Page 8 of Marrying the Enemy

Maria hadn’t turned up at the church. She eloped with Aldo Visconti instead.

Humiliated, the Blackwoods did their best to ruin the Winslows, taking ownership of their shared properties and cutting them off from income streams. The Winslows hung onto a few assets, barely, then reconciled with the daughter they had shunned and used Visconti money to rally.

Through the ensuing years, there’d been some territorial disputes between the Blackwoods and the Viscontis, but the fight should have stayed between Michael and Aldo. Dom’s grandfather had pushed it into the next generation, though. When his twin sons, Thomas and Peter, had discovered that Romeo Visconti was at Harvard with them, Michael goaded his sons into an academic rivalry with the Visconti heir. That enmity carried into their business dealings when they all began working at their family companies.

A war of empires ensued through the eighties and nineties. Visconti Group and Winslow-Blackwood Enterprises became synonymous with five-star accommodation, luxury entertainments and a battle as competitive as those between the top cola brands. At one point, Romeo had launched a trademark suit, coming at Winslow-Blackwood for continuing to use the Winslow name—which he had no right to, either. The suit itself was frivolous, but he won over public sentiment, forcing the rebranding of Winslow-Blackwood Hotels and Resorts to the less elegant WBE.

Dom had vague memories of his father from those days. Thomas had never been gregarious or fun, but he hadn’t been mean. He and his siblings had been the product of a fraught marriage so they were all taciturn people who showed little emotion except anger. Uncle Pete had never married, hadn’t had children, but he’d worked side by side with Thomas at WBE. They’d been focused and intent. Workaholics to some extent, because their father constantly whipped them to work harder, be more. Win.

After Michael Blackwood died, there’d been another chance to take the personal out of the battle. Elbowing for market share was to be expected, but there was no reason for Dom’s father to hold onto a grudge against Romeo.

Perhaps he would have let it go if Romeo hadn’t been implicated in Peter’s death. Romeo was cleared of wrongdoing, but losing his brother changed Thomas. From then on, he had one goal: to annihilate the Viscontis. His thirst for vengeance cost him his marriage to Dom’s mother, but Thomas simply found a wife who agreed with him and kept on his one-track quest to punish.

Dom was sorry for his father’s loss. He felt cheated of what might have been a better relationship with him if things had been different. His childhood had been isolating at best and too often punctuated with his father’s harsh moods, bullying and unreasonable demands. Dom had shouldered responsibilities well beyond his years, purely because his father was trying to turn him into a foot soldier in his personal war. Dom had been caught in the impossible position of wanting to inherit something he knew inside out, something he believed he could do great things with, but he had to appease the old man to do it.

He had never blamed the Viscontis for any of that. Never hated them or wished them ill.

Until now.

Now those opportunistic carrion-eaters were taking advantage of his father’s death to raid and pillage. In a matter of days, they had scooped up majority shares in half a dozen WBE properties that were mid-development. They were buying WBE debts so they could call them. They were attacking Dom on all fronts and he knew why.

Evelina.

He dropped into his father’s chair, but refused to close his eyes because, whenever he did, all he saw was her. He saw long black hair and long tanned legs. He saw small, high breasts as she twisted in erotic anguish under his touch. He saw white lips shaping his name while her dark brown eyes widened in horror.

For the millionth time, he looked back on every second of his time in Budapest, from his last-minute agreement to oversee the party to how Eve could have made that elevator open at that specific moment. There was no way she could have orchestrated any of it. He was only trying to convince himself that she was a criminal mastermind so he could absolve himself of blame for having touched her.

She hadn’t waved him to approach her from across a crowded club. His own feet had carried him there. She hadn’t danced with him until he’d asked. She hadn’t tried to come home with him.

She hadn’t known who he was.

And even though he had relived their interactions a thousand times, punishing himself for not recognizing her, he simply hadn’t. Why not? He knew all three of her brothers by sight and reputation, if not personally. He should have seen the resemblance.

Not that she looked much like her older siblings. They had wide jaws and broad shoulders and were full of machismo. Evelina was the happy surprise who was several years younger. Aside from her height, she took after her Italian grandfather’s family. That’s where she got her black hair and dark brown eyes and that touch of gold embedded in her skin.

She had attended an all-girls boarding school in Switzerland and she’d been too young to be in any of Dom’s social circles, not that Visconti and Blackwood worlds were allowed to overlap. After the loss of his brother, Dom’s father hadn’t allowed a Visconti name to be spoken in his earshot, let alone suffer the presence of one in a room with him. They were “that family” or, if he was referencing Romeo, “the mongrel.”

Thus, Dom hadn’t had a clue he was lusting after Romeo’s daughter that night.

All he’d known when the elevator opened was that he couldn’t let her go again. Compelled by what could only be called a primitive imperative, Dom had made all the advances, barely capable of his usual restraint. He always made sure a woman wanted his sexual attention, but he’d been more assertive than usual. More driven.

Eve had seemed surprised by his directness, but when it came down to it, she’d matched his level of carnality. That’s what still made him hard in a heartbeat, that she’d trembled and moaned and climaxed when he’d barely touched her.

He’d wanted inside her more than he’d wanted his next breath.

At that point, the gods had had their biggest laugh at his expense. They’d delivered the message he’d so far failed to grasp. Her phone rang and there was Nico Visconti’s smug face turning Dom’s lust to disgust. To ire at being thwarted. And rage at feeling tricked.

Eve had seemed equally aghast. Maybe it really had been a series of outlandish coincidences, but their innocent mistake didn’t make any of their actions less criminal. Not in his mind. Certainly not in the mind of his father if he ever found out.

For weeks, Dom had debated coming clean about the incident, wanting to get ahead of his father’s tantrum. No matter how or when Thomas learned of the betrayal, it could literally stop his heart.

Ultimately, Dom had stayed silent not out of shame or concern for his father, but from a misguided sense of decency. He had sisters. He knew that pinning a Scarlet A on a woman, humiliating her for having a sexual appetite, was as sexist and hypocritical as it got. His father would do it anyway. If it would hurt Romeo to have his daughter disgraced, Thomas would revel in making her suffer.

Dom’s heart was not quite as charred as his father’s. He kept his mouth shut and waited to see if she would move first. If she would reveal the intimate things they’d done.

There’d been nothing but silence.

Until his father died.

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