Savage Vows (Titans: Moretti Mafia #2)

Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Alessia

Mayfair, London

A knock on my door breaks the townhome’s heavy silence.

Matteo?

I curl my fingers into my palms, hard enough that my nails bite into my skin.

My heart stutters, then races. Just the thought of him sends a shiver down my spine. Despite my mind’s screaming protests, my body responds to him.

Unwilling to answer, I remain silent. Let him think I’m asleep, or better yet, that I’m simply done playing this game of power and control.

Deep down, though, I’m scared that he’s designing things so there’s no escaping the powerful web he’s weaving around me.

“Ms. DeLuca?” Another knock follows, gentler this time. “I have some things for you.”

Chiara.

Tension instantly melts from my shoulders. After a moment, I exhale and answer the summons.

She stands there, perfectly composed as always, holding several bags from designer shops.

Next to her is a man in a suit holding several more. “For me?” I ask.

“Yes, ma’am. The boss thought you’d like fresh clothes for dinner, along with a few other things.”

I’m a little taken aback by Matteo’s thoughtfulness and the fact he managed all this so quickly. “Uhm … Thank you.”

She accepts the rest of the delivery from the security guard. Moving past me, she places the bags near the closet while I drop mine on the bed in a rustle of expensive tissue paper.

“Would you like help unpacking?”

“Thanks. That won’t be necessary.” We both know something like that isn’t in her job description.

“If there’s nothing else, Mr. Moretti has requested your presence for dinner at eight,” Chiara says, her voice carefully neutral.

Requests. As if we both don’t know it’s a command wrapped in courtesy, tied with silk ribbons of false choice.

I don’t respond, and Chiara doesn’t seem to expect me to say anything.

With a nod, she moves away, but the man who was with her takes up a position just slightly down the hallway from my room, his back to the wall. Beneath his jacket is the unmistakable bulge of a weapon—despite the fact we’re in England.

Is he here to protect me or to make sure I don’t run? I don’t have to ask the question.

The first thing I did when arriving was hurry to the window, in the hopes that my room had a balcony. But it doesn’t. It faces the back of the house, and there are thick, thorny bushes beneath me, along with a security guard. Why had I expected this to be easy?

Once Chiara leaves, I lock the door, needing even the illusion of privacy. I dump the contents of the first bag onto the bedspread. There’re several pairs of underwear tucked inside, all silky and soft. I’ve never treated myself to anything so luxurious—or expensive. Shopping isn’t my thing, and I prefer to spend my money on art supplies and visits to museums for inspiration.

The next has a couple of bras. In the right size.

Chiara must have guessed. There’s no way Matteo is already that familiar with the curves of my body.

Another contains sleepwear, a set of pajamas with shorts, the second is more loungewear, with long pants and a snuggly shirt. He even thought to include several pairs of socks.

One that’s oversize with black-with-gold script lettering is stuffed full of slacks and shirts, even a couple of sweaters.

As much as I hate to admit it, if I went on a shopping spree and wasn’t thinking about money, most of these items are things I might have chosen for myself.

Ignoring the designer clothes, I drop into a chair and turn on the television. Even though I flip through all the selections, nothing grabs my interest. I’ve never been one to spend hours bingeing shows. I’d rather be outside exploring or curled up with a sketchbook.

Twenty minutes later, in frustration, I mute the volume and toss aside the remote in favor of pacing the floor. The room itself is stunning—soaring ceilings with delicate crown molding, walls the color of a rich cream offset by rich navy accents. The bed is massive and tall and ultra-inviting with its luxury linens and a dozen fluffy pillows.

But a gilded cage is still a prison.

I decide to run a bath, and I assure myself that I’m doing this because I’m bored and not because I’m planning to join my captor for dinner.

Afterward I dry off with a thick towel and do my best to tame my long hair with my fingers. Then I find a waffle-weave robe in the closet. Unsurprisingly the garment has two stylized, interwoven black H’ s. For Hollings House. Still, the material is cozy, so much so that I may just buy myself one like it when I get back home.

I freeze.

Home.

Where is that?

I’ve never really considered my father’s overly large, sterile place in New Orleans to be my home. I’d gone to college out of state, and I’d stayed in an apartment instead of dorms. Until recently, I rented a quirky historical cottage near the French Quarter, but I allowed the lease to expire when I took off for Europe.

In the short time I spent at Elysian Hall, I started to think of that as my home, and I talked to Artemis and her former tech-genius brother, Caspian, about staying indefinitely.

Though the request had been unusual, they’d promised to consider it.

And now Matteo has turned everything upside down.

Annoyed all over again, I select a pair of panties and a matching bra and put them on.

Then, ignoring the designer items, I slip into my convenience store pants and sweatshirt.

I check the clock on the nightstand.

Five minutes until eight.

And since I have no intention of going downstairs, my pulse increases a little. I’m sure Matteo will have something to say about my defiance, but I’m done with his high-handed dictates.

By the time I’m seven minutes late complying with his “request,” a loud knock shatters the quiet.

“Ms. DeLuca,” a deep, male voice warns, “Mr. Moretti has instructed me to escort you down.”

“You can tell your boss I won’t be coming,” I call back, my heart now in my throat.

“I’m afraid that’s not an option, ma’am.”

The threat is clear, but so is the underlying message: I will be at Matteo’s table, one way or another. And that could include breaking down the door.

I sink into the chair. Had I really thought I could win this one?

“Ma’am?”

“Give me five minutes, please. I’m almost ready.” A lie. I’ll never be ready to face Matteo.

