Page 161 of Vicious Intentions
This isn’t just bad luck. It’s a calculated move by a man who would do just about anything to destroy my family.
It was Matteo who leaked this information to the press. I’d bet my life on it.
I didn’t bother confronting him about it. I just left the article on his bedside table, so he’d know I was aware of what he haddone. He never defended himself. Nor did he lie and tell me he wasn’t responsible. I guess he’s still keeping his word. As long as we’re married, he won’t lie to me.
Bribery, though? Well, that seems to be fair game.
Lies, bad. Bribery, good.
I swear my husband’s moral compass is beyond messed up.
And when did I start referring to Matteo as my husband all of a sudden? Argh!
Not wanting to think about Matteo for another second, I jump out of bed and go through my usual morning routine, stepping into the shower and getting dressed for the day.
My morning unfolds as it always does, helping Paolina with whatever new project she’s conjured up. This time, she’s embroidering pieces for grandchildren that will never come. I don’t have the heart to tell her to put the materials away, that nothing she makes will ever be used.
When she offers to teach me how to make something for my firstborn, I tell her Matteo left something for me in the library that I’m eager to see. It’s a lie, but right now it’s the only distraction I have, the only thing keeping the guilt from gnawing me hollow.
Truth be told, I haven’t even been in the library yet. It’s surprising, since books are my life, apart from music. Maybe I’ve avoided it because I don’t want to find even a speck of joy in this house. It would be easier to leave if I hated every moment I spent here. But that plan has already fallen apart.
I love spending time with Paolina. I love putting a smile on her face. Like me, she prefers quiet over noise. The only exception is music. Maybe that’s why I feel a certain kind of kinship between us. And after Matteo told me how she survived all the horrors she faced in her life, she’s become something close to a hero in my mind. Even when she grows quiet out of nowhere, or her blue eyes turn distant and vacant, I know herstrength still lingers beneath the surface. Her resilience forbids her to truly disappear.
I can only hope I’m as strong as she is. Though my husband would never hurt me the way hers did. Matteo would never lay a hand on me. He would never say a cruel word or intentionally hurt me in that way. I don’t know much, but I know that.
Sometimes I almost let myself believe that he loves me—truly and irrevocably. Not that believing such things helps. If anything, they might make things worse. Because if Matteo loves me like he says he does, he’ll never let me go.
Maybe it would be easier if he hated me the way he used to. But even as I think it, my stomach churns at the idea. There’s a part of me—one that I’m constantly refusing to acknowledge—that wouldn’t survive in a world where Matteo hated me.
I try not to dwell on that thought as I make my way to the library. As I walk inside, I am met with rows upon rows of shelves lined with books, but it’s the grand piano sitting proudly in the room that captures my attention first. It’s an exact replica of the piano myCaro Miogifted me for Christmas.
No. NotCaro Mio. Matteo.It was alwaysMatteo.
I take a step toward it, my body trembling with each one that follows. Up close, there’s no denying how similar it is to the one back home. The polished, white surface and the same delicate carvings along the legs. Even the faint scent of varnish is identical. God, how I missed it. My fingers hover over the keys hesitantly, as if touching would make something inside me unravel.
“This changes nothing,” I whisper to myself, even as I lower onto the bench.
The seat creaks softly beneath me, familiar in a way that makes my chest ache. I place my hands on the keys and for a moment, and don’t move. I just sit there, eyes closed, breathing the moment in.
I then press my index finger down, the first note ringing out, clear and full, echoing through the vastness of the room. It settles into the walls, into the silence, into me. A shaky breath leaves my lips as I play another. Then another. And just like that, the music takes over. My fingers move on their own, slipping into a melody I’ve known my entire life. One that always reminds me of home. The notes blur together, rising and falling, filling every empty space inside me.
My vision begins to sting with unshed tears. I try to blink them away, but it’s useless. A tear slips down my cheek. Then another. But I don’t stop playing. And I don’t stop smiling. I can’t. Because for the first time since I’ve been here, I don’t feel trapped. I feel free.
The realization hits me all at once, intense and disorienting.
This piano. This room. This moment.
It was never a bribe. It’s a gift, just like Matteo said it was.
My chest tightens as the music swells, my fingers pressing harder into the keys, pouring everything I refuse to say into every note. My Anger. My confusion. My longing. And something far more dangerous.
When the final note fades, the silence that follows feels like someone breathed life back into me. My hands remain on the keys, trembling. My breathing uneven. I stare down at them, as if they belonged to someone else. But they don’t. They belong to me.Thisis my power. Me sitting at a piano, playing songs I alone birthed into existence.Thisis my peace, and Matteo just made sure that I didn’t spend another day without it.
“This doesn’t change anything,” I murmur again, weaker this time.
Even as I say it, I know I don’t mean it.
I don’t mean a word of it.
