When Parker had married Resa, he’d had no clue how enmeshed a family could be, each member tied into another, torn and tortured, loyal and yet longing to escape. From Silvio Junior’s need to please and outdo his father right down to the seething jealousies of Mario and Antonio that they had not been the chosen ones, the family was rotten with dysfunction. Anna, now collecting appetizers, would no doubt head to the restroom to purge soon. Julianna, who was greeting guests at the door, had gone under the knife so many times that Parker was convinced her eyes wouldn’t close at night. Only Theresa, his Resa, had survived the family unscathed.

Or so he’d once thought.

Add to that the sick rivalry between Silvio Senior and his brother, Alberto D’Amato, bad relations that didn’t even die with Alberto awhile back. Parker had learned, the hard way, that the D’Amato familia was one sick clan. In the end he’d found it ironic that Resa’s old man had bulked so much over their divorce while the rest of the family was quietly going to hell.

According to family lore, the divorce had nearly caused Resa’s ailing mother, Octavia, to die of mortification. However, Octavia had survived and was now holding court in the garden, a bejeweled cane at her side and a blanket on her lap. She was attended by one of her sons, Antonio, the happily married father of four who couldn’t keep it in his pants. Octavia didn’t notice Parker as she sipped from a glass that didn’t so much as quiver in her elegant long fingers. The matriarch forever. Diamonds dripped from her ears and encircled her throat, wrists and fingers. Not one to hide her wealth was Octavia D’Amato.

All six of her children were in attendance. Parker caught sight of Mario and Anna, two of Resa’s siblings, schmoozing up clients near the flowering vines that had overtaken a wall of the old cloister. He told himself he was prepared in case Resa showed.

He tried not to think about her, about how hard he’d fallen or how fast. It had been unlike him. Until Theresa D’Amato he hadn’t believed in love at first sight, or being obsessed with a woman, or even settling down. But Resa with her smoky brown eyes and naughty, knowing smile had caught his attention. She was coy and smart, and when she threw her head back and laughed that throaty little chuckle, he was doomed. Dark coppery hair, long legs, a tight butt and firm breasts that filled his hands—you get the picture.

Getting her into bed hadn’t been difficult; she’d been as hot for him as he’d been for her and their lovemaking had been nothing short of mercurial.

Until it had gone cold.

Stone cold.

On the heels of Ian’s death.

Oh, hell.

His heart twisted and he forced his mind to the present. To the D’Amato winery and the party where he was supposed to be sharp and steady, the “heat” even though he was no longer a cop.

What the hell was he doing here? Why had Silvio asked for him by name?

But Parker knew.

Parker’s duty was not so much to keep out terrorists, thugs or would-be thieves, but more to ensure that the riffraff, specifically anyone connected to Silvio Senior’s brother, Alberto, did not make an appearance. Years ago Silvio Senior had scammed half the family fortune from the significantly less clever Alberto, his younger brother. Alberto had died a few years back, but his progeny had survived, and they all had long memories, fueled by acrimony.

Parker walked through an arbor wrapped in grape vines and about a billion sparkling lights. The evening was cool, bordering chilly, but the party was in full swing. Knots of guests clustered outside on the flagstone patio, an open garden area that had once connected the cellarium, a storage area for the monastery, and the chapter house, where the monks had met to mete out chores and discuss their sins. Rumor had it that some monks had been buried beneath the flooring, though Parker thought that sounded like something D’Amato had made up to give the place more mystique.

Along one wall, inside the alcove surrounding the garden, a string quartet was playing classical pieces that Parker vaguely recognized. Silvio’s attempt at culture.

D’Amato’s garage was open, his array of vintage cars from the 30s, 40s and 50s, all parked on a gleaming tile floor, their glossy exteriors polished to a high, almost liquid gloss. Past the courtyard and through the main house, a waterfall cascaded into an infinity pool that shimmered turquoise amid mosaic tiles and thick, fragrant shrubs. Everywhere, liveried waiters passed out stemmed glasses of the most famous of the D’Amato vintages.

On the far end of the courtyard was a raised dais, complete with arbor, lights and microphone. Silvio Junior was slated to speak to the group, a hand-picked assortment of bigwigs invited to sample his latest vintage.

A bunch of crap, Parker thought, and checked his watch.

A big black guy with a shaved head stood with his back to one aged pillar. Oscar, Silvio’s personal bodyguard and leader of his security team, looked even more uncomfortable than Parker felt. His collar pinched tight around the thick muscles of his neck and he was three hundred pounds if he was fifty. “The man’s going to be speakin’ in a few. Everyone’s got to have their cell phone turned off.”

He glanced at the open door where a thin blond woman in five-inch heels and shimmery silk dress paced the foyer, cell phone pressed against one ear, an unlit cigarette in her free hand.

“Everyone, here, in the courtyard,” Parker clarified.

Oscar shook his head. “Everyone period. Including you.”

“No way.”

“That’s what he said, I’m just passin’ it on. I’ll be behind the stage, you take the front, okay.”

Parker wasn’t going to let the phone thing drop. “Security needs phones.”

“We have walkie-talkies,” he reminded him.

“Ancient technology.”

“Silvio…he’s not exactly high-tech, now.”

“I can carry a loaded sidearm in here but no phone?”

Oscar rolled his palms up to the starlit sky. “I just follow the rules, I don’t make ’em.” And then he spied the blonde in the foyer and took off on a mission.

Parker watched him go. No way in hell was he turning off his phone. He switched it to Vibrate, left it in his pocket and decided that was good enough. Silvio would have to deal with it. The way Parker figured it, Silvio D’Amato was lucky Parker was here at all.

At that moment Silvio Junior appeared on the dais. All eyes turned toward the robust man with the shock of silver hair and thick black eyebrows. Though barely five-eight, Silvio had a presence about him that was only enhanced by his Armani suit and Italian leather shoes. He appeared strong and confident, a man to be reckoned with, rightful heir to all fortunes D’Amato.

Planting his back to a brick column, Parker scanned the old monastery grounds with a critical, suspicious eye. Old, rambling structures like this could be a nightmare to secure. Though the walls and adjacent structures had a fortresslike appearance, they were filled with dark nooks and deep crannies, unseen hiding spots. There were shadowy caverns cut into the hillside to house the wine barrels, as well as a maze of underground tunnels that could easily become routes of escape should anyone want to take a shot at the top runner for the wine country’s “vintner of the year.” There was access through the grape receiving platform and shipping dock. A bell tower loomed high above the tasting room, which had once been the church. The tower itself was dark now, the staircase leading upward secured. And yet…

He glanced up at the highest point of the turret, focusing on the belfry, that dark open space under the roof. For a second he thought he saw movement. Weird. He’d checked the lock himself, so he knew it was secure. Probably a bat, as it was a little past twilight, when bats and owls and insects stirred.