Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alessia
Mayfair, London
My mouth falls open as I stare at Chiara. She’s holding my satchel and purse, and there is a suitcase standing next to her. The sight of my belongings—my link to freedom, to the life I truly want to live—sends waves of conflicting emotions through me.
“The boss figured you’d want your personal effects.”
My throat tightens.
Part of me was scared I’d never see them again, and the fact he managed to procure everything is a small miracle.
My art supplies matter to me almost more than anything in the world, next to my wallet and passport. These aren’t just possessions—they’re pieces of the life I chose for myself, far from the darkness of my family’s world. His gesture blurs the lines between captivity and consideration, making it harder to hold onto my anger.
But the guard outside my room last night was a stark reminder of my reality. When I’d tried to go downstairs for a drink, he’d blocked my path. Another soldier had to bring tea to my room—a gilded prison, no matter how beautiful the cage.
“Breakfast is ready in the dining room,” Chiara says, her voice brisk but not unkind. “And we’ll be leaving for the airport in an hour.”
My pulse quickens. The airport? A flicker of hope mingles with dread. “Where are we going?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am.”
Of course not. She’s not allowed to tell me what’s going on in my own life. My jaw clenches. The boss will let me know when it suits him—like everything else.
“The boss will let you know when he sees you downstairs,” Chiara confirms, as if reading my thoughts.
Once more, he’s summoned me like an obedient pet. If he has his way, this will be my future—following his orders, bearing his children, living in his world of violence and control. I refuse to become what my mother fought so hard to shield me from.
“Do you need help packing, ma’am?”
“Thank you. I can handle it,” I say, accepting my satchel and purse from Chiara as she wheels my bag into the room.
“The housekeeper asked me to remind you that she’s available for anything you need.” With that, she leaves me alone with my thoughts and my returned possessions.
My fingers tremble slightly as I open the satchel, almost afraid of what I might find—or worse, what I might not find. But everything is here, each item a tiny piece of my soul returned to me.
My smallest sketchbook, its leather cover worn butter-soft from years of use, still holds all my dreams and observations. I run my fingertips over my brushes, feeling the familiar textures—soft sable, coarse bristle, each one an old friend. The pencils are all here too, from the softest 6B to the sharpest 2H, along with my tubes of paint, some squeezed nearly empty, others still full of promise.
Setting the satchel aside, I reach for my purse with trembling hands. Please, please let it be ... My breath catches as my fingers close around my phone. It’s here.
The screen lights up at my touch, and my heart nearly stops. There are dozens of missed calls. Even more text messages. My notification bar is an endless scroll of panic and concern.
Artemis’s messages start worried and become frantic: Are you all right?
The police are here.
Who was that man?
Please let us know you’re safe.
We’re all sick with worry.
Gabriel’s texts devolve from confusion to anger to fear: What the hell happened?
Who is he? Your fiancé? Why didn’t you tell me?
The police are useless. They say that since you went willingly, there’s nothing they can do.
Please, just let me know you’re alive.
My vision blurs with tears. These people—my found family at Elysian Hall—they care about me. Really care. Not because of my father’s name or what I represent, but because of who I am. My hands shake as I scroll through message after message, each one a reminder of the life I was building before Matteo shattered it.
A new text comes in from Gabriel: I won’t stop looking for you.
I swallow back the lump in my throat as I reply to Artemis. I’m okay. Let the others know?
Especially Gabriel.
Sorry for all the drama. Hope to see you again, if you’ll have me back.
Blinking back tears, I finish. Love you.
There’s a message from Enrico, my oldest brother, the sibling I like the least. You’d better fucking do what you’re supposed to for the first time in your life.
So much for going home and expecting help from my family.
Instantly I power off the phone before I give in to the temptation of replying to Gabriel. No matter how hard I try to shove aside Matteo’s warning from yesterday, the words ring in my ears . “No one touches what belongs to me.”
The device is heavy in my hands. It’s a lifeline I dare not use. With bitter resignation, I drop it back into my purse. Another small freedom surrendered.
Setting my purse aside, I hoist the suitcase onto the bed. Inside, I find my familiar toiletries—my brush, a tube of mascara that’s just the right shade of brown, my favorite coral lip gloss. The sight of my hair ties, simple as they are, brings an absurd wave of relief. These small pieces of my regular life feel like anchors in a storm.
Unlike last night’s rebellion, I decide to dress with more care.
I slip into a pair of tailored black slacks that skim my body without clinging. Then I pull on a pale pink sweater so soft it feels like wearing a cloud. They both fit perfectly.
By the time I’ve tamed my wild curls into submission and applied the lightest touch of makeup, I feel more like myself, more in control. But the illusion shatters when I realize I’ll be face-to-face with Matteo in a few minutes.
