and plan your next move. I'm trying to do everything I can to make you safe. Who's going to find you here? Who even wants to find you anymore? I got you the bulletproof Mercedes. I got you the gun. There's an excellent security system at the house. And I offered you bodyguards."

"No. No bodyguards." I raised my hand in a halting gesture. The idea of someone monitoring me around the clock made me queasy. I chided himself for even questioning whether Federico was taking my situation seriously. My uncle had actually done a lot for me. Much more than I ever expected. So maybe I should calm down. Palmira seemed sleepy and safe. Just what I needed: a quiet place to be alone with a mountain of guilt.

The car pulled into the driveway.

"Take it easy, Luca," my uncle said. "Rest. Here's what you should do. Find a girl on the island to fuck. Keep it light. You know how to do that. Don't get too involved. That's what I always do when I'm stressed about a big case. I find a cute girl to spend time with, take the edge off."

My answer was a quick flick of my hand and a grimace. Hearing about my uncle's sex routine during personal injury trials wasn't what I wanted, and I didn't desire any random, easy American girl, not anymore at least.

I wanted the not-so-simple Skylar.

____