Heart Burn: Deep Six East Book 1 Read online

  Heart Burn

  Deep Six East Book 1

  Becky McGraw

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Also by Becky McGraw

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Prada looked up from her date book to smile at Guilia, her best friend and long-time assistant as she strode into her office and walked to her desk with a newspaper in one hand and a coffee cup in the other.

  “Good morning,” she said, but Guilia’s strained voice and tight smile contradicted her words as she leaned over to set down the coffee cup.

  “What’s wrong?” Prada asked, curling her right hand around the cup, letting the warmth heat her suddenly cold fingers.

  Guilia’s long sigh as she straightened and held out the newspaper to her, the tremble in her hand making Prada look at it as if it would bite her. She took it, but stared at it, instead of unfolding it. If Guilia was upset, she knew whatever waited for her on the front page of the Corriere della Sera, Milan’s oldest newspaper, was likely to put her in the same mood.

  No matter how long she waited, though, that news would be the same. Sitting up taller, she unfolded it and smoothed it out on the desk. The photo of the fat, balding man she knew well smacked her in the face like cold water. Her eyes streaked up to the top to see the headline, which stopped her heart. Sickness roiled in her stomach as she quickly scanned the first few paragraphs of the article.

  “They let him off?!?” Prada squeaked, her eyes darting to Guilia’s.

  “He probably bought them off, is my conclusion,” her assistant replied with a shrug. “With all the evidence, the numerous women who came forward after you called him out, what other explanation could there be?”

  “The man is a predator! How could they do this?” Prada demanded, snapping the paper shut because she couldn’t look at his face a minute longer. “There is no justice in this world—especially in Italy!”

  Guilia sighed again and shook her head. “At least we don’t work for him anymore, carida, and everyone knows now, no matter how rich he is, he’s scum. You did the right thing, Prada, and I thank you. Every woman in Italy thanks you.”

  Did the right thing? She gave up her career, ruined her name and blackballed herself in the Italian entertainment industry, and for what? To force this bastardo to pay for his lechery?

  What good did it do in the end? No, she’d made a mistake. She should’ve just gone back to modeling and let someone else throw themselves on the sword of this injustice.

  That’s not how you operate and you know it.

  Given the same circumstances, his almost rape of her best friend, his harassment and attempted blackmail of her, she would do the same thing again. The only thing she would do differently, is file charges herself, too.

  When ten women came forward with similar tales, some to a greater degree, Prada let them do the dirty work, because she was in the throes of a scandal. She didn’t want to put herself further out there and do greater damage to her father’s reputation. She’d put her faith in the Italian justice system, and now knew it had been greatly misplaced.

  “I didn’t do anything except call Cosmo’s bluff.” Prada sighed as her nails dug into her palms. “Publishing those photos was humiliating, but I had to do something to end his harassment. There was no noble motive, except to expose him. The women who came out to accuse him of rape and harassment after the photos were published are the heroines.”

  “No, you are, because you took the first step. You did it to expose him, but mostly to protect me, because I was too cowardly to press charges,” Guilia corrected, and Prada met her eyes again.

  “You could always file charges now? We both could,” Prada suggested. She had given her friend a pass at the time of her assault, because she’d been traumatized enough by the attempted rape, but it was time now for both of them to confront him.

  “It’s useless. He will just buy them off again. The man is invincible…and dangerous,” Guilia said, her voice trembling, and eyes glassy. She sighed heavily, and Prada could see in her eyes there was more bad news.

  “Dio, what else?” she asked.

  “I checked the voice mail this morning and Armando called again.” With her hand on her chest, she rolled her eyes. “Oh, cuore mio, I miss you so much. Come back to Italy and be my princessa. Your mother has approved. Don’t be stubborn, amore mio.”

  “My mother can marry him, then,” Prada grumbled, grabbing the paper to toss it into the trash can—where Cosmo Fiortino belonged. “And Mondo Aosta would have to be a prince instead of a pretender to make me anything—including interested.”

  Guilia snickered. “So, you’d be interested if he was legitimate? Take his ring back? You know that’s why he thinks you dumped him.”

  “I dumped him because he’s a cheating stunad. I wouldn’t marry him now if he was Emperor of the World, and I’ve told him so. I only dated him because my mother filled my head with fairytales and my father was pressuring me to settle down.” Her eyes had been fully opened to reality when she found him having sex with one of her cast-mates on the bed at the soap opera set.

  “But how can that be?” Guilia gasped, put her hand on her cheek and widened her eyes theatrically. “He’s the most handsome man in the world, he’s rich beyond belief, and he’ll possibly be king one day.”

