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."

"Who says I like her?" I shrugged.

"I know the look of a man who is totally captivated. Trust me. I've been in your shoes, and I've regretted making some wrong decisions."

I let that sink in, and it reminded me of something else that had been on my mind since coming to Florida. "You know, Zio, I've been wanting to ask you a few things. What happened between you and my father? And why did you never get married?"

He sighed and looked down at his feet. "Changing the subject. Okay. Well, I knew you'd ask that eventually. And the answer to both of those questions has to do with the same reason, which is why I asked you here."

I jiggled my leg nervously. Something about Federico's tense face was unsettling.

"I hesitated on whether to tell you this, but I think it's time," Federico continued in a quiet voice.

"Time? For what?"

Federico sat back and sprawled an arm over the back of the sofa. "I knew your mother before your father did. We were in love. I don't know if your parents ever told you, but we all grew up in the same neighborhood."

What the hell?

Federico remained silent. I knew they'd all went to the same school, but Mom and Federico?

"Your mother and I talked about marriage. I came to the U.S. for law school and she stayed behind in Italy. When I returned, she was dating Cristiano, your father. It was...awkward." Federico released a heavy sigh.

I reminded myself to take a breath. I'd never considered that my mother might be with anyone but my father, much less dated Federico. "I had no idea."

Federico shook his head. "Of course you wouldn't. Cristiano and I stopped talking to each other. You and I never got to know each other."

"Well, it was thirty years ago, right? I guess things like that weren't uncommon." I smiled tightly.

"No. Not uncommon. For many years, I beat myself up for losing her. I loved your mother, Luca. Never stopped loving her. Still love her."

I bent my head and tears pricked at my eyes. Federico's connection to my mother made me feel a bit closer to the old man, and I was grateful for it. "I miss her."

"I know. I miss her too—or miss who she was all those years ago."

"Her death was my fault."

Federico took a deep breath. "You say that, but Cristiano played a part, Luca. Don't kid yourself. He was a prosecutor. You know he tried lots of criminals and Mafia bosses. And he encouraged you to write your book, you said so yourself. So did your mother. They were both hardheaded about doing the right thing and never backing down."

I nodded and drained my Scotch. Federico was right. "Pigheaded" was what the papers called my father when he'd tried a famous Camorra boss when I was only seven. I remembered that summer as the one where me and Mom went to live on my grandfather's citrus farm—and I didn't see my father for months.

"Cristiano sought justice. Always. Almost to a fault. Everything was black and white with him."

I nodded again. "When was the last time you saw my mother?"

Federico stood and paced the room before standing at the window, gazing at the fading daylight. My mouth went dry as the minutes silently ticked past.

Federico turned. "A month before your parents were married. And nine months before you were born."

The words hit me like a swift kick to the stomach. "I'm sorry. What are you trying to say?"

Federico came to the sofa next to my chair and sat facing me. "I flew to Italy before her wedding to Cristiano. I wanted to try one last time to convince her to marry me. She was confused, and one night, we...we were intimate. She told me that she hadn't yet been with your father, that he thought she was a virgin..."

I winced. Oh God. No. I stared at the gleaming white floor.

"Then she went ahead and married your father. But I got her pregnant. She later sent me a letter telling me that that she was having morning sickness the day of the wedding and knew the baby was mine."

"So. You're my...father?" I whispered. "That's insane. Why...why didn't anyone tell me? Why wouldn't my mother have said something?"

Federico exploded. "She didn't want to leave her family behind to come to America, which is what I wanted. And she thought she wanted your father. Maybe she saw him as a better prospect, someone more noble. I was going to be an ambulance chaser, a personal injury lawyer in Miami. But I wasn't going to destroy my brother and tell him his son—the apple of his eye, the love of his life—wasn't really his."

I froze, unable to move. No. No. No. This couldn't be happening. Not after everything I'd been through.

"And I knew your father loved you more than anything and would take care of you. Probably better than I would. Hell, I screwed up with your mom. I left her behind. I was stubborn and refused to return to Italy. I didn't think I'd be a better father. But that's why I was so happy you called me when you were in Argentina. I could finally help you. My son."

"I don't believe you." My voice was hoarse. When my eyes met Federico's, though, I knew the man wasn't lying. His eyes were the same color as my own.

"I'm sorry, Luca."

I sank back in my chair, winded, gaping at Federico warily. After a few minutes, he tipped a pour of liquor into his glass.

I spoke, but my voice sounded like it was coming from someone else. Detached. Confused. How could this be happening?

"Is this why my parents fought all the time?"

Federico, standing at the window, turned. "Maybe. I'm not sure. Your mother sent me an email about three years ago, apologizing. She told me about you, and how proud she was that you were a reporter. She said that she and Cristiano had a loveless marriage and she wished she'd made different decisions."

I exhaled long, pushing the air through my lips. The whole conversation had left me reeling. Exhausted, I stood up, unable to look at Federico and shook my head vigorously as if to remove the memory of the past half hour.

"Where am I sleeping?"

With a sigh, Federico rose and walked down an all-white hall. I followed until Federico pointed.

Opening the door to a guest bedroom, I glanced at my uncle. "I don't know what to say. What to call you. What to think."

He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. "Let's just take things as they come, okay?"

I nodded and stumbled into the bedroom, flopping down onto the white modern platform bed. I took my phone from my pocket and brought up Skylar's contact. My finger hovered over the screen. I wanted to call her, to hear her voice, to tell her about what I'd just learned.

But it was too much too soon. If I did that, I'd have to explain everything else about my life.

I wasn't ready for that.

____