by Maisey Yates
There was nothing personal about them, nothing unique. And Matteo never once met her eyes.
She was afraid she was alone in her resolve to make things work. To make things happy. She swallowed hard. It was always her job to make it okay. To smooth it over. Why wasn’t it working?
“You may kiss the bride.”
They were the words she’d been anticipating and dreading. She let her eyes drift shut and she waited. She could feel his heat draw near to her, and then, the brush of his lips on hers, so soft, so brief, she thought she might have imagined it.
And then nothing more.
Her breath caught, her heart stopped. She opened her eyes, and Matteo was already turning to face their small audience. Then he drew her near to him, his arm tight around her waist. But there was no intimacy in the gesture. No warmth.
“Thank you for bearing witness,” Matteo said, both to her father and his grandmother.
“You’ve done a good thing for the family, Matteo,” his grandmother said, putting a hand over his. And Alessia wondered just how much trouble Matteo had been in with his family for the wedding fiasco.
She knew the media had made assumptions they’d run off together. Too bad nothing could be further from the truth.
Still, her father, his family, must think that was the truth. Because now they were back in Sicily, she was pregnant and they were married.
“Perhaps we should go inside for a drink?” her father suggested.
“A good plan, Battaglia, but we don’t talk business at weddings.”
Simona begged off, giving Matteo a double kiss on the cheeks and saying she had a party to get to in the city. Matteo didn’t seem the least bit fazed by his mother’s abandonment. He simply followed her father into the house.
She watched him walk inside, her heart feeling heavy.
Teresa offered her a smile. “I’ll see that Matteo’s staff finds some refreshments to serve for us. I’ll only be a moment.” The older woman turned and went into the house, too, leaving Alessia with her siblings.
It was Eva, fourteen and emotional, who flung herself into Alessia’s arms. “Where did you go?”
“New York,” Alessia said, stroking her sister’s hair.
“Why?”
“I had to get away … I couldn’t marry Alessandro.”
“Then why did you agree to the engagement?” This from Marco, the second oldest at nineteen.
“It’s complicated, Marco, as things often are with Father. You know that.”
“But you wanted to marry Corretti? This Corretti, I mean,” asked sixteen-year-old Pietro.
She nodded, her throat tight. “Of course.” She didn’t want them to be upset. Didn’t want them to worry. She maybe should have thought of that before running off to New York, but she really hadn’t been able to consider anyone else. For the first time, she’d been burned out on it and she’d had to take care of herself.
“They’re having a baby,” Giana said drily. “I assume that means she liked him at least a little bit.” Then she turned back to Alessia. “I’m excited about being an aunt.”
“I’m glad,” she said, tugging on her sister’s braid.
They spent the rest of the afternoon out in the garden, having antipasti, wine for the older children and Teresa, and lemonade for her and younger kids. Her siblings told her stories of their most recent adventures, which ended up with everyone laughing. And for the first time in months, Alessia felt at ease. This was her family, her happiness. The reason she’d agreed to marry Alessandro. And one of the driving reasons behind her decision to marry Matteo.
Although she couldn’t deny her own desire where he was concerned. Still, happy wasn’t exactly the word that she would use to describe herself at the moment. Anxiety-ridden? Check. Sick to her stomach? That a little bit, too.
The sun was starting to sink behind the hills, gray twilight settling on the garden, the solar lights that were strung across the expanse of the grass illuminating the growing darkness.
Their father appeared on the balcony, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes settled on her siblings.
“I guess we have to go,” Marco said.
“I know. Come back and stay with us anytime,” she said, not even thinking to ask Matteo if it was okay. As soon as she had the thought, she banished it. If she was going to be married to the man, then she wasn’t going to ask his permission to breathe in their shared home. It wasn’t only his now and he would have to get used to it.
Her father was the unquestionable head of their household, but she was the heart of it. She’d kept it running, made sure the kids got their favorite meals cooked, remembered birthdays and helped with homework. Her role in their lives didn’t end with her marriage, and she wasn’t equipped to take on a passive role in a household, anyway.
So, on that, Matteo would just have to learn to deal.
She stopped and kissed her brothers and sisters on the head before watching them go up to where their father stood. All of them but Marco. She held him a bit longer in her embrace. “Take care of everyone,” she said, a tear escaping and sliding down her cheek.
“Just like you always did,” he said softly.
“And I’m still here.”
“I know.”
He squeezed her hand before walking up to join the rest of the family.
“And I should leave you, as well,” Teresa said, standing. “It was lovely to see you again, my dear.”
Teresa hadn’t batted an eye at the sudden change of groom, had never seemed at all ruffled by the events.
“You care for him,” she said, as if she could read Alessia’s internal musings.
Alessia nodded. “I do.”
“That’s what these men need, Alessia. A strong woman to love them. They may fight it, but it is what they need.” Teresa spoke with pain in her eyes, a pain that Alessia felt echo inside of her.
