Calia Wilde – Author

Sardinia possessed the clearest water in the Mediterranean. Even with the steep drop of the coastline along my family’s property here on the northern border, you could clearly see the rocks and sand of the ocean floor far below. I learned to swim here as a boy. I fished and hunted with my uncles and cousins, learned to slice open a carcass, and most importantly, carved an inheritance of honor into my bones. The family code predated the Acropolis. The first whispers of it began with shepherds and pirates who pillaged at will and protected their own. They distributed brutal revenge upon their enemies, and most of all, loved the land and sea surrounding them with its blessings and trials given with equal measures. As my great-grandfather once said to me, “Mankind is born with two hands. The right hand caresses with the bounty of life and the benefits of labor. The left hand snatches it all away and distributes the finalities of death and justice.” 

We were of that left-handed nature. 

I could hear its heartbeat in the surf, feel its siren’s call on the wind. Taste the lust for adventure and conquest with each breath.

“Come, eat.” My grandfather led us to a rough table. It barely sat six. The low ceiling beams forced me duck where the roof was too low. He’d set out a small spread of strong cheese, spianata, dried tomatoes, and olives. A lamb stew simmered on the stove. The unique fragrance of saffron gracing one of my favorite meals. Allie inspected bowl my grandfather handed her. 

The only thing more comforting would be zuppa. I asked him why he didn’t prepare that. 

He frowned at me and spoke in his rapid native dialect. “You’re lucky I’m not feeding you straight broth. When did you start bleeding again?” 

Without thinking, I checked the dressing. The telltale wetness of blood soaked through my shirt. But the stain was small, barely a spot. He shouldn’t have been able to tell since the fabric was a dark color. But even at ninety, his sharp eyes didn’t miss a thing. 

Allie noticed where I put my hand and she shot me a look of panic. “It’s okay,” I told her. To my grandfather, I let him know it happened during the landing or on the mountain roads. The extra jostling caused a stitch to work loose. 

“Does she know?” 

“She would have stitched me up herself if I’d let her.” I switched to English so Allie wouldn’t get too curious. “My wife is veterinarian. She’s very skilled at placating wounded animals.” 

The look she shot me was venomous. I smiled and took a sip of wine. 

But I’d piqued my grandfather’s curiosity. He directed his conversation toward her, giving me a reprieve. 

After dinner, he pulled out his private stock filu ‘e ferru, a potent local brandy.

He set a glass in front of me. “It will help you sleep.” 

Perhaps. I sipped it carefully. 

Allie picked hers up and sniffed. “This will mess with your medicine.” 

Grandfather pointed at the glass in her hand and said, “That is medicine.” 

Liar. 

“It will mess with the antibiotics, and the infection will get worse.” 

My grandfather shot me a sharp look and switched back to the language of our ancestors. “He cut you with a dirty knife. That bastard from a whore’s cunt must die.” Then smiled sweetly at Allie pretending he hadn’t ordered a hit on Ringo. 

“It was my shirt that did it. A piece of fabric in the wound caused it to fester.” 

“He knows better. I trained him myself.” He noticed Allie watching our conversation intently. “How is the stew?” 

She blushed and glanced at the bowl she hadn’t touched yet. “I’m sure it is fine. May I borrow your grandson for a moment? I want to—”

“She is like a bulldog.” 

Unfortunately, he spoke that in clear English. 

“She is my wife.” I laid a possessive hand on hers. 

“And a good one. My first wife was a bulldog. I hated that.” 

A muscle in my jaw twitched. “Maybe if you weren’t such a jackass, she’d have treated you more kindly.” 

Instead of taking offense, Grandfather laughed hard. “My Maricciu. You always were too serious.” 

Allie squeezed my hand. She motioned with her head to leave the table.

Why was this cut?

In order to tighten the plot and keep the main characters in Italy, I brought Mario’s grandfather to him, rather than the other way around. This meant less traveling and a tighter timeline. It was also less boring by keeping the movement and logistics to a minimum.

Ellie: February Three lies and a truth.

If my family knew how many lies I’ve told, they’d disown me. We’re not talking those little ones, like “No, Mom, I didn’t color Allie’s Barbie’s hair pink with a marker.” We’re talking whoppers like getting my lawyer to say the money I spent was part of my grandfather’s estate settlement so no one wondered where it came from. In truth, I’d taken the entire settlement and played the lottery. I thought I’d get rid of it. Instead, I hit the winning numbers. Twice. I didn’t dare play a third time, because knowing my luck, I’d probably win the big one and then couldn’t keep my anonymity. 

Or, the other whopper… Mom, I’m getting married in Vegas because I’m totally in love and can’t wait. When in truth, I barely knew the guy I was supposed to marry, and he was blackmailing me because I drunkenly told him I’d won the lottery. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. 

