Savage Vows (Titans: Moretti Mafia #2)

Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Alessia

Oh God. No. I exhale a shaky breath. This Matteo is definitely far more lethal than the man who abducted me.

“Have a seat. Enjoy your wine.”

I shouldn’t. Giving in to him will mean I’ll keep living the same kind of hell I’ve spent years trying to escape.

Men like Matteo live—and die—by the sword.

But watching him now, sleeves rolled up and completely focused on such a simple task, I wonder what other surprises he might be hiding behind his carefully controlled exterior.

The sound of butter sizzling in the pan fills the air as he slices thick pieces of the bread.

Knowing I’m taking a risk, I cross the floor—the tile cold against my bare feet—and climb onto one of the barstools.

The dark, rich red wine catches the light, and I lift the glass to breathe in its scent. “Merlot?”

“Yeah. From Argentina. My friend keeps a few bottles around for me.”

Another surprise. A lot of Argentinian merlots are affordably priced, and from what I’ve seen so far, I’d expect him to go for something fancier and more expensive.

“You said all of you learned to cook. Brothers? Sisters?” The question slips out before I can stop it. The answer shouldn’t, doesn’t, matter.

He glances over his shoulder. “Two brothers,” he answers, returning to the stove where he’s carefully monitoring the sandwich.

The smell of toasting bread and melting cheese fills the air.

“Both younger, no doubt, if you’re being groomed to be the don.”

He meets my gaze once more. “Correct.”

“No sisters?”

His head shake is gentle. “We don’t have a lot of girls in the family.” He sweeps his gaze over me with an intensity that makes my breath catch, heat blooming under my skin. “I won’t object if we have daughters.”

The implication sends awareness through me. Traitorously my pulse quickens. I shake my head, ensuring he knows where I’m coming from. “You need to stop. There will never be a marriage between us.”

He doesn’t respond, and his expression doesn’t change.

I bring my chin up so he can read my determination. “There’s no way I’d have children with a man like you.”

When he does speak, his voice is quiet, filled with conviction that makes me shiver. “We’ll see, Alessia.”

The gentle scraping of the spatula against the pan fills the silence as he finishes cooking.

When he sets the plate on the island, steam rises from the soup, and the sandwich is perfectly golden. He’s even taken the time to cut it in half diagonally. Damn him. “Looks amazing.”

“Glad you’re happy.”

“This doesn’t mean I like you.”

“Of course not.” His lips twitch. “Let’s go into the dining room.”

While I grab the wine, he carries my food.

At the foot of the table, he moves aside my old plate and replaces it with the new one.

His fingers brush mine as he hands me a napkin, and a chill goes through me. Matteo is making it difficult for me to hate him.

He takes his place at the far end of the table. He lifts his glass and angles it toward me.

I don’t follow suit. As far as I’m concerned, we have nothing to celebrate.

Ignoring him, I pick up my sandwich, biting through the warm, perfect crust into the tangy gooeyness of the cheddar. The taste explodes in my mouth. It’s the best grilled cheese I’ve ever had.

He quirks an eyebrow.

“I love it.” And then, because of the manners my mother infused in me, I add, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

The low, sexy rumble in his tone makes me look at him. Though he’s picked up his silverware, he hasn’t taken a bite, and he’s studying me intently.

Desperate for a distraction, I take a spoonful of the tasty soup.

Through dinner, we’re polite but mostly quiet.

After we’re finished, he suggests we go to the courtyard.

“It’s freezing out there,” I counter.

“We have a firepit and heaters.” He lifts a shoulder. “Along with blankets.”

“I might be convinced if we have hot chocolate.”

He steeples his hands in front of him. In an instant, the relaxed man he’d been disappears, and I see the power he wears as easily as his suit. “Not one of my specialties.”

“You’re in luck. It’s one of mine.”

“Deal.”

By unspoken accord, we carry our dishes into the kitchen. While I rummage through the spacious pantry, he rinses the plates and loads them into the dishwasher that is thoughtfully hidden behind the cabinetry.

When I emerge, carrying everything I need, he’s already pulled out a saucepan and set it on the induction stove.

In the fridge, I find heavy whipping cream along with milk. After only a moment’s hesitation, I pull out both.

He leans against the counter, arms folded, studying me. “How many ingredients does it take?”

“The more the better.”

I spoon a generous amount of cocoa powder into the pan, then add a pinch of salt, a smattering of cinnamon, and brown sugar.

“Brown sugar?”

“Makes it taste as if it has a little molasses in it.”

“Interesting.” He watches me as if I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.

“Trust me on this one,” I reply as I grate in some dark chocolate.

“We could have skipped a meal with as many calories as the beverage has.”