Another knock. “Ma’am?”

“Coming!” In the end, I’ve taken six full minutes, and my heart is thumping like a drum.

Finally I unlock and open the door and breeze past the security guard. He acknowledges me with a slight tip of his head.

Barefoot, I descend the staircase.

My first sight of Matteo stops me cold and steals my breath.

He stands at the head of the dining table, commanding the space in a perfectly tailored suit that emphasizes his broad shoulders and lean strength. Power radiates from him like heat from a flame, and I hate that some part of me wants to draw closer, even as my mind screams to run. He’s beautiful in the way dangerous things often are. I’m reminded of a steel blade glinting in the moonlight.

The table is set for an intimate dinner for two, with a rich red wine poured into crystal glasses. The waiting meal looks worthy of the finest restaurant, beautiful steaks alongside roasted vegetables and thick mashed potatoes.

His gaze captures mine, and there’s a flicker of recognition and maybe admiration in the dark depths of his eyes. And maybe even hunger …

“Beautiful as always, Alessia. Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

“I’m afraid this is a lot of wasted effort.”

When he tips his head to one side, I go on. “I’m a vegetarian.”

I wait for annoyance or anger to flash across his face, but it doesn’t. Instead he considers me. “You are.”

Mostly. “I nod.”

“Since when?”

“It’s been a little over two years.” I remain where I am, fighting against my awareness of him. “I can’t even eat the sides since they’re sitting in the juices from the meat.”

“I see. You didn’t think to mention it earlier when I invited you to join me for dinner?”

When I don’t respond, he exhales, and to my surprise, his lips curve slightly. The smile transforms his face, makes him look slightly less intimidating. “Well then, I need to figure out something else.”

“You go ahead and eat. I can order a pizza or something.” And eat it upstairs in my room.

“I won’t hear of it.”

“It’s fine; I promise. In fact, I’m not very hungry anyway.” Not after the bag of chips, the soda, and plenty of chocolate. “I’ll just go back upstairs and finish watching the movie I started.” Since when did I become such a good liar?

“Nice try, little rebel. But you’re coming with me. Grab your glass.” It’s still an order, but it’s not as harsh as others.

“Where are we going?”

“The kitchen.”

I blink, caught off guard by his response. “But … Your dinner’s getting cold.” And I was hoping to escape.

“We eat together,” he says simply. “That’s nonnegotiable.”

He picks up his glass, and I do the same before following him toward the back of the house.

The kitchen is as elegant as the rest of the house—gleaming marble and stainless steel under warm lighting.

Holding my glass tight, I prop my shoulder against the doorjamb while Matteo slides his wine onto a counter.

Then he shrugs out of his suit coat and drops it over the back of one of the island’s stools. His crisp white shirt emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders and the chiseled cut of his biceps.

As I watch, he rolls back his shirt sleeves, revealing his strong forearms marked with a few small scars. I also see a hint of a tattoo that has to be some sort of phrase, but I can’t make it out.

Everything about him is so damn masculine and appealing. The part of me tasked with survival wishes he wasn’t this drop-dead gorgeous. I need to focus on the things I despise about him, rather than being sucked in by his raw magnetism. “What are you doing?” I ask, trying to distract myself.

“Making you something to eat.”

“You …?” I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t for Matteo to take control of the kitchen.

“My mother,” he says, voice softening slightly, revealing a glimpse of the man beneath the monster, “insisted we all learn to take care of ourselves. We’ve spent many an hour making meals together, especially for Sunday dinner.”

I couldn’t be more stunned. The last thing I expected from a Mafia underboss was for him to cook for me.

He opens the refrigerator, then looks over at me. “Do you eat cheese?”

I nod. “I enjoy all kinds of dairy.” And I’m not sure anything on the planet could get me to give up rocky road ice cream. “I’m not vegan.” Even though I don’t tell him, I sometimes even eat chicken and fish.

“Grilled cheese sandwich?”

The ultimate comfort food, like my mom had made for me. His choice makes me a bit nostalgic, reminding me of a time before I was exposed to the horrors of who my father and uncles are. “Sounds good.”

He pulls out a deli package of thick-sliced sliced cheddar. Next, he finds butter and a loaf of crusty French bread.

Then he moves to the pantry with its frosted-glass door. When he exits, he’s holding a can. “Tomato soup?”

I haven’t had it since college, and I smile. Suddenly I’m hungry. “That sounds wonderful.”

“Coming right up.”

As I study him from a safe distance, I notice things I missed before—his total concentration, the way his expression sometimes softens when he glances my way, the tiny scar above his eyebrow. Rather than taking away from his beauty, these features enhance it.

He’s a study in contrasts—the ruthless man who kidnapped me and has somehow transformed into someone almost …approachable.

This glimpse of domesticity catches me off guard. Despite myself, I can’t help but watch him work. His powerful hands are capable of delivering destruction, and yet he is completely competent with pans and can openers.

It would be easier if he were simply the cold, calculating man who kidnapped me and barked orders like a drill sergeant. This Matteo—the one who is caring enough to cook and shop for me and watches me with such intense focus—is far more dangerous to my resolve. He’s cracking my defenses not with force, but with these small acts of consideration that slip past my guards.

When he glances at me, there’s warmth in his eyes that makes my breath catch and my pulse skip.

“You don’t have to stand in the doorway,” he says softly. “I don’t bite.” There’s a pause, then he gives me a hint of a smile that sends heat through me. “Unless you ask nicely.”