I suppose that isn’t as awful of a lie as, “This isn’t what you think it is.” When it should have been told like this: “Hey new girlfriend, I am a hitman and I tried to kill my bestie.” 

Nope, that monstrosity wasn’t mine. But it sure tracked with my horrible taste in men. 

The Vegas fiasco fizzled before something permanent, like matrimony, happened to me. Dodged that bullet, for now. 

Dodged another one on my supposed “honeymoon” which I was supposed to take with my twin sister, Allie. Long ass story, but it landed me in Rome where I made up my mind to stop licking my wounds and get my ass out of Italy.

The Trevi fountain was beautiful, and currently a bunch of stagnant pools because I hit the tourist attraction on the odd Monday when they shut it down for repairs. 

No coin tossing for me. And no coming back, ever. The empty pools mirrored my heart. All the fountains were dry. I’d cried myself dead—at least emotionally. Those poor ferry passengers who tried to console me probably thought I was crazy. 

That wasn’t the case at all. Just a bad case of double heartbreak on top of a lifetime of heartbreak… and shame. 

I rolled the coin between my fingers, balancing it between my index and middle finger so I could feel when it tipped over the centerline and would fall neatly between the next groove. If I could master that sleight of hand, maybe I could finally work through losing the perfect man. 

Correction, Ringo was the worst possible scoundrel on earth. He was not perfect, by a long shot. 

Except for his kisses, and the way his hair curled recklessly to the left when the wind tossed it around. And maybe the way his smile quirked higher on the right side and revealed just a hint of canine tooth. That should have been a warning right there. Or maybe his last name, Devlin. Which was short for the in the Devil in him. Because that was what he was. The Devil. 

A hitman. How would I ever face my parents? Maybe I could use the fallout from Allie’s miraculous implosion to hide for a while? That sounded like a great idea. Except it would suck to throw her under the bus like that. She’d fallen head over heels in love. Which was so unlike her. Pragmatic, caring, careful Allie would never do something wild like marry a mob enforcer, that was my schtick. 

But I think my insanity and quirky luck rubbed off on her. She met the man of her dreams after Stupid Ringo stabbed him. And, being the bleeding heart she was, Allie nursed poor Mario right into a marriage. 

Cue the music and throw confetti, my twin was married. Hooray, congratulations, mazel tov.  

I fumbled the coin and tried to catch it, but only managed to slap it away. It flew in a high arch and landed with a splat in one of the few pools that had water in it. 

“Ah, good fortune, you’ll return to Rome someday! You are a lucky lady.” 

The random stranger was all smiles and laughter. 

“Tell that to the five men I’ve buried under the Forum!” 

His eyes opened wide and the smile washed from his face. With a muttered prayer and a quick genuflect across his chest, he backed away. 

Ringo Devlin with the Devil in him had nothing on me. 

Bastard. 

I’d lost my lucky coin, dammit. Whatever. Good riddance and all that jazz. I walked the whole twenty minutes to the Roma Termini cursing his existence and ignoring what was left of my “honeymoon.” 

I didn’t plan it, Allie did. But somehow parts of it sunk in my head. Like knowing once I got to the train station, it would be just over a half hour ride to the airport. 

That’s where I planned to catch a flight to Paris, and get lost over there for at least three weeks. Maybe a lifetime. Fuck Rome, fuck honeymoons, and…

Well, not fucking Ringo Devlin. Never again. 

I wasn’t supposed to be broken-hearted right now. I just wasn’t. 

Why was this cut?

I originally wanted to start Ellie’s journey at the point she left her sister and Mario’s family. But I soon realized that it delayed the “meet cute” beyond the normal point of the book. Additionally, while she traisped around Italy, no one was actively hunting her. She’d eluded Firenze, and wasn’t following an itinerary. I also had this weird idea she’d be in Paris when the flowers started to bloom, but that threw off the St. Patrick’s Day timing as well. So these planned scenes were either cut or not written.

Although, I REALLY liked this scene. What are your thoughts on it?

Ellie and Ringo Feb 14

Why did I pick Valentine’s Day to leave for my honeymoon? Not only wasn’t there a groom, but my sister ditched me in favor of figuring out yet more logistics. But obviously not all of them. She’d told me to cash in my fiancé’s ticket. So I stood in line behind a couple dressed in matching heart-covered…outfits? Maybe they were pajamas? They were oblivious to the counter clerk saying, “Next,” so poked the woman, hard and pointed at the counter. 

“You’re much nicer than I am. I would have skipped them,” The man behind me commented.