  Prada snorted. “I think Mondo Aosta forgets that Italy is no longer a monarchy, and even if it were, he wouldn’t be its heir apparent. Amadeo’s legitimate son would be, his half-brother.”

  “But he’s suing Prince Amadeo to legitimize him, remember? And he’s the oldest son. It’s only a matter of time before he’s declared king,” Guilia countered with an eye roll.

  “He’s using the trust fund Amadeo gave him to sue him. That’s just evil. Even if Mondo wins, his money and title won’t buy him morals or respect.” Prada twisted her lips. “But if he is ever declared king, I have the perfect use for his scepter.”

  Guilia laughed and her topaz-colored eyes sparkled, but her face quickly sobered. “I’m sorry he hurt you, cara.”

  “The only thing he hurt was my ego,” Prada said with a shiver, thinking of how close she’d come to permanently binding herself to the stronzo. “I realize now I didn’t love him—I didn’t even like him, and was lucky he gave me an easy way out. The lesson I walked away with is amore is a fairytale for fools.”

  “Amore is not a fairytale, Prada. You just need to slow down and shop around to find the right man, not just an available one, because you’re too busy to shop.”

  “You are doing enough shopping for both of us, piccola, and what
has it gotten you?” When her friend offered no response, she rolled her eyes. “Exactly what it’s gotten me. I don’t need or want a man in my life. They are too much trouble and none of them can be trusted.”

  “Everyone needs love to lead a fulfilled life, Prada.” Guilia folded her arms over her substantial bosom. “Just because you were burned, doesn’t mean you should close yourself off to it forever.”

  “I don’t need it. What I need to do is give women a voice in Italy. This travesty of justice proves that attitudes haven’t changed. I’m the one who will affect that change. It’s why I agreed to work for the consulate, why I’m thinking of running for office.”

  “Are you really going to run for the Chamber of Deputies? What will your father say?” Guilia asked, looking both concerned and horrified at the same time.

  What would Arturo D’Angelo say about her running for office?

  Her father would say she didn’t have a chance of winning after the scandal, no matter how long she waited, or what she did. He would tell her she was wasting her time and money.

  It was her money to waste, though. She’d earned every penny of her substantial wealth and could do with it as she pleased.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to do…eventually,” Prada replied, lifting her chin.

  “What do you mean eventually? When, cara?” Guilia asked, waving a hand.

  “I can’t run until I do something about Fiortino. People will think I’m weak and a coward if I let him get away with this, especially since I’m the one who started it and never filed charges. They already believe I ran away to the states to save face. Once I show them I’m not afraid, that I will stand up for them and what’s right, I will have plenty of support.”

  “Support from whom? Definitely not the vecchiettas who think you’re a puttana because of those photos,” Guilia said, her eyes glistening.

  Prada didn’t need those judgmental old women. They already thought she was a whore because she was an actress who made pretend love to men in scenes on television. Their husbands and sons would vote for her, though, because of her former career and those photos. Their young daughters would too, because they admired her and wanted to be her. Her platform would also attract the support of educated women like her, who wanted respect, along with equal pay.

  Prada thought she had a good chance of winning.

  “Isabella Trevino and Maria Rizzo-Concetti will help me, too. If we form a new women’s party and a coalition with the Democratic Party, we should have a good chance of taking control of parliament.” The young, professional women had both been elected to the Chamber of Deputies in the last election. They had the political clout to help her with her mission.

  If she was successful, Prada’s first order of business would be promoting legislation to strengthen the laws and punishment for rape, sexual harassment, domestic abuse and other offenses against women and to establish better support services for victims. Until then, she was going to put pressure on the seated politicians, including her father, to pass that legislation.

  How in the world had the judges let Fiortino off?

  Considering that, until 1981, rape was considered a crime against public morality in Italy, instead of against the victim, and rapists could be acquitted if they married their victims, she shouldn’t have been surprised. Laws may have changed since then, but some attitudes had not. Not even her father’s, when he banished her to the United States to salvage his political career and reputation.

  “Well, you better buy some new running shoes and possibly a pair of boxing gloves before you do,” Guilia said, with a shake of her head. “Those stronzos on the right won’t take this lying down and your father could be the one to suffer.”

  “My father has been in the Senato for twenty-one years. The people have elected him five times now and he survived the scandal. He will be fine,” Prada replied, but gnawed her lip.

  The scandal had just died down after two years. To revive it now could hurt him in his bid to be appointed President. But Prada was tired of walking on eggshells like she had most of her life to protect his reputation. It was time she worried about herself. Especially after his reaction to the situation of her being blackmailed.