Alessia couldn’t speak past the lump in her throat. She tried to avoid the L word. The one that was stronger than like. There was only so much a woman could deal with at once. So instead, she just nodded and watched Teresa walk back up toward the house.
Alessia stayed in the garden and waited. The darkness thickened, the lights burning brighter. And Matteo didn’t come.
She moved into the house, walked up the stairs. The palazzo was completely quiet, the lights off. She wrapped her arms around herself, and made her way back to the bedroom Matteo had put her in to get ready.
She went in and sat on the edge of the bed and waited for her husband to come and claim his wedding night.
CHAPTER SIX
MATTEO DIDN’T GET DRUNK as a rule. Unfortunately, he had a tendency to break rules when Alessia Battaglia—or was she Alessia Corretti now?—was involved.
Damn that woman.
Even after his father’s death he hadn’t gotten drunk. He’d wanted to. Had wanted to incinerate the memories, destroy them as the fire had destroyed the warehouses, destroyed the man who had held so much sway over his life.
But he hadn’t. Because he hadn’t deserved that kind of comfort. That kind of oblivion. He’d forced himself to face it.
This … this he couldn’t face.
He took another shot of whiskey and let it burn all the way down. It didn’t burn as much at this point in the evening, which was something of a disappointment. He looked down at the shot glass and frowned. Then he picked it up and threw it against the wall, watching the glass burst.
Now that was satisfying.
He chuckled and lifted the bottle to his lips. Dio, in his current state he almost felt happy. Why the hell didn’t he drink more?
“Matteo?”
He turned and saw Alessia standing in the doorway. Alessia. He wanted her. More than his next breath. He wanted those long legs wrapped around his waist, wanted to hear her husky voice whispering dirty things in his ear.
He didn’t think she’d ever done that, whispered dirty things in his ear, but he could imagine it, and he wanted it. Di
o, did he want it.
“Come here, wife,” he said, pushing away from the bar, his movements unsteady.
“Are you drunk?”
“I should be. If I’m not … if I’m not there’s something very wrong with this whiskey.”
Her dark eyes were filled with some kind of emotion. Something strong and deep. He couldn’t decipher it. He didn’t want to.
“Why are you drunk?”
“Because I’ve been drinking. Alcohol. A lot of it.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know, could be because today I acquired a wife and I can’t say I ever particularly wanted one.”
“Thank you. I’m so glad to hear that, after the ceremony.”
“You would have changed your mind? You can’t. It’s all over the papers, in the news all over the world. You’re carrying a Corretti. You, a Battaglia. It’s news, cara. Not since Romeo and Juliet has there been such a scandal.”
“I’m not going to stab myself for you just because you’ve poisoned your damn self, so you can stop making those parallels anytime.”
“Come to me, Alessia.”
She took a step toward him, her movements unsteady, her lips turned down into a sulky frown. He wanted to kiss the expression off her face.
“You left your hair down,” he said, reaching out and taking a dark lock between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing the glossy strands. “You’re so beautiful. An angel. That was the first thing I thought when I saw you.”
She blinked rapidly. “When?”
“When we were children. I had always been told you Battaglias were monsters. Demons. And I couldn’t resist the chance to peek. And there you were, running around your father’s garden. You were maybe eleven. You were dirty and your hair was tangled, but I thought you looked like heaven. You were smiling. You always smile.” He frowned, looking at her face again. “You don’t smile as much now.”
“I haven’t had a lot of reasons to smile.”
“Have you ever?”
“No. But I’ve made them. Because someone had to smile. Someone had to teach the children how to smile.”
“And it had to be you?”
“There was no one else.”
“So you carry the weight of the world, little one?”
“You should know something about that, Matteo.”
He chuckled. “Perhaps a little something.” He didn’t feel so much like he was carrying it now.
He took her arm and tugged her forward, her dark eyes wide. “I want you,” he said.
Not waiting for a response, he leaned in and kissed her. Hard. She remained immobile beneath his mouth, her lips stiff, her entire body stiff. He pulled her more firmly against him, let her feel the evidence of his arousal, let her feel all of the frustration and need that had been building inside of him for the past three months.
“Did he kiss you like this?” he asked, pressing a heated kiss to her neck, her collarbone.
She shook her head. “N-no.”
“Good. I would have had to kill him.”
“Stop saying things like that.”
“Why?” he asked. “You and I both know that I could, Alessia. On your behalf, I could. I might not even be able to stop myself.” He kissed her again, his heart pounding hard, blood pouring hot and fast through his veins.
“Matteo, stop,” she said, pulling away from him.
“Why? Are you afraid of me, too, Alessia?”
She shook her head. “No, but you aren’t yourself. I don’t like it.”
“Maybe I am myself, and in that case, you’re wise not to like it.”
He released his hold on her. And he realized how tight his grip had been. Regret, the kind he usually kept dammed up inside of himself, released, flooding through him. “Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I wouldn’t.”
Suddenly, he was hit with a shot of self-realization so strong it nearly buckled his knees. He had done it again. He had let his defenses down with Alessia. Let them? He didn’t allow anything, with her it was just total destruction, a sudden, real demolition that he didn’t seem to be able to control at all.
