‘A good description in many ways,’ Vito observed grimly. ‘Especially in business.’
Harry looked questioningly at Vito, but it was Carla who answered. ‘Last year he briefly acquired half the entire Viscari portfolio in a highly hostile corporate raid. It came to nothing in the end, but it was pretty nasty at the time.’ Her tone changed, sounding chastened. ‘It was all my fault—I should have stopped my mother, Vito’s step-aunt, selling her shares to him.’
Eloise reached a hand across to her. ‘Carla—no. Don’t go there. It’s all sorted now.’ Her voice was sympathetic.
‘Only because your mother bought the hotels back for Vito from Falcone’s investors!’ Carla exclaimed.
‘Well, that’s one of the plus points of having a mum who runs her very own hedge fund,’ Eloise riposted lightly. ‘And Falcone’s talons are out of us now. We’ve seen him off! He’s furious—but who cares?’
Fran was staring at them, totally focussed. What had they just been saying?
Then Eloise was continuing. ‘Anyway, he’s gone off on an acquisition spree instead. The most recent was in Nevada—not in Vegas, but some desert resort.’
Harry glanced to Fran. ‘Sounds like where you went for that conference last summer. Tonio had to yank you back when Gramps had his heart attack.’
All eyes turned to Fran. With effort, though her thoughts were suddenly hectic, she kept her voice calm. ‘Yes. It had only recently opened, I believe.’
‘Any good?’ Eloise asked enquiringly. She smiled. ‘Just casing the opposition!’
‘It was very luxurious,’ Fran answered. ‘Beautifully situated—right out in the desert. Amazing scenery.’ Her voice was stilted, but she knew she had to sound as normal as possible. Yet in her head flashed the memory of her and Nic, on that first outing, watching the sun set in a blaze of gold.
She blinked, and the memory was gone.
Carla was speaking again. ‘His latest venture is New York. He’s finally found a Manhattan site of his own now that he can’t have Vito’s,’ she said.
Eloise held up her hand. ‘No more talk about Falcone—the wretched man or his hotels! Not a patch on Viscari!’
She raised her glass of orange juice, then glanced to where her husband was talking in a low, preoccupied voice to Cesare.
‘Darling, we’re just about to toast your success tonight! Do pay attention!’
There was laughter, and they all raised their glasses to Vito. But as Fran lowered hers and the conversation turned general, she realised Cesare had come to stand beside her, where she sat on one of the sofas, trying to conceal her suddenly hectic thoughts.
He inclined his head to hers. ‘Is that why Falcone approached you this evening? Had you encountered him in Nevada while you were there?’ His voice was low, and he was speaking in Italian.
Fran swallowed. ‘Briefly,’ she acknowledged, her tone constrained. She did not want Cesare probing.
She saw Cesare’s expression tighten. ‘Then I hope, Francesca, that you will take this in the spirit with which I offer it. I was concerned when I saw you with him—which is why I came up. It is a concern shared by Vito, who knows his reputation—as he was just telling me.’ He paused a moment. ‘Nicolo Falcone is well known as a womaniser, so—’
Fran cut across him repressively. ‘Cesare, I appreciate what you’re saying, but—’
He smiled faintly. ‘Yes, I know—it’s none of my business. But we go back a long way, you and I, so I will claim the privilege of speaking now in a fraternal way. I would not like to see you misled by someone of...let us say, an unscrupulous disposition. So, if Falcone was importuning you tonight—’
She shook her head decisively. Any ‘importuning’ had come from her, she thought bleakly, when she had demanded he speak to her...talk to her...
‘I was surprised to see him here, that was all,’ she said constrainedly. ‘As, apparently, was everyone else.’ She frowned, putting into words what was uppermost in her head right now. ‘I hadn’t realised he’d tried to take over Viscari and lost.’
‘It was headline news in the financial press in Italy, but you were in the States at the time,’ Cesare said. ‘There’s huge friction between Falcone and Viscari.’
She was relieved she had no opportunity to reply. Harry had sauntered over to them, demolishing a chicken leg as he did so.
‘Fran, old bean, I’m off clubbing. You’ve got keys for the flat, haven’t you?’
She nodded. Most of the family made use of Harry’s father’s flat in Chelsea when they were in town. Restlessly, she got to her feet. Her thoughts were still hectic, emotions racing. What had been disclosed just now was fuelling them. She wanted to be gone.
Using the excuse of Harry’s departure, she took her leave. It seemed ages before she was in the chauffeured hotel car Vito had ordered for her, dropping Harry off to meet up with his friends. Alone at last, she felt her mind race, replaying everything she’d heard said in Vito’s suite.