I would have if I wasn’t so hungover and adverse to getting in a fight. “I’d rather not have the hassle. Speaking of, do you know where I can cash in an extra ticket?” 

His eyebrow went up. “Who was the no-show?” 

I got a little lost in the way his mouth bent upwards and created a nice divot in his scruffy cheek. “What?” 

“The extra ticket, who?” 

A pang of panic mixed with embarrassment shot through me. I shoved on a coat of bravado to hide it. “The guy I murdered last night.” 

The quirk turned into a full-blown smile. “I hope you hid the body.” 

“Dragged it out to the desert. He’s buzzard breakfast now.” 

Instead of being horrified, he laughed. 

And just like that, I was in deep lust. Don’t get me wrong, he was decent-looking, but knowing he had a morbid sense of humor pushed his seven-to-eight face, athletic, sun-streaked blond, Demi-god physique, and possibly designer dress pants right up to a ten. Maybe even an eleven. His shirt wasn’t buttoned up far enough, his hair wasn’t combed neatly enough, and the glint in his eye was definitely not angelic enough. As parts, he was trouble. As a whole, serious trouble. 

At least for me. I adored bad boys. There was something about their swagger, the casual rebellion, and the utterly devastating scrutiny that made me want to cross my legs. Because if I didn’t? 

Well, case in point… Vegas. Wedding. Honeymoon. Ugh. Luckily I found out Johnny was a dick before the I-dos. 

“My name is Devlin. Ringo Devlin. Yours?” 

“No way that’s your real name,” I blurted.

His face twisted in practiced shame. “Sorry. I’d show you my ID and prove you wrong.” 

“Why on earth did you parents name you Ringo?” 

He winked at me. “My mother was a groupie. She named me after her affair. Or, that’s how the story goes. In reality, it’s probably something dumber.” 

I blinked. Despite his smile, there was an undercurrent of sadness or anger that he masked really well. It took someone really adept at hiding pain to recognize the signs. Yet I was smart enough not to grab onto that and dig in. Instead I laughed along with him and held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Devlin. I’m Ellie Jacobs.” As I said my last name, I panicked again. I was supposed to be Ellie Porcelli now. And that combo got stuck in a loop in my head spinning round and round in rhyming circles that almost made me ill. 

Ringo took my hand and instead of shaking it, he kissed the back. As he did, his eyes met mine. 

The noise in my head quieted and I imagined a different last name. Ellie Devlin sounded so much better. 

What the heck? I shook the thought off and slipped my hand out of his before the gesture became indecent. 

“Where’s the ticket’s destination?” 

“Italy,” I said hesitantly. 

Before he could talk, the counter agent called for the next person in line.  

“Crap, that’s me.” 

I pulled out the big binder of travel information that Allie left for me. She had it color-coded and tabbed with labels by subject and divided by days. As I opened it to the ticket section, a loose folder slipped out. The papers inside it poured out. Ringo helped catch it, the pages, and my utter humiliation before it spiraled straight into Hell. 

“Here.” He handed the collected documents back. 

I zipped it into my big suitcase’s outer pocket avoided certain disaster. Nothing could be worse than everyone, from Ringo to the attendant to the cops who’d be called if those ugly photos were unearthed. 

As I collected my bags, Ringo leaned in to whisper in my ear. “That guy you killed last night had a bullet hole between his eyes.” 

I swallowed. My usual bluster fled. “Name your price.” 

“One ticket to Italy.” 

My shoulders slumped. There went any extra spending money. I nodded and motioned for him to join me.

“Hi, Miss Jacobs, what name should the second ticket be under? When your sister made the reservations, she didn’t have that information. The note in your file said you’d be traveling with your groom?” The woman eyed Ringo with curiosity. 

“That’s right. We got hitched last night.” He handed over his wallet. 

He was such a liar. And a damn good one. We breezed through the check in and made it through the security gates with ease. 

“Denver, then Heathrow, then Venice… I hope you didn’t book coach.” 

I tugged the tickets out of his hands. “My sister booked them. I told her I wanted first class, but to keep it under ten grand.” 

“She took you at your word. Both tickets under ten grand.” 

I groaned in frustration. “I need a drink, or aspirin.” I grimaced because my hangover was kicking my ass. 

Ringo led me to a barstool and ordered a Bloody Mary for me. “I’ll be back in a minute with your pain killers.” He pointed to the store across the concourse. 

Oh, that was sweet of him. Even sweeter, he pulled out a twenty and laid it on the bar to pay for the drink when it arrived. 

I was halfway through the pickle spear when he returned. “Here.” He lined up several medicine packets in front of me. He’d even bought those fizzy stomach tablets and a roll of antacids. 

“Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. Oh, and here, hang on to this…” He opened his wallet and pulled out a stack of hundred dollar bills. 