“Consider it dessert. Besides, we’ll need calories to stay warm.” I stir in milk and add a generous amount of the cream.

I use a small whisk to stir as the mixture starts to bubble.

Glancing over my shoulder, I ask, “Where do you keep the alcohol?”

His brow arches, amusement flickering in his sharp gaze. “What kind of alcohol?”

“The good kind.” I grin. “Something rich. Whiskey, maybe. And something citrusy.”

Without a word, he straightens and gestures for me to follow. After turning the burner to the lowest setting, I trail behind him.

We enter what appears to be a sitting room and stop in front of a cabinet crafted from wood.

He opens one of the beveled glass doors, revealing rows of bottles, all perfectly arranged.

I zero in on a bottle of Grand Marnier. And then I spy the whiskey and grab a bottle. No doubt they’re all wonderful. “This will do.”

“The Bonds?” he asks.

“Something wrong with it?”

“The bottle probably cost more than a thousand dollars, and you’re going to put it in hot chocolate? Presumably boil away the alcohol?”

“It’ll be fine,” I promise.

When we’re back in the kitchen, I ask him to grab a couple of mugs while I open the bottle. The heady scent of aged whiskey fills the air. “This is amazing,” I approve.

“I’ll agree with that. I generally sip it.”

I shrug. “You still can.” He watches as I pour a generous splash of the Bonds into the saucepan, and he seems to wince when the golden liquid swirls into the molten chocolate.

Using a spoon, I take a quick sip. “Heavenly.” I sigh.

Almost satisfied, I add some Grand Marnier. Moments later, the scent of chocolate, smoky whiskey, and citrus fills the air. “This is what I’m talking about.”

After whisking it to perfection, I pour it into our mugs.

Steam rises, and I top the beverages with whipped cream and some shaved chocolate.

“This is probably illegal in some places.”

I grin. “If you don’t like it, that just means there’s more for me.”

“I’ll take these outside, if you want to grab shoes.”

Until now he hasn’t said a thing about the way I’m dressed, but he’s right that my feet will freeze unless I follow his suggestion.

Anxious to enjoy my drink, I hurry upstairs.

The security guard acknowledges me, but he doesn’t say anything.

I pull on socks and carry the flip-flops down the stairs. Before opening one of the French doors, I do my best to stuff my feet into the ridiculous substitute for shoes.

Since it’s about impossible, I end up waddling out into the crisp winter air, looking like a penguin.

The courtyard is magical, with ivy crawling up the brick walls and fairy lights twinkling in trellises, casting an ethereal golden glow over the cobblestone path. A firepit blazes, and two chairs are arranged around a small table.

Despite the cold, I have to admit the experience is magical. “How did you arrange all this?”

“Nash took care of it while we were eating.”

I sink into a deep armchair that’s close to the fire, and, true to his word, additional heaters that radiate warmth. The evening isn’t balmy, but it’s not frigid.

After I kick off my flip-flops, I curl my legs beneath me. He drapes a thick blanket over my shoulders, then tucks another across my lap. His hands linger briefly, and I shiver, pulling back from him.

“You’ll warm up in a minute.”

I don’t tell him that I’m not cold. The truth is, I’m hyperaware of him in a way I’ve never experienced.

Before moving away, he hands me my drink.

I take my first sip, and I close my eyes. The addition of the heavy whipping cream has elevated the taste, but the sweetness is cut by the dark chocolate and the whiskey. A faint citrusy taste lingers.

Matteo takes the chair across from mine. He has no jacket, and his shirtsleeves are still rolled back. Unlike me, he’s not under any blankets.

“Good?”

“I think it’s what heaven must taste like.” I grin. “If I may say so myself.” Over the rim of my mug, I study him. “Are you …superhuman or something?” To him, it seems the cold doesn’t exist.

“In what way?”

Realizing he has misinterpreted my meaning, taking my words as a compliment that I didn’t mean, I rush to explain myself. “You’re not wearing a coat.”

He grins. “Is that what you meant?”

“I wasn’t giving you a compliment.”

“No?” He angles his head. “The words can’t be taken back.” With that, he reaches for his mug and studies it quizzically.

“More for me if you don’t like it,” I remind him.

He takes a drink and sits back.

“Well?” I ask.

“Better than I expected.” He lifts the cup again. “The whiskey is damn good in there.”

“Told you to trust me.”

We both fall silent, gazing into the firepit as the flames dance between us.

The faint hum of the heaters blends with the occasional crackle of the fire. I curl deeper into my seat, the warmth of the beverage and the blankets making me cozy.

He seems lost in thought, and the firelight casts shadows across his face. Or maybe that’s just because he’s not guarded.

For a moment, I want to know him better. Brutally I shove the impulse aside. I can’t afford to let my guard down and forget who he is and what he represents.

