Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Matteo
"Let me go!"
She fought hard. I didn't bother arguing, half-dragging, half-carrying her into the back seat. Luca wisely raised the privacy screen between us and the driver's seat. I pinned her beneath me. She swung at me wildly, nails raking across my jaw—stinging like hell.
"You're insane! Matteo, you're insane!"
I caught both her wrists and pinned them above her head. She kicked out. I wedged my knee between her legs, trapping her. The car was cramped—nowhere for her to go. Her back slammed against the seat, eyes boring into mine.
I gripped her chin, forced her face up. "One text. You thought you could brush me off with one text?"
She tried to turn away. I tightened my grip and made her look at me. Nothing but stubborn defiance in those eyes.
"Rachel Kane, what the hell am I to you?"
Those emerald eyes suddenly blazed with fury. She wrenched free and screamed at me. "I should be asking you that! You disappear for two weeks—not even a phone call!"
"It was a last-minute trip, I—"
"Let me go! I'm going home!" She thrashed against me. I'd heard enough. I kissed her hard. She bit me immediately, pushed against me, shoulders rigid, trying to shrink away. I cupped the back of her head, giving her nowhere to run. My other hand slid up her waist, found her breast, and squeezed.
She'd lost weight since I'd left. I eased up slightly. She owed me two weeks' worth of interest. Her struggle weakened, but her eyes grew redder, that pitiful look hitting me square in the chest. I released her lips.
"Get off me..." Still wouldn't back down. "Is this all you know how to do?"
"Rachel, you're really pushing it."
"Then don't come looking for me."
"You think you get a say in that?"
"Right, I forgot. You're Matteo Vitale. You always get your way. Work, bed—everything has to go according to your plans, doesn't it?"
I gripped the back of her neck and pulled her another inch closer. "You didn't seem to mind in bed."
Her face went white. She swung at me. I intercepted, caught her hand, and pinned it back above her head.
"Hit a nerve?"
"Shut up."
"Don't like hearing the truth."
"I said shut up!" This time she really screamed, tears streaming down. "Where were you when people were pointing fingers at me? You don't know what they did to my family's restaurant! Leona got stitches in her head—she's still laid up at home! And it's all because of you!"
Each sentence hit like a hammer. Whatever heat had been building between us evaporated.
"Of course you don't know. You only show up when you feel like it. Hold me when you want, kiss me when you want, order me around—Matteo, have you ever respected me?"
She finished her tirade. Every word a blow to the chest. The restaurant got trashed? Leona hurt? What the hell were those idiots doing? I tightened my arms around her, locked her against me while she pounded my chest.
"Shut up," I growled. "I'll handle all of it. I'll clean up this mess."
"I don't need you to handle it!" Her nails nearly broke skin. "Let me out! I need to stay far away from you psycho!"
She tried to pry my hands off. Couldn't. Her temper flared again. "I can't play these rich boy games! I don't want anything to do with people like you! Let me out! I need to get away from you!"
My patience snapped. I covered her mouth. "Listen. I didn't approve your resignation. And we're not done. Come to work on Monday. If you don't show, I'll personally carry you into Vitale Tower."
She stared at me. Pure defiance.
"I'm not going." She shook her head stubbornly. "Leona has stitches. She can't handle the heavy work alone."
"Then I'll send people. Fix the windows, move inventory, wash dishes... whatever needs doing. You won't have to worry about the restaurant."
"No!" She whipped her head around. "Leona won't accept a bunch of... strangers taking over our parents' restaurant! Matteo, you don't understand our life!"
I stared at those stubborn eyes, jaw clenched. To her, my people and my world were all suspicious. That stung. But now wasn't the time to argue. Finally, I took a deep breath. Compromised.
"One month." I held her gaze. "Paid leave. Handle your family business. After that, I better see you on the forty-eighth floor. That's my line, Rachel. Don't test me."
She bit her lip. Eventually nodded.
I released her, sat back, and pressed the intercom. "Luca. Take her home."
When we stopped outside her building, she couldn't get out fast enough. I locked the door.
"Wait."
Under her wary stare, I leaned over, brushed windblown hair from her face, and adjusted her thin jacket collar. Then I pulled a matte black card from my inside pocket and slipped it into her shirt pocket.
"Whatever happens, no matter when—call this number first. Understand?"
She didn't answer. Just nodded frantically, shoved the door open, and ran into the dark stairwell. A while later, a dim light flickered on in her window.
Only then did I signal Luca. "Home."
After placating a resentful Cassius, I finally collapsed into bed. The anger I'd temporarily suppressed erupted like a volcano.
I'd had Rachel's background checked thoroughly.
The day after I brought her to my apartment, I'd sent word through the neighborhood around Sea Breeze Diner—every punk and two-bit gang knew to keep their hands off.
In New York, no one touched someone under Vitale's protection—unless someone bigger was backing them, or some idiot thought they could step on me.
I grabbed my phone and called Luca. Heavy metal blasted in the background. The bastard had gone straight to some underground club.
"Find out what happened at Sea Breeze Diner."
"Boss, at least let me finish one drink before—"
"Cut the crap."
"Got it." He hung up, sounding wounded.
Before I could fall asleep, he called back.
"Boss, got it." Luca's voice carried an edge. "Those thugs were paid. Traced the middleman's account to a shell company tied to the Ashford family. No question—Samantha Ashford's behind it. And Rachel's resignation? Probably her too."
Samantha. Perfect.
"One more thing, boss. You might not like this." Luca's tone turned amused. "While you were gone, Charles got really active. Sent Rachel red roses. The whole company's buzzing about them."
Charles. My dear nephew. Apparently, my last lesson didn't stick.