My eyes bugged out a little. He counted off eight of them. “For the ticket.” 

“But…” 

He grinned. “I was kidding about that thing before. You know…” He made a little gesture with his hand that suspiciously looked like pulling a trigger. But instead of making the little finger-gun, it looked real, like he knew exactly how a gun would fit into his palm. 

“Are you—” I stopped myself before asking if he was a gangster. The question was ridiculous, and insulting. But my imagination itched. 

“Am I what?” 

“Rich?” I blurted. 

He grinned. “Not as rich as I want to be, but not as poor as I should be.” His words trailed off a bit and he stared at my face. 

“Do I have something stuck in my teeth?” 

“No, you’re…pretty.” He blinked and looked away, studying the decorations on the walls. 

The silence sat between us like a priest. Someone needed to fill it. I needed to fill it. “You overheard the part about me getting married, didn’t you?”

“Hard not to when I’m being labeled as the groom. What happened?” 

I stared at my glass for a minute. “That guy in the photos? I think my fiancé killed him.” 

Ringo squinted at me. “How sure are you about that?” 

My hand flip-flopped. “Probably seventy-thirty?” 

He ordered a small glass of top-shelf scotch and waited me out. 

My confession was quiet. “I didn’t think he was in that deep.” 

“In what?”

“In the mob.” 

Ringo snorted into his drink. 

“What?”

He smiled at me like an indulgent parent. “Where was this?” 

“Chicago.” 

His eyebrow twitched once. “Okay, let’s say he was…trying, okay?” 

I sipped on the straw while he measured his thoughts. 

“And maybe somebody talked him into something like that. It still doesn’t make him—that.” 

“And you’d know?” 

Ringo went still for a second or three. “Naw. It’s just so far-fetched.”

“No it’s not. My grandfather was in the mob.” 

His eyes darted from the camera above us to the bartender and then to the concourse. “No he wasn’t.” 

I pulled out my phone. It took only three taps to bring up a family photo of me, Allie, my mom, and Pop-Pop Pulaski. I showed it to Ringo. Then I pulled up the online article I’d bookmarked. It was one of many. The headline read, “FBI Probe of Mob Accountant Ended.” The first picture was a close-up of my grandfather. They’d clipped it from that same photo I carried on my phone. Some newspapers even ran the full family photo prompting my parents to flee to Arizona, and a lawsuit for splashing our under-age images in the smear against him. 

Ringo compared the two photos. “You were a cute kid. Is that one you?” 

“That’s Allie, my twin. I’m the one looking away.” I’d gotten distracted when they snapped the photo. But it was the best out of the bunch, so Mom kept it. 

He handed the phone back to me. “Identical twins?” 

I nodded. Almost identical, unless you started comparing personalities, or success. Allie was a board-certified veterinary surgeon. She volunteered for monthly rotations to rural communities who needed field medicine for their animals. In almost every way, she was a success. 

Versus me? 

Well, I was lucky. That was about it. I’d never been smart like her. In fact, when the money from Grandfather’s settlement finally was released, I blew the entire eighteen grand on lottery tickets. 

And won. 

Then won again. 

In a matter of months, I had enough to buy out the bar I worked at, invest, and pay my rent for a decade. Then came the trust payments. Monthly allowances that hit my bank account like clockwork. I had to hire a lawyer and an accountant to take care of it all. 

But I worried my luck had run out. Last night was a wake up call. I’d almost married a killer. “I must have sucker written on my forehead.” My drink was down to pink-tinged ice, and the tiny sidecar of beer was empty. All of the olives were eaten. The pickle was long gone. The orange slice vanished. I don’t even remember eating that. 

I also hadn’t kept my inner thoughts quiet. Yet Ringo didn’t say anything about my slip. Instead, he ordered a bottle of water from the bar, ripped open the double pack of Tylenol and placed the capsules on the napkin next to my drink. 

“I saw you last night.” He propped his arm over the back of my chair.

The pills caught in my throat. I forced them down and drank at least three more sips of water before I tried answering. “In my dress?” 

A small smile peeked out. “Very pretty.” His eyes drifted to mine. They fixed there, soft, and kind, and…

Damn it, I was doing it again. Falling for a smooth talker. “I bet you say that to every woman.” 

“Nope. But I’ve said it to you, twice in one day. That’s almost a record.” 

The boarding call for our first flight saved me. 

Why was this cut?

As you can tell, I did a LOT of writing on Devlin’s Luck before scrapping the original ideas and moving to what made it into the March book. It just didn’t fit into the new outline. Moreover, Ringo opened up a bit on his motivation and core wound, so this story changed a lot. He was still lying his butt off when he met Ellie, though.