Chapter 8 Maximo
Maximo
That didn’t go as planned. At all. I sit in my office, a cognac in my hand, as I replay the scene on the rooftop over again in my head. She despises me, hates me, and would rather die than be my wife. Cazzo.
My chest tightens like it’s in a vice. I’ve loved Elena for years and yet she’d rather die than be mine.
That shit hurts. She’s the only woman I’ve ever wanted, the only one I’ll ever desire.
She has my heart and soul, and her every rejection guts me.
I wish she didn’t have this kind of power over me, but she does.
Now I have to decide what to do about it—about us.
I should give her what she wants and let her go.
But I… I’m not that good of a man. I fucking love her, and I can’t give up on her until she understands and learns to love me too.
Will that day ever come? Will she ever have feelings for me other than hatred?
Or am I doomed to a life of unrequited love?
Honestly, her feelings toward me are worse than I thought. I hoped she at least liked something about me, anything at all. But no, she doesn’t. She despises me. My heart squeezes, and I swallow down more cognac.
I can’t admit defeat. Though I will say I’ve fucked up. I never should have sent her those text messages. But she kept pushing and pushing, and I snapped. She’s so damn defiant when she wants to be. Even so, I can’t allow that to happen again.
This is all going wrong. I was supposed to seduce her, make her fall for me so slowly that she believed it was her idea all along. Then I found out that she’s planning to leave and all my thoughtfully laid plans crumbled. Now I have to trap her here, I’m forced to clip her wings.
And that proposal… What a fucking mess.
At least I know how she feels now. I know my starting place, what I have to work with and overcome.
I’ll give her tonight to think over my proposal.
Tomorrow I’m going to have to press the issue.
No simply isn’t an answer that I can accept.
I’ve pined for her for too long. She has to understand, even if I have to force her to see the truth.
No one will ever love her as much as I do. She’s safe with me, cherished, and I’ll give her everything she wants. All she has to do is give in. To say yes. To trust me with her future. Our fates are entwined. I don’t understand how she doesn’t see that. But she will. I’ll make sure of it.
My phone pings with a new message. Dragging my palm across my face, I sigh, and pick it up.
Lazaro:
Another truck went missing. Luxury goods. Just vanished en route to the warehouse. I’m telling you it’s those Irish. We need to do something about it.
Fuck. Not this shit again. For the past several months, pretty much since I took over as don, someone’s been messing with my business. First they were intercepting couriers and robbing them, now it’s escalated to shipments of goods going missing. What next? More importantly, who’s behind it?
Maximo:
It’s not the Irish. Pull together some soldiers and go check it out. The truck has to turn up somewhere even if it’s a junk yard.
Lazaro:
I’m already on it.
Of course he is. Lazaro was Lorenzo Pontrelli’s underboss, and upon his death became Davide Pontrelli’s underboss.
Now he’s mine. Though since he’s a Pontrelli on his mother’s side, he made a play for the role of don before the families decided they wanted me instead.
Well, they wanted my father, but they got me.
I think that irked Lazaro, even though he insists that I’m the best man for the job.
Lazaro thinks the new Irish in town are fucking with us, but I doubt it’s them. We have a treaty with the O’Rourkes and the Monahans have no reason to fuck with us. So it must be someone else.
Maximo:
Keep me updated on what you find.
Lazaro reads my message but doesn’t bother to reply. He’s all business and always straight to the point. Which is fine, we need to track these fuckers down before they cause too much damage.
Frustrated and annoyed by this entire day, I sit back in my chair and open Elena’s novel on my phone.
For some reason reading it makes me feel closer to her.
Perhaps I can understand her better through her fictional story.
Already I see her spark and fire come through in her writing.
This is the side of her that she hides away. The part of her that I crave.
I’m not long into this fantasy romance, which is about a princess whose love interest seems to be her enemy.
The sexual tension between the characters has really ramped up.
This villain-slash-love interest says some very naughty things to the princess, who seems to enjoy it even though she’d never admit it to him or herself.
She ridicules him and their verbal sparring goes back and forth, heating up until the scene becomes sexually charged.
Hm. Elena Pontrelli isn’t as innocent as she seems. My girl has a filthy mind. I like it.
Would she ever think these thoughts about me? Could I get her so turned on that she presses her thighs together and envisions my mouth on her, just as her heroine does? Is this something Elena wants in real life or does she only enjoy it in her fiction?