I sink into a nearby chair, my pulse accelerating as memories of last night flood back. When he walked me to my room, I told myself I didn’t want to be kissed by him. But when he leaned forward, and I saw the spark of desire in his eyes—like amber lit from within—and inhaled his powerfully masculine scent, I was lost. The deep rumble of his voice had vibrated through me, awakening something primal I hadn’t known existed.
The moment I locked the door, as he’d ordered, I slumped against the wall, my fingers pressed to my swollen lips as I struggled to hold onto my composure. My entire body had been humming with awareness, every nerve ending alive and dancing. If he hadn’t pulled back when he did, I’m not sure I would have stopped him. The memory of his arousal, hard and insistent against me, sends another wave of heat through my body. I’d felt an answering spark of desire so intense it had frightened me. In that moment, I’d wanted everything he had to offer, consequences be damned.
Even now, hours later, my body betrays me with its response to the memory. I press my cool palms to my heated cheeks, trying to regain control. I can’t afford to let him affect me this way. He represents everything I’ve spent years running from—the violence, the control, the darkness that stole my mother. No matter how he makes me feel, I can’t let myself forget that.
After a breath to steady myself—not that it helps—I open the door.
Surprising me, there’s no soldier in the hallway. I remind myself that that doesn’t mean I have any more freedom than I did when I was being guarded.
I enter the formal dining room, and the sight of Matteo stops me in my tracks. He’s standing near the buffet, pouring coffee with the casual grace of someone who knows his power and wears it like a crown. After all, he is Mafia royalty.
Obviously sensing me, he turns. He’s holding a sterling silver coffee carafe.
His suit is impeccably tailored, but his collar is open, and his tie is absent. The glimpse of his throat, that small concession to informality, reminds me of last night. It’s strangely intimate. Devastatingly attractive. His presence fills the room and my life like a gathering storm—beautiful, threatening, impossible to ignore.
With a small smile, he sweeps his gaze over me.
I hate how my pulse jumps, how my body responds to him against my will. He emanates raw power, like a predator at rest.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice smooth and rich as aged whiskey. “Did you sleep well?”
His eyes capture mine, and for a moment, I’m lost. Something untamed lurks there, despite his carefully polished exterior. The contradiction draws me in even as it warns me away. His jaw is shadowed with the faintest hint of stubble, making him look rougher, more dangerous than last night. The open collar of his shirt reveals the strong column of his throat and a delicate gold chain I hadn’t noticed before.
My chest tightens. Does he know how I tossed and turned, haunted by memories of his kiss? How I’d pressed my fingers to my lips, still feeling the ghost of his mouth on mine? How I’d struggled with the terrifying knowledge that part of me had wanted him to come back?
I manage a stiff nod, unwilling to give him more, though my body betrays me with a shiver when his gaze lingers.
“Coffee?”
Anything to break this tension and distract me from my memories. “Please.”
He pours a cup for me. “Cream?”
I see small markers, indicating a couple of different flavors. “The vanilla creamer.”
He grins slightly. “I should have guessed, after the hot chocolate last night.”
“Sugar is my favorite food group.”
“It is vegetarian,” he acknowledges with a grin.
His hands are large, capable of such violence, yet he handles the fine china with surprising gentleness.
He extends the cup to me, and our fingers brush. The contact sends electricity racing up my arm, and I nearly drop the delicate porcelain.
A hint of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth as he watches my reaction, and something molten kindles in his gaze. I think he knows exactly what he does to me, and that is slightly terrifying.
The breakfast spread before us on the buffet is nothing short of a feast. With the time I’ve spent at Elysian Hall, I know how much work went into the preparation. Steam rises from covered dishes, and there are platters of pastries, including chocolate-filled croissants, and bowls filled with fresh berries glistening with dew. There’s even frittatas with fresh veggies.
I guess he wasn’t taking any chances on me refusing to eat.
It’s another considerate gesture that makes it harder to see him as the enemy. Harshly I remind myself that tender moments, thoughtful gestures, don’t erase the violence and control that defines his world.
I serve myself some of the egg dish, lots of fruit, and of course, a croissant.
Filled with old-world manners, he pulls back my chair for me. He’s equally at home in this refined setting as he would be in a boardroom or …in the bedroom? Quickly I shove aside that thought.
Since my mouth is suddenly dry, I pick up my coffee. He’s added the perfect amount of sweetener to complement the rich, strong brew.
Against my better judgment, I watch every move he makes.
As if aware of my scrutiny, he puts down his silverware and looks at me. “Something on your mind?”
“Chiara tells me we’re leaving soon.”
“Yes.” He meets my gaze steadily. “We’re going home.”
