Page 82 of Brutal Revenge

But what if it wasn’t?

What if some of it bled from reality?

What if I said something out loud?

What if he heard me?

My heart stutters painfully.

I can’t demand that he tell me the truth.

I can’t even look at him.

We’re in front of a building that brings me one step away from achieving a goal I set four years ago. Despite the desires of my heart, I can’t give up so close to the finish line.Can I?

The glass storefront gleams in the sunlight, wordlessly daring me to walk inside. I should go get this over with, but Matteo has suffered enough today. I hurt him, so common courtesy dictates that I shouldn’t drag him through this.

He can hide behind his bad-boy persona all he likes, but pushing him to face this challenge with me will hurt him more than it will heal him.

I can’t do that.

I can’t purposely hurt him.

So I lie.

“They, uh… changed my appointment at the last minute.” I force a shrug. “The dress fitter called in sick.”

Matteo’s arched brow announces he knows I’m a big fat liar—which I am—but he doesn’t call me out. He nods once, going along with my ruse.

“The timing couldn’t be more perfect.”

“What do you mean?”

He nudges his head toward the bakery across the street. “If you’re not getting fitted today, you can splurge on a handful of calories.”

Before I can protest, he curls his hand around mine and steps off the curb—straight into traffic. Burning rubber filters into the air as cars instantly halt.

We’re not on a crosswalk, and the traffic lights didn’t change in our favor. Traffic only stops because no one in their right mind would challenge a man as dangerous and unhinged as Matteo Caruso.

I shouldn’t love that he has the power to stop traffic, but I do.

It once again reminds me that I was foolish for ever believing I had to face this ruse alone.

The smell of sugar and butter streams into my nose when Matteo pulls open the bakery door. My stomach growls embarrassingly loud. Brunch was plentiful, but I burned a ton of calories faking that I hated being fused to Matteo’s crotch.

“What do you want?” he asks, scanning the display cabinets.

I stare at all the delicious treats on display, overwhelmed. It’s been years since I’ve had sugar like this. I thought Don Adami denied my many requests to meet because he had no interest in giving his eldest child’s hand to someone outside the Cosa Nostra again. It didn’t occur to me that I had to get rid of a significant amount of baby fat before I could initiate my scheme. A calorie deficit and I became close friends before Don Adami welcomed a one-on-one meeting.

I thought our friendship would wane once I arrived in Sicily, but it didn’t fade, solely because I was tied to a man who happily told me what I could and couldn’t eat.

Antonio’s diet plan is more on the cusp of starvation than healthy.

Pig.

“Azra?” Matteo murmurs, reminding me that he asked a question.

Everything looks too good and sweet, so I forget that I’ve been feeding myself for years.