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out with her on the beach under the stars.
    After the Bonnatti family checked out and returned to America, Mia had no idea she was pregnant. When she found out, she was unable to summon the courage to get in touch with the family. It wasn’t until twelve years later, when she was diagnosed with cancer and given only a few months to live, that she’d contacted the Bonnattis.
    A few weeks later Santino’s formidable mother, Francesca Bonnatti, flew to Italy to investigate the girl’s story. Upon arrival she’d taken one look at young Anthony with his big brown eyes and cocky attitude and realized that Mia was speaking the truth, for Anthony looked nothing like her son, Santino, nor did he resemble his birth mother, Mia. No, Anthony was the mirror image of Francesca. A male version. He was definitely a Bonnatti.
    Francesca flew her illegitimate grandson back to the States to live with Enzio and herself.
    Anthony flourished. He was an exceptionally smart boy who quickly learned to speak English without an accent. Raised on the streets of Naples for the first twelve years of his life by a mother who barely had time for him, he’d learned how to survive on his wits. His grandfather soon took a shine to his ballsy illegitimate grandson. Before long Enzio began taking Anthony on business trips to Colombia and Mexico City, proudly introducing the boy to all his main contacts.
    When Santino, outraged that his father had taken such a liking to his so-called son, moved his family and his own business interests—mainly the distribution of pornographic movies and magazines—to California, Enzio wasn’t bothered, for Santino was certainly not the son he’d hoped for.
    When Enzio was shot, it was sixteen-year-old Anthony who’d comforted Francesca and stayed by her side. Santino and his brother, Carlos, attended the lavish funeral, but neither of them stayed around. Fuck Santino Bonnatti , Anthony had thought. And fuck his fat wife and asshole kids. He wanted nothing to do with any of them, just as they had wanted nothing to do with him.
    After Enzio’s death, Francesca encouraged Anthony to put everything Enzio had taught him to good use. He didn’t let her down.
    Six years later when Santino himself was killed, Anthony hadn’t felt one shred of emotion. Why would he? His so-called father had treated him as if he didn’t exist, so there was no reason for him to care.
    By the time Anthony reached his early twenties, he’d forged major contacts with the biggest drug overlords in Mexico City, Colombia, and Bolivia.
    Anthony got off on having money and power, realizing early on how attractive those two things were to women. Plus he was not bad-looking in a darkly brooding way. Unfortunately, though, he was only five feet seven, not as tall as he’d like to be, and his lack of height pissed him off, but it didn’t stop him from sleeping his way through most of the models, would-be actresses, and young socialites in New York and Miami.
    Francesca was proud of his success, but she was also wary of his playboy ways, so one day she informed him that it was time he found himself a nice girl, got married, settled down, and started a family.
    A family he would start, but settling down was for old men with nowhere left to go.
    After a few months of Francesca’s nagging, he decided he’d better do as she suggested and start looking for The One.
    It wasn’t long before he met Irma at a party in Miami. She was seventeen and he was twenty-four.
    He’d taken one look at the well-endowed, pretty teenager and come to the conclusion that she might be the one— especially when she confided she was still a virgin.
    After obtaining Francesca’s approval, Anthony and Irma were married in a church in Mexico City where Anthony was negotiating to buy a large estate outside the city.
    Irma—virginal in a white lace dress—made a delightful bride. They honeymooned in