Page 149 of Vicious Intentions
“So… can I trust you?” he asks, looking deep into my eyes.
“No,” I answer truthfully. Right now, I can’t even trust myself.
He exhales under his breath and offers me a sad smile. “Maybe one day, then.”
“Don’t hold your breath…husband,” I say, forcing a fake smile.
However, it doesn’t get the reaction I expected. Instead, Matteo lowers his gaze to my hand, focusing on my wedding and engagement rings. His expression softens, turns gentler.
“I know you call me that like it’s a bad joke,” he murmurs, “but I have to admit… I really like the way it sounds when you call me your husband.”
My breath hitches when he runs his thumb over my fingers, still staring at the proof of our fates bound together.
“Maybe one day,” he continues, his voice softer now, “you’ll actually mean it.”
Before I can come up with a snarky response that even Stella would be proud of, he takes my hand and lifts it to his lips. His mouth brushes over my rings, the touch achingly tender yet burning, sending a strange heat up my arm.
He then lets go of my hand, stands up, and walks toward the door, pausing only to glance back at me.
“Breakfast is ready downstairs whenever you’re ready. I should be home before dinner.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
The room feels too quiet without him and I hate that I notice its silence.
“Stop it, Anna,” I chastise myself, hating that my mind went there, when it should be focusing on the problem at hand.
This almost blissful illusion of normalcy he’s trying to force on me isn’t going to work. I can’t let it. I’m not his wife, andhe’s not my husband. Maybe on paper, but that’s it. I need to set clear boundaries with him. Like I did last night when I told him I would never sleep with him.
Maybe you’ll give me a different answer in my dreams.
The way he said that last night dragged up memories that should have stayed buried. Memories of how myCaro Mioonce said something similar to me once upon a time.
How tragic to read such lukewarm words from the same woman who consumes my every waking thought and haunts all my dreams. Good night, vita mia. Maybe one day I’ll get a different answer.
But there is noCaro Mio. There’s only Raffaele. And all those sweet words were nothing more than manipulation dressed up as something real. A lie I was stupid enough to believe.
I’m actually glad I haven’t run into Raffaele yet. I caught glimpses of him at the cathedral yesterday, and again at the reception, but only for a fleeting moment each time. Still, when our eyes met, all I saw was misery in his. As if he’d rather lose a limb than watch me marry his brother.
Not sure why he was so upset. Wasn’t this the plan all along? Shouldn’t he be celebrating after such a coup against the Outfit? I swear, these Donato men are going to be the end of me.
Not wanting to think about either of them, I get out of bed, take a shower, and get dressed. All the clothes Matteo bought me fit perfectly, which only tells me he is deliberate with everything he does. Even getting the exact measurements of his kidnapping victim. How very thorough of him. He excels at everything he puts his mind to, apparently.
Pushing that idea out of my mind, I walk down to the main floor and find Paolina singing to herself in the large empty kitchen. I smile at the sight. I’m a bit ashamed to have assumed she was Matteo’s housekeeper. I should have realized she washis mother sooner since there’s an unmistakable echo of her in all her sons.
Raffaele has her coloring, the same golden hair and blue eyes, while Matteo and Niccolò clearly take after their father, dark where she is light. But all three of them have her beauty. It’s there, in the shape of their features, in the lines of their faces.
As I watch her sing and dance in the kitchen, unaware of her audience, I realize that the ease with which her sons take up space in any room might not have come from their father after all. Maybe it comes from her.
“Good morning,” I call out.
She spins toward me, a bright smile already on her lips.
“Good morning, Annamaria,” she sings, genuinely happy to see me. “Did you sleep well?”
Apparently well enough to snore, if Matteo’s version of last night is to be believed.
“Yes,” I nod. “Thank you.”