Home. The word hangs between us, heavy with implication. “New Orleans?” I venture.
“Houston,” he corrects.
Where he dominates as the heir apparent to the Moretti crime family. The same kind of world that took my mother from me.
No matter how magnetic he is, no matter how he makes my pulse race, I won’t let myself become another Mafia wife or mother. I don’t want my future children growing up like I did or becoming assholes like my brothers.
My traitorous body responds to his presence, and I may not be able to control that, but I can control my choices. And I choose freedom.
I’ve seen where that path leads, and no amount of attraction is worth sacrificing who I am.
“I’d prefer to go to New Orleans.”
He takes a drink of coffee, but frustratingly he doesn’t respond, which is an answer all by itself. He doesn’t care what I want.
“Are you seriously going to try to keep me away from my family?”
“Not at all.”
I have no desire to spend a single minute with them, but I stand a better chance of escaping from my father’s home than I do Matteo’s. My father could probably be talked into letting me go to a hotel or even renting a nearby apartment.
“Nothing is more important than la famiglia. ”
“Then you understand why I’d like to see them. Stay with my father, until, you know, we get …” The word sticks in my throat. “Married.”
“We can take occasional trips to see them.”
We? Since my first attempt failed, I try another tactic. “It’s not right to live together before the ceremony.” A flush steals up my cheeks. Does he realize I don’t actually believe that?
He sits back, cup in hand, studying me. “I always prefer to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.”
I believe that about him.
“Planning everything will be easier if we’re under the same roof.”
“I’m sure you’re adept at email and texting, even video calls,” I counter.
A small smile tugs at his mouth. He definitely sees through my attempts to manipulate him. “There are things that will be much easier when we’re together.”
“Like what?” I narrow my eyes.
“The engagement party.”
I grip the arms of my chair. I can’t be pulled deeper into this charade. “If the wedding is happening so quickly, we don’t have the need for an engagement party.”
As if I haven’t spoken, he goes on, “Shopping for a ring.” Then he pauses. “Unless you don’t want to offer an opinion on the jewelry you’ll wear every single day?”
For a moment, I picture myself with the symbol of Matteo’s possession on my hand. “I don’t care what it looks like.” Mostly because I have no intention of ever wearing it.
He nods. “Or your gown?”
I scowl. He’s making this all too real. “I’m capable of shopping by myself,” I counter. “And I have friends back home who can go with me.”
“You don’t want any say in the venue?”
“That’s easy. St. Louis Cathedral.” Surely he’ll go along with that suggestion. The place is instantly recognizable and fitting for a society wedding, which I’m sure he wants.
Even better, I had a college friend who got married there, and she had to reserve her date over a year in advance. That much time will give me plenty of opportunities to get away. Even if everyone is on guard initially, over the weeks or months, they’ll begin to relax.
“Our ceremony will be in Houston.”
Frantically I shake my head. “That’s not okay with me.”
With careful control, he places his cup onto his saucer and leans forward, his eyes narrowed in a way that communicates how serious he is. “There are certain things I’m willing to negotiate, Alessia. Others I am not. You’d be well advised not to test me.”
The awful, overwhelming Matteo is back, almost making me think the man from the night before didn’t really exist.
“You’re staying with me.” His declaration is harsh, forceful. “The ceremony will be in my hometown.” He lets the words hang between us. “And it will happen within a matter of a few months.”
Stunned, I blink. “Months?”
“There’s a lot at stake.”
Meaning the dirty, crime-family deal brokered by our fathers that will make the Morettis and DeLucas even more rich and powerful. “You don’t mind being a pawn?” I challenge.
His eyebrows draw together. Clearly I’ve hit a nerve.
“Fulfilling my duty doesn’t make me a pawn.” He looks at me pointedly. “But shirking family responsibilities is unforgivable.”
I don’t take offense at his words. They were meant to get me to fall in line. None of my tactics have worked on him. None of this will work on me. I have no obligation to the man who brought me into the world. “We believe different things.”
“The less you fight me, little rebel, the better your life will be.”
“I need to get ready to go.” I push back my chair.
“One of my soldiers will bring down your luggage.”
For years, I’ve taken care of myself, so this is an adjustment I’m not sure I want.
Within ten minutes, I join him in the grand entrance. Chiara is already there, along with Mrs. Billingsly, who thanks us for staying at Hollings House.
A soldier opens the front door, and I catch a glimpse of the SUV waiting at the curb, Nash standing alongside it.
As we are walking out, Matteo’s phone buzzes. Whatever he reads makes his jaw tighten, and something dangerous flashes in his eyes.
“Problem?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
He slides the phone into his pocket. “Nothing I can’t handle.” His voice is tight and clipped. “Ready?”