Page 163 of Vicious Intentions
Yeah. No. I can’t think about that right now. Not when the source of all my temptation is within arm’s reach.
I glance at the clock on the nightstand and see that it’s not even four in the morning. I’ve never been up this early on a Sunday. Back home, Sundays used to mean church, but ever since my kidnapping, I’ve missed more than one mass this month. I should definitely go back to church. Maybe that way I could stop lusting after my husband.
I throw another glance at Matteo, and when my heart does that stupid, traitorous thing of skipping a beat, I decide it’s best not to stay in the same room as him. So I leave and make my way to what has become my favorite room in the entire house—the library. Of course, it’s too early to play the piano. And though my fingers ache to touch the keys again, I’ll have to be patient.
Not wanting to wake anyone up, I begin to browse Matteo’s vast book collection instead. I run my fingers along the spines until one catches my attention. It’s a first edition ofThe Feminine Mystiqueby Betty Friedan. Of all the books a Don might own, this is the last one I’d expect to find on his shelves.
I pull the book out, my brow creasing when I find tabs marking most of its pages, along with a small note tucked between the first page and the cover—Anna will love this one.
Hmm.
I grab another book that looks out of place and find yet another note, and even more colored tabs—this poem. She’ll love this poem.
On and on it goes. Every book I pick up has a note inside, all addressed to me.
A Room of One’s Ownby Virginia Woolf—for my Anna.
Jane Eyreby Charlotte Brontë—for my Anna.
The Second Sexby Simone de Beauvoir—for my Anna.
I even find a few classics where he’s far less kind with his remarks.
Misogynistic trash. Donate to the library.
Anna would kill you if you burned a book, no matter how vile it is.
I’m so stunned by what I find that a few books slip from my hands and hit the floor with a loud thud.
Damn it.
I crouch down, quickly picking them up and returning them to their proper place. But just as I’m about to slide the last one back onto the shelf, I feel a presence in the doorway—Raffaele.
“I… um…” he stammers. “Heard a noise.”
I square my shoulders and place the book back without saying a word. I knew we’d run into each other eventually. I just wish it hadn’t happened while I’m still a bit shell-shocked after finding Matteo’s version of love letters to me.
I pick up another and pretend to read the back cover, all the while feeling Raffaele’s eyes on me.
“Can I help you with something?” I ask when his glaring starts to become uncomfortable.
“I… um… was hoping we could talk,” he says, stepping inside the room.
“I have nothing to say to you. I make it a point never to talk to backstabbers.”
“Shit. You’re still pissed at me, huh?” He rubs at the side of his neck.
“I wonder why.” I tap my finger against my chin. “Remind me again, who was it that kidnapped me? Oh, that’s right. That wasyou. My supposedly best friend.”
“Shit, angel, don’t say stuff like that. You know I didn’t have a choice.”
“Do I?” I arch a brow. “It’s not like you ever came to talk to me about that day. You haven’t even so much as apologized.”
“Fuck… You’re right. I haven’t. And I really should.” He takes a step closer. “I’m sorry, Anna. I never meant for you to get involved in this shit. I didn’t even know…” He trails off before finishing the sentence. “Before I knew what my asshole of a brother was up to, it was already too late. My hands were tied.”
“No, they weren’t. You could have told me to run. That day in the woods, you could have warned me.” He looks crestfallen, his head dropping.
“You’re right. I could have.” He exhales roughly. “No… Ishouldhave. If I had, you wouldn’t have had to marry that motherfucker.” My jaw ticks at the way he just described Matteo, and I don’t know why it angers me so much.
