The Italian's Final Redemption - Jackie Ashenden Page 0,1
since what was in front of her was always the most important thing, and approached the large and obviously antique reception desk.
A beautifully dressed young man sat behind it, looking intently at a paper-thin computer screen, and he glanced up as she approached, his expression pleasant and professional. ‘Can I help you, miss?’
Lucy gripped the strap of her handbag tightly, her heart beating very fast. ‘I need to speak to Mr de Santi immediately, please.’
The man’s pleasant expression didn’t change. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
This part of her plan was always going to be difficult.
All she had was her name, and even though most people didn’t know it, they surely knew of her existence. Or at least, Vincenzo de Santi would know of her existence.
‘No,’ Lucy said. ‘But he’ll want to see me. I’m Lucy Armstrong.’
That clearly meant nothing to the receptionist. His smile changed to one of polite refusal. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Armstrong, but if you don’t have an appointment I’m afraid you can’t see Mr de Santi. He’s a very busy man.’
She’d have only twenty minutes now. Twenty minutes and then they’d find her. They’d track her down and then she’d be dragged back to Cornwall. She wouldn’t be allowed back to London again, and then her mother would have died for nothing.
Ice collected inside her, small tendrils of frost working their way through her veins. She’d become adept at ignoring her emotions, at not seeing anything but the task in front of her, which was generally numbers on a screen, the financial markets she lived and breathed. And for years that had worked very well.
But with freedom so close and the loss of it approaching fast, the fear she’d been trying to suppress was battering at the box she’d locked it in, trying to get out. It had taken her years to muster the courage to put this plan into motion. It had to work. She wasn’t going to get another chance.
‘It’s Armstrong,’ Lucy said, hoping her voice was firm and not shaking. ‘Lucy Armstrong. I’m Michael Armstrong’s daughter.’
The man’s expression still didn’t change. Her father’s name meant nothing to him.
She swallowed, the chill inside her deepening. She’d expected de Santi’s gatekeepers to at least know of her father, but it was obvious that wasn’t the case.
The fear was reaching higher, cold floodwaters threatening to drown her.
Her mother lying on the floor, blood pooling on the carpet where she’d fallen as she’d grabbed Lucy’s hand.
‘Promise me,’ she’d gasped out. ‘Promise me you’ll survive long enough to get away from him. Escape, have a life, be free. I want you to be happy, darling. I don’t want you to end up like me...’
She’d promised and her mother had died right there in front of her.
Think.
Right. She couldn’t freeze, couldn’t let the fear get the better of her. Concentrate on the immediate problem and figure out a solution.
Although there didn’t seem to be any security around, she wasn’t fooled. De Santi’s security team were legendary, which was part of why she’d chosen him to start with. If she made herself a threat in some way, she’d be instantly grabbed and hustled away somewhere secure.
Maybe that would be the way to go.
She was just sorting through that option, when a door behind the reception desk opened and an expensively dressed older man strode out. ‘And I’ll see you in hell, de Santi,’ he flung over his shoulder before storming over to the exit.
The receptionist was halfway out of his chair, no doubt to soothe the other man’s ruffled feathers, and Lucy saw her chance.
She was good at remaining unnoticed and, since the door to de Santi’s office stood open, she moved quickly, heading straight to it.
No one stopped her.
She went in, her heart beating far too fast for comfort, turning and shutting the door quickly, and locking it for good measure. Then she turned around.
The atmosphere of luxury and astonishing amounts of money was here in this office too. No marble on the floor this time, but a thick, deep carpet in midnight blue. Dark wood panelled the walls, the lighting of various paintings on it discreet and subtle. Bookcases and display cases, a couch, a low coffee table and a huge oak desk.
There was a man behind the desk. And he was looking at her.
He said nothing.
Lucy’s heart thundered in her ears. The minutes were ticking away and yet somehow she’d lost her voice. As if the man behind the desk had struck her dumb.
He wore a dark suit