Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Matteo
Houston
Nash doesn’t flinch. He stands tall, his hands clasped behind his back. “She’s at the Sterling Uptown Hotel, sir.”
“What the hell is she doing there?” I tug at the knot in my tie, the silk suddenly too tight, choking.
“Mrs. Moretti—Bella,” he clarifies, “planned a night out for them. Mrs. Moretti, your wife, has a full complement of security with her. Including Chiara.” Nash rocks forward slightly, his calm professionalism steadying the space between us. “If you recall, sir, I mentioned the outing earlier today.”
I pause, a flicker of memory surfacing—Nash saying something offhand before the meeting, his voice drowned out by the weight of the ascension. I wrongly assumed he meant shopping and dinner, not this ridiculousness. “And what about her clothes?”
Nash clears his throat, his gaze momentarily flicking to the floor. “Evidently, she asked the staff to pack her belongings.” He hesitates, then continues. “They’re in her studio.”
My jaw tightens as anger slams into me.
She moved out of our bedroom and the main house?
Trying to clear the red haze from my brain, I pace.
The thought of Alessia leaving—whether it’s for the night or something more—grates against every instinct I have. She belongs with me.
“Get me a goddamn car.”
“Yes, sir.”
By the time I walk out the back door, my SUV is idling in the driveway.
“Where to, sir?”
“To fetch my wife.”
“Sterling Uptown,” Nash clarifies, climbing into the front seat.
As we leave the grounds, I call her. It rings. Once. Twice. Three times.
Then her voicemail picks up, the soft lilt of her voice delivering a recording I don’t want to hear.
Annoyed as hell, I send her a text.
Minutes pass, each one shortening the leash on my temper.
I call again. It rings. Once. Twice. Three times.
I send her another message that gets ignored. So I type out a third.
Alessia. Answer me immediately.
I hesitate, staring at the words before hitting send.
More minutes pass, and still there’s no response.
I clench my fist against my thigh. Alessia was there for me through the hell of the past few days, her quiet strength holding me steady. And now she’s gone—just like that.
I’ve faced betrayal. I’ve faced enemies who’d stab me in the back the first chance they got. But this…this is worse.
Impatience is snapping at me as we approach the city’s newest five-star hotel.
I’ve been here once for a business meeting, but tonight I’m not impressed by the sleek glass facade or its stunning, cultivated gardens.
The driver pulls to a stop, and I open the door before the valet can, and the unseasonal warm, humid air only makes my annoyance worse.
I’m bringing Alessia home with me. Whether she likes it or not.
Inside the Sterling Uptown’s grand lobby, the air is cool, crisp. The polished marble floors gleam under the chandeliers, their light refracting like scattered diamonds.
Nash walks a step behind me, silent but watchful as I stride toward the concierge desk.
The concierge looks up, her professional smile faltering when she meets my glare. “Mr. Moretti,” she begins, but I cut her off.
“Alessia Moretti. Where is she?”
Her composure slips further. “I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t divulge guest?—”
“Room 5301,” Nash interjects, his voice calm but unyielding. “We’ll need access.”
The woman hesitates, glancing toward the security desk. Two uniformed guards exchange a look. One picks up a phone, but the other doesn’t move. Neither one of them seems inclined to intervene.
The concierge’s hesitation only fuels my annoyance. Her smile is brittle now, faltering under the weight of my stare. Behind me, Nash shifts slightly.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Moretti,” the concierge says again, her voice wavering. “As you know, guests on the secured floor value their privacy?—”
“This isn’t about privacy,” I snap. “It’s about my wife. Open the damn elevator.”
Doing her best to maintain control, she gestures subtly to one of the security guards.
“Let me see what I can do, Mr. Moretti.” She picks up the phone.
I hear faint ringing, then the sound of a woman’s voice with noise in the background. Bella?
“This is the concierge. There’s a guest in the lobby for Alessia Moretti.”
“A guest for Alessia?” she repeats.
The background noise gets muffled.
“I’m sorry. She’s not here.”
A giggle reaches me, sending anger through me. She thinks this is funny?
On the other end, the phone is hung up.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Moretti.” The woman gives a fake half smile. “She’s not here. Maybe you could call her later?”
I’m about to put my fist through one of Rafe’s Sterling’s fancy fucking walls.
“Boss?” Nash angles his head to one side, indicating I should follow him.
I do, down a long hall, past the car dealership and pastry shop, to a set of stairs. I know there are cameras everywhere, and every one of my moves is being tracked, and I don’t goddamn well care.
We enter the stairway. At the landing, he shows me the screen of his phone, and I nod. Chiara will be meeting us on the third floor and handing over her key to access the floor. I know it’s also protected by fingerprints, but keys are available for guests with security details.