“Get out,” he said.
“Matteo …”
“Out!” he roared, images flashing before his eyes. Images of violence. Of bones crushing beneath his fists, of not being able to stop. Not being able to stop until he was certain they could never hurt her again.
And it melded with images of his father. His father beating men until they were unconscious. Until they didn’t get back up again.
“What did they do?”
“They didn’t pay.”
“Is that all?”
“Is that all? Matteo, you can’t let anyone disrespect you, ever. Otherwise, it gets around. You have to make them an example. Whatever you have to do to protect your power, you do it. And if people have to die to secure it, so be it. Casualties of war, figlio mio.”
No. He wasn’t like that.
But you were, Matteo. You are.
Then in his mind, it wasn’t his father doing the beating. It was him.
“Out!”
Alessia’s dark eyes widened and she backed out of the room, a tear tracking down her cheek.
He sank down into a chair, his fingers curled tightly around a bottle of whiskey as the edges of his vision turned fuzzy, darkened.
Che cavolo, what was she doing to him?
Alessia slammed the bedroom door behind her and tore at the back of her wedding dress, such as it was, sobbing as she released the zipper and let it fall to the floor. She’d wanted Matteo to be the one to take it off her. She hadn’t realized how much until now.
Instead, her groom was off getting drunk rather than dealing with her.
“It’s more than that,” she said out loud. And she knew that it was. He was getting drunk instead of dealing with a whole lot of things.
Well, it was unfair because she couldn’t get drunk. She was pregnant with the man’s baby, and while he numbed the pain of it all, she just had to stand around and endure it.
There was nothing new to that. She had to smile. Had to keep it all moving.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, then scooted into the middle of it, lying down, curling her knees into her chest. Tonight, there was no fantasy to save her, no way to avoid reality.
Matteo had long been her rescue from the harsh reality and pain of life. And now he was her harsh reality. And he wasn’t who she’d believed he was. She’d simplified him, painted him as a savior.
She’d never realized how much he needed to be saved. The question was, was she up to the challenge? No, the real question was, did she have a choice?
There wasn’t a word foul enough to help release the pain that was currently pounding through Matteo’s head. So he said them all.
Matteo sat upright in the chair. He looked down at the floor, there was a mostly empty whiskey bottle lying on its side by the armchair. And there was a dark star-shaped whiskey stain on the wall, glass shards gathered beneath.
He remembered … not very much. The wedding. He was married now. He looked down at the ring on his left hand. Yes, he was married now.
He closed his eyes again, trying to lessen the pain in his head, and had a flash of lilac memory. A cloud of purple, long dark hair. He’d held her arm and pulled her against him, his lips hard on hers.
Dio, what had he done? Where had it stopped? He searched his brain desperately for an answer, tried to figure out what he’d done. What she’d done.
He stood quickly, ignoring the dizziness, the ferocious hammering in his temples. He swore again as he took his first step, he legs unsteady beneath him.
What was his problem? Where was his control? He knew better than to drink like that, knew better than to allow any lowered inhibitions.
The first time he’d gotten that drunk had been the night following Alessia’s rescue. He hadn’t been able to get clean. Hadn’t been ab
le to get the images out of his head. Images of what he was capable of.
The stark truth was, it hadn’t been the attack that had driven him to drink. It had been what his father had said afterward.
“You are my son.”
When Benito Corretti had seen his son, blood-streaked, after the confrontation with Alessia’s attackers, he’d assumed that it meant Matteo was finally following in his footsteps. Had taken it as confirmation.
But Matteo hadn’t. It had been six years after that night when Benito had said it to him again. And that night, Matteo had embraced the words, and proven the old man right.
He pushed the memories away, his heart pounding too hard to go there.
He knew full well that he was capable of unthinkable things, even without the loss of control. But when control was gone … when it was gone, he truly became a monster. And last night, he’d lost control around Alessia.
He had to find her.
He walked down the hall, his heart pounding a sick tempo in his skull, his entire body filled with lead.
He went down the stairs, the natural light filtering through the windows delivering a just punishment for his hideous actions.
Coffee. He would find coffee first, and then Alessia.
He stopped when he got to the dining room. It turned out he had found both at the same time.
“Good morning,” Alessia said, her hands folded in front of her, her voice soft and still too loud.
“Morning,” he said, refusing to call it good.
“I assume you need coffee?” she asked, indicating a French press, ready for brewing, and a cup sitting next to it.
“Yes.”
“You know how that works, right?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She didn’t make a move to do it for him, she simply sat in her seat, drinking a cup of tea.
He went to his spot at the expansive table, a few seats away from hers, and sat, pushing the plunger down slowly on the French press.
He poured himself a cup, left it black. He took a drink and waited a moment, letting the strong brew do its magic.
“Alessia,” he said, his voice rusty, the whiskey burn seeming to linger, “last night … did I hurt you?”
