Page 165 of Vicious Intentions
“If you want to rebuild our friendship, you’re going about it the wrong way, Rafe. I’d be careful with whatever you ask next.” He lets out a relieved exhale.
“That’s a no,” he says, a little too pleased. “Good.”
I cannot throw a book at his head.
I cannot throw a book at his head.
I cannot throw a book at his head.
Even as I repeat the mantra in my head it does little to quiet the anger surging through me.
“Tell me, Rafe, are you saying this because you want to help me, or because you want to punish your brother?”
“Honestly? Both,” he has the audacity to admit. “Besides, if you’re not sleeping with him, he’ll lose interest in you soon enough. And maybe after the war is won, he’ll send you back home to your family.”
Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that.
“Maybe.” I fake a smile, but then something else occurs to me. “Rafe… were you the one who left that newspaper in my nightstand? The one about my parents a few days ago?” The way his pearly white teeth flash all at once answers my question.
“Well, I should leave you to your reading. This place is too stuffy for me anyway. It’s like standing in the middle of a dead tree cemetery. Fucking creepy in here.” With another toothy grin, he waves goodbye and leaves.
Maybe it’s true what they say. Sometimes we outgrow people, even those who were once near and dear to us. Raffaele and I might have been friends at one point, but aside from the lives we led, we never really had anything in common. Not that having things in common is essential for a lasting friendship, but it certainly helps.
Still, that’s not what I should be focusing on right now. My attention should be on that little nugget Raffaele mentioned—once the war is over, Matteo might send me back home. All I have to do is make him lose interest.
Right now, Matteo is infatuated with me. He might even believe that he’s in love with me. But Raffaele once thought the same, and judging by the scent of a woman’s perfume clinging to his clothes, he’s long since forgotten his little crush. Maybe Matteo’s interest in me is just as skin-deep.
Unlike Raffaele, I don’t think not sleeping with his brother is a punishment for him at all. In fact, Matteo seems perfectly content never to touch me like that. It’s almost as if his abstinence only deepens his feelings for me. I’m the forbiddenfruit, after all. His enemy’s daughter. It’s the chase he’s really enamored with, not me.
From what I’ve noticed, growing up with four brothers, especially the twins, nothing makes a man lose interest in a woman faster than sleeping with her. So if sleeping with Matteo makes him realize that he doesn’t actually love me, then maybe I should just bite the bullet and let it happen. I’ll make some excuse, insist we use protection—say he needs to get tested first—and then take it from there. It might be worth a try.
Even though I hate Matteo for what he’s done to me, it’s obvious I’m attracted to him. My body comes alive whenever he’s in the same room, for crying out loud. It wouldn’t even be that much of a hardship. Not if it meant it was my ticket out of here. Not if it meant I could go home.
For all his belligerent talk, Raffaele was right about one thing—Matteo doesn’t love me. He loves his war. And once it’s over, he’ll have no use for me anymore. No matter how many times he says he doesn’t want an heir, sooner or later that will change. TheCosa Nostrawill demand it from him, and thinking otherwise is delusional. Which only makes being his wife more of a burden than a blessing.
Though divorce isn’t something mafia families like ours pursue, I’m sure there’s a way to annul our marriage if neither of us wants to stay in it. Especially considering I was basically blackmailed into it. I doubt my consent even counts when everyone knows it was forced. Right?
I take a deep breath and really think this through. How will I initiate something like that when all I’ve done is push him away? And more importantly, do I even have the courage to go through with it? Do I even have it in me?
All these doubts keep swirling in my head when I notice the alcohol cabinet in the corner. I’ve never been much of a drinker.I may have had a glass of champagne at a party, but that’s about it.
Before I can second-guess myself, I grab a whiskey bottle, pour a generous amount of the amber liquid into a glass, and down it in one go. It scorches my insides, but that doesn’t stop me from pouring another shot. Then another.
When the floor starts to tilt beneath my feet, I stop. That’s enough liquid courage for one night. It’s time I put this crazy plan in motion. I can do this.I think.
On wobbly knees, I make my way back to our shared bedroom, where Matteo is still fast asleep. I stop at the foot of the bed and just admire him for a moment.
God, he’s stunning. Still, it isn’t even his beauty that draws me to him. It’s the little things he does that tug at my heartstrings, even when I don’t want them to.
How can I not want a man who buys me a piano just because he knows how much I miss playing it?
How can I not swoon like a schoolgirl with a crush when he leaves little notes in books he thinks I might like?
How could I ever not want him when he looks at me like I’m the most precious thing in his world?
I tell myself that what I’m about to do is only so I can go home. I tell myself that I won’t enjoy it. That it’s only a means to an end. I tell myself that the butterflies taking flight in my stomach are nerves, not excitement. Yes, I tell myself a lot of things and pretend that none of them are lies.
With the rays of dawn starting to flicker into the room, I climb into bed before I lose my nerve. I lie there, just watching him sleep for another minute, taking in every perfect line and edge. Now that the alcohol has given me permission to touch him, I trace my finger ever so lightly over his brow, smoothing out the creases. He must feel my touch, because his whole body relaxes. He looks so peaceful.