She’s waiting for us when we exit the stairwell. “Sir…” She looks from me to Nash. Her usual poise is gone, and her shoulders are pulled back. “Sir, I need to let you know that your wife doesn’t want to see you.”
“Isn’t that too fucking bad?”
“She’s with Mrs. Moretti,” Chiara says, her voice soft but firm. “They’re fine. Safe.”
“That’s not the point, and you know it,” I snap, stepping closer. My height and anger are enough to make her shift back slightly, though she holds her ground.
“Nash?” she says to her boss.
“Do as he says, Chiara”
“I need to go on record as saying this is a bad idea, and that I’m doing this under duress.”
“Enough.”
“Sir,” she tries one more time. “I’ll lose her trust. And it was hard enough to earn it.”
Chiara has a point, but she’s standing between me and the woman I married. “Swipe the card.”
Her lips press into a thin line, but after a tense pause, she does as Nash instructed, swiping her badge and stepping aside. The elevator doors slide open, and I step inside without another word, Nash right behind me.
The ride up is silent, the mirrored walls reflecting the anger etched into my features. My fists clench and unclench at my sides as I prepare for the confrontation ahead.
When the elevator stops, the hallway is eerily quiet, the plush carpeting swallowing the sound of my footsteps. Light spills from the crack beneath the door to 5301, laughter and muffled conversation filtering through.
I don’t bother with subtlety. Instead I slam my knuckles against the door, the force rattling it in its frame.
The laughter stops. For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Then the sound of light footsteps approaches, and the door opens slightly, just as far as the safety chain will allow.
With the way Bella’s positioned herself, I can’t see beyond her into the suite.
“I’m here for Alessia.”
“It’s girls night,” she tells me, as if that explains everything.
“I’m not here to argue with you,” I say. “Where is she?”
“Right here.”
Alessia’s voice is calm, steady, as she gently nudges Bella aside.
Everything inside me slams into overdrive, relief, frustration.
My bride is in casual clothing—a soft sweater and lounge pants that make her look impossibly young, impossibly fragile. Her gaze meets mine, unflinching. Her eyes are haunted. Did I do that to her? “I want you to come home.”
She shakes her head, her expression unreadable. “No, Matteo. I’m not ready.”
With that she closes me out.
“Alessia!”
Down the hall, other guests pop open their doors and stare.
“Matteo.”
The single word cuts through the chaos, cool and authoritative. Rafe Sterling, owner of this property and half the hotels in the world, is striding toward me. He was at my father’s funeral, and tonight he’s wearing a practiced smile, one to smooth over the toughest situation.
“Welcome to the Uptown.” He extends his hand.
“Fuck that.”
His expression hardens slightly. “I run a secure establishment, not a battlefield.”
“I’m here for my wife.” The knot inside me is threatening to come unraveled.
“As I understand it, she’s a guest here this evening, and she intends to enjoy her stay.” He’s a practiced hotelier and Titan, and he’s a force of nature. “I’d like to buy you a drink in one of our bars. But I’m asking you to leave this floor.”
“Alessia is coming with me.”
“Let’s not escalate the situation.”
Nico arrives and shakes hands with Rafe as if they’re old friends.
“I just offered to buy Matteo a drink.”
“Excellent idea.” Nico levels a cold look at me. “I could use one too.”
“As I said?—”
“As your advisor, I recommend you accept his invitation.” Nico leans closer so that no one can overhear us. “Police are on the way up.”
I glance at Rafe, a man I had considered a friend. He’d have me arrested?
“Thirty seconds to make the right choice,” he affirms, as if reading my mind.
“The sports bar is excellent,” Nico says again. “Kitchen still open?” he asks Rafe, as if this is an ordinary conversation.
“For you, always.”
Flanked by my lieutenant and consigliere, I move toward the elevator. Rafe steps in after us.
He stays in the compartment until we reach the floor and head to the bar.
“Buy you a beer?” Nico offers as the doors close behind Rafe.
We sit at a small table in the back of the room, and Nico orders us each a pint of microbrew.
When the drinks arrive, I look into the depths of mine.
Not long ago, Alessia had been passionate in my bed, surrendering to me, begging for my touch. A week ago, she’d taken me as her husband, promising to be mine for life.
And now she doesn’t want to look at me?
“What the fuck happened?”
Nico regards me. “You’re going to have to figure it out.”
I have no fucking clue how, especially since she won’t speak to me. “You’re married,” I tell my cousin. “And things were rocky for a while.”
“Yeah.” He takes a drink. “Very.”
“How the hell am I going to fix this?”