After we return to the States, I’ll go back home to New Orleans. From there, I’ll vanish again. This time, I’ll do a better job of covering my tracks. In retrospect, posting on social media had been a bad call. I absolutely should have guessed that Matteo would find me.

I underestimated his determination. No way I’ll ever make that mistake again.

He sits back and props an ankle over one knee. “You know about my family. Tell me about yours.”

Since this feels like a safe enough topic, I do. “Like you, I don’t have any sisters. I’m the youngest of four kids.” I shrug. “My father, you know.”

“We’ve met. Along with your oldest brother.” His expression is carefully neutral. Just a guess, but he doesn’t seem to be any more of a fan of them than I am.

“And your mother?” he asks.

I bring my drink closer to me, as if it might ward off my sudden melancholy. I’ve been told that grief lessens over time. Mine has changed, but it’s still a sharp, aching pain. “I lost her when I was young.”

“I can’t imagine.”

Thankfully he doesn’t offer platitudes.

Because we’ve wandered into territory where I feel vulnerable, I’m uncomfortable. Hurriedly I finish my drink and slide the mug onto the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m tired.”

“You’ve had quite the day.”

Thanks to him. Not responding, I stand.

“I’ll walk you upstairs.”

“No need.” I shake my head. “Enjoy the fire.”

But he’s already on his feet. Once again, my arguments don’t matter much to him.

Once we’re inside, he carries the mugs to the sink while I kick off the flip-flops and bend to pick them up.

“You know, I bought you a pair of casual slip-on shoes.”

“I …” Ne ver even looked. “That was thoughtful.”

He follows me upstairs, and the security guard moves a discreet distance away.

“We’ve arrived safely,” I tell him, hoping he’ll take the hint to leave. But he doesn’t.

The atmosphere around us shifts, sizzling with tension.

I need to run. But I don’t.

Every nerve ending in my body seems aware of how close he is, how little space separates us.

“You’re very beautiful.”

The tenderness in his voice makes my heart stutter. His eyes are dark with desire, and he leans in a little. I back up against the door, and he takes my shoulders in his hands, possessively, but with tenderness he hadn’t shown earlier when I was hurrying into the convenience store.

“My Alessia.”

“I’m not yours and never will be,” I protest, but my voice trembles.

He raises a hand to gently tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. The touch sends shivers down my spine, and I have to fight not to lean into it. “No?” he asks, the word barely a whisper, his deep voice rough with emotion.

“No,” I insist in a whisper.

“So you don’t want this?” He traces his thumb across my lower lip, so gently that I forget how to breathe.

“No.” Despite my mind’s screaming protests, my body responds to him. My mouth opens just a little, and his pupils dilate in response.

“Or this?”

His kiss, when it comes, is surprisingly soft—a caress rather than a demand. My brain wars with my feminine responses.

The man who has vowed to marry me tastes of chocolate and fine whiskey: sweet, rich, and dangerously addictive. I place my palm on his chest, intending to push him away; instead I’m captivated by the steady thrum of his heartbeat, a total contradiction to the way mine is racing out of control.

His lips move against mine, unexpectedly gentle, an exploration, as if he’s memorizing the feel of me. He’s patient, his breath mingling with mine, waiting for a response I’m fighting hard not to give. But the warmth of him, his tenderness, is a sensation I can’t resist. Despite my efforts, I begin to lean into him.

Noticing my response, he intensifies the kiss, seeking entrance. A tiny moan escapes, a reluctant sound of surrender, and he takes it as the invitation it is. His hands leave my shoulders. With one, he cups my cheek, as if I’m precious. He wraps his free arm around my waist, pulling me flush against him.

In an instant, his kiss turns passionate, his tongue dancing with mine, exploring, tasting …claiming. The warmth of his body makes mine even hotter, and his hard cock presses against me.

I’m lost in him and the moment. Overriding my sense of preservation, I arch into him, craving more of him and everything he’s offering. Matteo Moretti is an all-consuming storm that sweeps me up and carries me away.

But just as suddenly, he gentles the kiss, and he pulls back slightly. Then he ends it entirely, leaving me aching.

Gently he traces my cheekbone and searches my gaze. “You didn’t want any of that?”

“No,” I insist, the word emerging too, too quickly.

“I see.” Once more, he brushes his lips against mine, a caress that makes my breath catch, and he knows it. “Your lying mouth says one thing, little rebel, but your response says something different.” His gravelly words are so sensual that they seem to ripple through me.

Between us, the air hangs heavy, charged with electricity, like the moment before lightning strikes.

Finally he steps away, giving me space to breathe, to think.

“Lock your door, Alessia. Unless you want me to prove that you want me every bit as much as I want you?”