Page 11 of Vicious Intentions
I laugh, already picturing the playful grin tugging at his lips.
“If you say so.”
Raffaele chuckles, and the sound loosens a tension on my shoulders, one I hadn’t realized I was carrying.
“What about you?” I ask. “Have you started school yet?”
“Yep. Same lame ass show as always.”
“Same here,” I admit. I’ve barely been here five minutes, and I can already tell that nothing much has changed.
“I am excited about one thing, though.”
“Oh?” I ask. “What’s that?”
“Now I get to spend my time texting you instead of wishing the walls would collapse on me.”
“Well, there’s a visual,” I giggle, but I know he means it. Raffaele and I are more alike than I first thought. He’s just as lonely as I am.
“I’m happy you called,” I say quietly. “I was… hoping you would.”
“I’m happy I called too,” he replies, and I can hear his smile through the line.
“Send me your schedule,” he adds. “I’ll text you at lunch.”
“Will you send me yours?”
“Like you even have to ask?” He chuckles. “Talk to you later, kid. Knock ‘em dead.”
“I’ll get right on that.” I laugh.
We hang up at the same time, and I press the phone to my chest, cradling it as if it were something precious, something fragile and worth protecting.
Maybe this year will be different after all. Perhaps this year will be better. Even though Raffaele lives in another state, knowing he’s just a text or a phone call away makes me feel less alone, something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Hope settles in my chest, warm and dangerous.
I don’t notice it right away, but somewhere deep down, I know better than to trust it.
In our world, hope is never a gift—it’s a warning sign.
Chapter 2
Matteo
Twenty years old
I take another swig of the bitter whiskey in my hand, welcoming the burn as it pushes back the revulsion clawing up my throat at the spectacle before me.
Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over the grand reception hall, reflecting off marble floors and towering floral arrangements. Laughter swells and crashes like waves, mingling with the clink of champagne flutes and the steady hum of an orchestra playing something far too cheerful for such a lamentable display.
Everyone is smiling, dancing, and drinking, making jokes… at my mother’s expense. At my brothers’. At mine.
This wedding is a sham, and yet we’re forced to participate in it. To smile and nod. To be grateful.
Niccolò stands beside me, his expression just as venomous as I feel, his nostrils flaring whenever anyone dares look our way.
“Smile, Nico,” I murmur when I feel his body go even more rigid as the wordbastardirings out somewhere in the hall. “Don’t let them see it affect you.”