  After she was fired by Fiortino and he blackballed her in the entertainment industry, her father helped her get hired by the consulate as an ambassador for women’s causes—in the United States. He’d exiled her just far enough away to take her and her troubles from his universe. Prada wasn’t fooled that it was because he supported her causes, as he’d said.

  “Well, I guess we’d both better go shoe shopping then, because you know I will be right by your side.” Guilia sighed again. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Prada.”

  Prada hoped so too, but she wasn’t about to show her friend the fear and trepidation she was feeling at the moment. She lifted her chin and folded her arms on the desk.

  “You may not be by my side after I tell you my plan.”

  Guilia stepped back from the desk, her eyes filled with fear as she crossed her arms over her chest. “What plan?” she repeated, her voice trembling.

  “We are going to press charges, Guilia. It will put me in the public eye again, show that I’m serious about championing women, and it will hopefully put that bastardo where he belongs.” If he was convicted, her harassment charge would only get him a few years. She needed Guilia to press charges for his attempted rape of her too.

  “I can’t—” A shiver shook her petite frame. “My family is from the south, and poor. I don’t want to cause them problems. He has many union and, ah, family connections. He could crush us.”

  Prada rolled her eyes, but hid the fear that zipped through her too. “Not if we crush him first. I have plenty of money to fight him, Guilia. What’s mine is yours. We are not going to lose. Have faith in me.”

  “I do have faith, but not with this. You’re rich, but you don’t have the kind of money he has, Prada. I just can’t do it—I won’t,” Guilia replied, shaking her head.

  “Fine, I understand,” Prada replied, although she really didn’t. “Get a press release together for me then, Gules. Include how disappointed and appalled I am that Cosmo Fiortino was exonerated by the judiciary. Let them know I plan to fight with everything I have to bring him to justice and change things for women in Italy.”

  “Yes, Joan—I’m on it,” Guilia groaned as she turned toward the door. “You’d better call your father to warn him.”

  “Joan?” Prada repeated, staring at a spot between Guilia’s stiff shoulders when she stopped in the doorway.

  “Of Arc. You’ll just be the Maid of Milan instead of Orleans. Let’s hope you don’t get burned at the stake like she did for trying to save France.”

  “The only person who will be burned in this situation is Cosmo Fiortino,” Prada replied confidently. “Maid of Milan…” she repeated, liking the feeling of the moniker rolling off of her tongue. She smiled. “I like that. Include it in the press release.”

  Chapter 1

  “Team meeting in ten,” Griff said as he strolled down the hallway past Dante’s new office.

  An office. He actually had an office. Unbelievable.

  They’d only been in the new Deep Six East compound a week and he was still unpacking his boxes and settling in, but it sounded like Griff and Lou Ellen had been busy securing new clients and cases. That was good news, because it meant he might be able to keep his shiny new office for a while.

  Dante was determined to do everything in his power to help them, because this new high-tech compound near Falls Church, Virginia had to cost Logan a bundle. It was much like the compound in Texas, only better equipped.

  Logan didn’t seem to have a cash flow problem, though. The man had his own helicopter and another one on order for this office too. He hoped his boss leased a new pilot to go with the bird, because, after the volunteer mission to South America to help Hawk rescue Maddie Carter, Dante decided he was done flying.

  Betwe
en two deployments to Afghanistan, one as a combat pilot and the other as a Ranger, then his final deployment in Iraq, where he took a bullet because he was distracted by a woman, he’d used up six of his nine lives. The civilian mission to help the Texas Deep Six team, had cost him another, and his last had been sacrificed while saving his sister.

  At thirty-six, it was time for him to slow down and enjoy his last life to the fullest. No more undercover FBI mafia interdiction cases, no more combat missions—and no more Italian women—who were scarier than both prospects.

  Yes, he’d still have sex with them, and say all the pretty words to get himself laid because he loved sex, but he was not wading knee-deep into the emotional cesspool, much less diving in head first.

  Isabella-of-the-Dear-John-letter, a woman he’d been in love with since he was eighteen when his sister Mickie brought her home to spend the night, had broken him of the Italian fantasy of amore. Oh, it still existed, he knew that for a fact, but he wanted no part of it.

  Amore had almost killed him. Literally. The scar on his thigh, his souvenir from allowing himself to be distracted by that letter, devastated by her words, would be a reminder of the danger of loving too much for the rest of his life.

  Excitement surged through him as he straightened and buttoned his Brioni suit jacket, purchased with the clothing allowance the feds had given him. One of the only good things that came out of his time with the FBI. To help him get made into the mob, where appearances were everything, the feds had given him a clothing allowance. Those suits would come in handy now in DC too, where people also trusted what they saw more than what they knew about a person.