"Tomorrow morning, send a crew to Sea Breeze Diner. Replace all the windows, doors, tables—bulletproof glass, solid wood. But don't scare her, or I'll throw you in the Hudson."
"Yes, boss." Luca whistled. "Want me to add 'Matteo's Special Pasta' to the menu? You're acting like some lovesick—"
I hung up. Then dialed Charles. Five rings before he answered, voice thick with sleep.
"Matteo? Negotiations in Europe finished?"
"Charles, that shipment from the Middle East docks tomorrow at dawn in Queens. Guy who was supposed to handle it had an accident. You're always complaining that I don't give you opportunities. This time, you're in charge. Remember, delicate cargo. Don't screw it up."
Delicate cargo, sure. And he'd spend the next few months running from federal agents like a rabid dog.
"I've got it." Charles didn't catch on, even sounded pleased.
Finally, I called George.
"Tomorrow morning, visit the Ashford estate. Bring those offshore tax haven documents from last quarter. Tell the old man if he can't control Samantha, I don't mind chopping off her hands myself."
"Understood. And Matteo... this Rachel girl, what is she to you..."
"Do your job, George."
The next morning, my phone jolted me awake—Vincenzo, one of the family elders. These guys never gave me a moment's peace.
"Matteo," Vincenzo's tone was stern, "what are you thinking about the Ashford marriage? Farrell's pushing hard. We need Ashford's political connections."
"Stay out of my business." My response was ice cold. "Manage your own operations."
"How long will you drag this out? Samantha's losing patience. The family comes first. As head of this family—"
"I run Vitale!" I cut him off. "I'll crush those Farrell clowns myself. As for the Ashfords, if they want a marriage alliance, they can wait on their knees. Don't bother me with this garbage again. And keep Davide and the others in line—I'm done cleaning up their messes!"
I killed the call, hurled my phone at the wall. To hell with arranged marriages.
Back at the office, after a two-hour meeting, I stared at the mountain of documents on my desk. Couldn't focus on a single word. All I could see was Rachel's tear-streaked face screaming at me last night. What was she doing right now?
I shoved back from my desk, grabbed my jacket, and strode out.
When I reached Sea Breeze Diner, my blood pressure spiked instantly.
The place was a disaster. Luca's crew stood around like fence posts, awkwardly holding a half-installed door frame.
And Rachel was crouched on the ground, twisting screws one by one.
Sweat-dampened hair stuck to her face. Band-aids covered both hands.
I got out. The workers saw me, their already awkward expressions turning white with fear. They gestured helplessly at the frame, started to explain, caught my look, collectively flinched, and shut their mouths.
The commotion caught Rachel's attention. She glanced back, saw me, and showed zero surprise. Just wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and said casually:
"What are you doing here?" Then turned back to that rusted screw. "I've got this. Don't need your help."
I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to throw her over my shoulder.
"This is you 'handling family business'?"
"What else?"
Just then, she checked her cheap plastic watch and gasped. "Crap, it's noon."
She dropped the screwdriver and ran into the kitchen. Two minutes later, she emerged carrying an insulated lunch bag, muttering to herself. "Leona needs her medicine. Can't let the food get cold."
She rushed toward the corner, heading for the bus stop. I caught up in three strides, yanked the bag from her hand, grabbed her wrist with the other, and dragged her toward my car.
"I'll drive you."
"Hey! Let go! I can take the bus!"
"Keep fighting and I'll dump this in a sewer." I opened the passenger door and forced her in.
The car headed toward her place. I stared at those band-aided hands, that inexplicable anger rising again.
"Are you brain-damaged?" I finally broke the silence. "I sent capable workers. Why the hell didn't you let them do the heavy lifting? Why are you out there wrestling with door frames?"
"It's my family's restaurant! I handle my own business. Besides, I'd already finished most of it before they showed up. Those workers looked clumsy—they were just in the way."
Her ungrateful logic made me laugh bitterly. Just then, sunlight streamed through the window and fell across her profile. Those green eyes sparkled like they held starlight. My anger fizzled.
After delivering lunch to Leona, we got back in the car.
"Hurry up and take me back. I've still got work to do." She buckled her seatbelt, issuing orders.
I slammed the brakes. The car stopped roadside. I turned, stared at those band-aided hands. "You've done enough today. Now go home and sleep. That's an order."
"Not happening." She glared right back. "That frame's only half-done. Can't stay closed tomorrow. I have to finish it!"
"With those injured fingers?" I laughed coldly and locked the doors. "You're not going anywhere."
She immediately clawed at the handle. "Matteo, unlock it! If you don't let me go back, I'll climb out the window!"
I watched her dead-serious expression. Temple throbbing. She wasn't bluffing. This damn woman would actually do it.
I restarted the car through gritted teeth. Drove her back to the restaurant.
The second we arrived, she wound herself back up like a machine, crouched by that unfinished frame, grabbed the hammer and nails, and threw herself into work.
Like she had endless energy. But I knew she was running on fumes.
Sure enough, she started to stand, reaching for a board, swayed, legs buckled, and started falling backward.
"Rachel!"
My heart stopped. I lunged forward, caught her before her head cracked against the concrete floor.
Her slight body felt weightless in my arms. She gasped weakly, still trying to get up. "I'm fine... I can still..."
"Shut up."
I lifted her, carried her to the only intact chair, and set her down carefully.
"Stay put. Move again, and I'll break your legs."
Then I stripped off my jacket, tossed it to one of the gaping workers. Loosened my tie, rolled up my sleeves, and walked to that damn door frame. Bent down, picked up the screwdriver and hammer.
"What are you standing around for?" I barked at the others. "Hand me those screws. That board on the left—push it over here."