The Bombardier Challenger 850 Learjet landed at Los Angeles International Airport with such ease and precision, Dante Morretti didn’t realize it was on the ground until he opened his eyes and looked outside the window. The sky was free of clouds, cobalt blue and awash with radiant sunshine. It was another warm, spring day in the City of Angels, and Dante was glad to be home. Though born in Venice, Italy, he loved Los Angeles and would never live anywhere else. Everything he’d ever wanted was in LA—fame, power, prestige. And he was there to stay. At twenty-eight, Dante had a life most men dreamed of, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted greater success, more billionaire clients, and he wasn’t afraid to work hard for it.
“I thought you might be thirsty, so I brought you some mineral water.”
Turning away from the window, Dante regarded the stewardess. She had rosy cheeks and fiery-red hair, and she spoke with a Southern twang. Her black uniform revealed an obscene amount of cleavage, but she wore an innocent, good-girl smile.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Dante dodged her lascivious gaze, instead pretending to stare at the flat-screen TV that was showing the local news. The stewardess had been throwing herself at him ever since he’d boarded his company’s private jet fourteen hours earlier in Hong Kong. But Dante wasn’t interested in joining the mile-high club. Did she read the article in LA Business magazine? Is that why she’s throwing herself at me? Because she wants to sink her teeth into my millions?
As the jet crawled toward the terminal, his mind returned to the photo shoot he’d done three months earlier at his Beverly Hills bachelor pad. He’d given an exclusive sit-down interview to the magazine, and once the April issue had hit newsstands, Dante couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized. Gold diggers propositioned him everywhere—at the gym, on street corners, in restaurants and cafés. The more he resisted them the more aggressive they were. And the only thing Dante hated more than a provocative woman was a cheating one. Like his ex-wife.
Slamming the brakes on his thoughts, he gave his head a hard shake and considered the events of the past week. The magazine article had shined a bright spotlight on The Brokerage Group. Founded in 1998 by three UCLA graduates, the LA-based company specialized in the acquisition, development and construction management of all property types, including shopping malls, condominiums, luxury hotels and office buildings. For five years, Dante had been the chief investment officer of the Fortune 500 company, and in spite of his furious work schedule, he loved his job. His undergraduate degrees in business management and urban planning had given him the necessary tools to excel in the field. He’d led his company to record profits each year and made it look easy.
Pride filled him, turning his frown into a broad smile. Celebrities, politicians and savvy investors from all across the country were eager to do business with The Brokerage Group, and Dante was the reason why. His private company, Morretti Realty & Investments, was making money hand over fist. Thanks to his brothers Emilio and Immanuel, and his cousins Demetri, Nicco and Raphael, his firm had grown by leaps and bounds in the past six years.
“Would you like a back rub? I’ve been told I’m great with my hands.” She leaned against his seat and twirled a lock of hair around her index finger. “Among other things.”
I’m not surprised. I bet you’ve massaged every man you’ve ever met.
“No, thank you—”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” she continued, in a singsong voice. Her eyes were glued to his crotch, and the expression on her face was pensive, as if she was cooking up mischief. “If you change your mind just give me a shout.”
I won’t, he thought. Trust me. I know trouble when I see it, and you’re it.
The stewardess sashayed down the aisle, switched and swiveled her wide hips. Dante was glad to see her go. Women were a distraction he just didn’t need, and even if he wanted female company—which he didn’t—he wouldn’t hook up with an aggressive redhead with dollar signs in her eyes. It would be someone elegant and classy, with a successful career and her own money. He was a real estate developer, not a bank. Dante was tired of women expecting gifts, jewelry and luxury cars from him. Why can’t I meet someone normal like...Jordana?
At the thought of the Midwest beauty, a smile filled his face. He’d met the Iowa native last year, when she was dating his college buddy Tavares Butler. He’d been impressed with how intelligent she was, how lively and vivacious. The actress was a down-home girl with a big personality, and he’d liked her instantly. When Tavares relocated to Australia last summer for work, he’d asked Dante to look out for her, and he’d readily agreed. Three months later, they’d called it quits, but he suspected Jordana was still in love with her ex. She didn’t date, shot down everyone who asked her out and wouldn’t set foot inside the club. They were friends, but that didn’t stop Dante from admiring her from afar.
The jet stopped abruptly.
Dante stared out the window, but he didn’t see what the holdup was. Thirsty, he picked up his glass and sipped some water. He needed something stronger. The bar was stocked with everything from Cristal to vodka, but he chose to grab a wine cooler. Designed with scrumptious Italian leather, designer fixtures and state-of-the art electronics, the jet had all the comforts of home, and everything Dante needed was at his fingertips.
Yawning, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His weeklong business trip to Hong Kong had been taxing, filled with so many late nights and early mornings he felt both physically and mentally drained, though his time abroad had been productive, and he was excited about his latest business venture. The Brokerage Group wanted to build several commercial properties in Asia, and if everything went according to plan, the deal would go off without a hitch and he’d be lauded as a hero.
Ready to leave, Dante slipped on his aviator sunglasses. He’d been up since 5:00 a.m. and was looking forward to going home, putting up his feet and enjoying a cold beer. Or two. He deserved it. He worked fourteen-hour days, six days a week, and if not for the occasional brew—and Matteo—he’d probably be burned out.
Thoughts of his mischievous four-year-old son flooded Dante’s mind. His smile couldn’t be any wider, any brighter. Matteo was his heart, his pride and joy, and his happiest moments were spent chasing him around the house, acting like a goofball to earn a laugh.
The intercom came on.
“I apologize for the delay, Mr. Morretti, but the Boeing 747 in front of us seems to be having mechanical issues and is stuck on the tarmac,” the first officer explained. “We’ll get you to the terminal as soon as we can. Thank you for your patience and understanding.”
Dante returned to his seat, took his iPad out of his briefcase and turned it on. Might as well get some work done while I wait, he decided, typing in his password. The satellite phone sitting on the side table rang, and Dante answered it. Only a handful of people had the number, so he knew the call was important. The moment he heard the voice on the line, his heart stopped. It was his son’s preschool teacher, Ms. Papadopoulos. She sounded troubled, flustered. What was wrong? Did something happen at Beverly Hills Preschool Academy? Panic ballooned inside his chest. Was Matteo hurt? Had he fallen off the jungle gym again?
“Is everything okay?” he asked, despite the knot stuck in his throat.
“Have you heard from your ex-wife?”
Dante frowned, gripping the receiver. “No, I haven’t. Why? Is there a problem?”
“She’s thirty minutes late to pick up Matteo, and she isn’t answering her cell phone.”
Thirty minutes! Damn. How could Lourdes forget to pick up his son? His ex-wife was punctually challenged, but whenever he had spoken to her about being on time she’d shrugged off his concerns. Lourdes had no reason to be late. She didn’t work, hadn’t held a nine-to-five in years, and even though she had joked being beautiful was a full-time job, it wasn’t.
Hanging his head, he raked a hand through his thick black hair. Because of his furious work schedule, he’d agreed to let