Given the way she recoils from my touch, I’m assuming it’s the latter. Though… she did melt into me at Enzo’s party. I felt the moment her body relaxed against mine—it was fucking heaven. I’d do anything to have more of that easy comfort with her. Her trust.
Returning my attention to her book, I read a passage that makes my breath hitch.
It’s a verbal sparring match between the two characters.
Except this time, almost all the words are ones that I remember Elena and I speaking to each other.
In real life. Back in Italy. It was the first time I saw her fiery nature.
I’ve come to visit Aunt Antonia, but really I’m desperate for a glimpse of the young woman under my protection.
She’s only five years younger than me, yet she seems so innocent and na?ve—and vulnerable.
Realizing she’s not in the house, and knowing she’d never set foot outside these walls, I enter the back courtyard where I find her perched on top of the stone wall. A wooden ladder leans nearby.
Elena’s gazing over the other side. Chin resting on her knees as she takes in the world beyond. She’s wearing a thin, flowing summer dress. A long auburn braid hangs down her back. There’s a faraway expression on her face, as if she’s daydreaming about those fantastical books she’s always reading.
Desiring her attention to focus on me instead, I interrupt her solace. “Planning your escape?”
She gasps, startled. “What? No. I’m not a prisoner here.”
“Are you so sure about that?”
“I’m sure.” Elena gazes down at me from near the wide ledge on top of the wall. “Even if I were a prisoner, you wouldn’t be able to hold me. Not for long anyway.”
I chuckle, surprised by her defiant tone. So there’s more to the shy girl who hides away in Aunt Antonia’s home. Good to know.
Crossing my arms, I lean against the stone wall. “And how, exactly, would you escape me?”
“Easy. I’d jump off this wall.”
“Really? But you don’t know what’s on the other side. There could be danger down there.”
She cranes her neck, gazing down. “If I wanted to escape, I’d be willing to risk the dangers out there.”
“Then why don’t you?” I press. For some reason the way she keeps herself hidden away here annoys me. I want to see her spread her wings and fly.
“Because I’m perfectly content right where I am.”
I huff a disbelieving laugh. “Are you though? Really?”
She studies me, as if she’s not sure what to think of our conversation. “Yes. Really. Why are you questioning my happiness?”
I shrug. “Maybe because I think you’re lying to yourself.”
“That’s a rude thing to tell someone. Especially when you don’t really know them.” She swings her legs down to the old, rickety ladder resting against the wall. With sure-footed confidence, she steps down—and the wooden step splits in half.
She screams, losing her balance.
I act on pure instinct. One moment I’m leaning against the wall, and the next I’m there beneath her, catching her as she falls.
She lands in my arms with a surprised squeak. Her arms wrap around my neck as if I’m her anchor in a storm. As soon as she realizes she’s safe, her cheeks blush a pretty pink. Her gaze locks with mine.
“T-thank you for catching me.” Her tone’s breathy.
“You should be more careful. You could have broken your neck,” I chastise, my heart pounding against my ribs.
She swallows hard, her gaze flitting to my lips before returning to my eyes. Suddenly, I don’t want to put her down, she feels much too good in my arms. Like she fits right here against my chest. Of course, I do release her.
The next day I order a new ladder delivered to the house, but I keep away for a solid month. Elena’s the kind of temptation I don’t want or need. She’s rousing feelings in me that I’ve never felt before. I don’t like it.
Shaking myself from that memory, now I wonder. What if…
I scroll back through the story, stopping on the description of her villain. Wavy black hair, bright aqua eyes, and a devilish smirk. Tall, broody, and intense. It’s me. Isn’t it? Did she describe me on purpose, or is this a coincidence?
Scrolling again, I find other passages that are all too familiar. Little things, but memorable ones. Like when she almost caught me gazing in her window one night. In this story, it turns out to be the male lead and she does catch him, only to give him hell for it.
She used me for inspiration. But… did she do it on purpose? Am I her love interest and her villain in real life, or only as a fictional character? Does she consciously even know that she cast me as this role in her book? As the villain-lover.
The princess she writes about is quite obviously her, a sassy, feisty side of Elena that I know, but no one else does.
Curiosity gnaws at me as I continue reading, now with a whole new perspective on the characters and their story.
This is us. Whether she wrote about us on purpose or subconsciously, there’s no denying the truth.
Either way, a new ray of hope blooms in my chest. Maybe she doesn’t hate me as much as she wants me to believe.
My mission now is to find out. How far do we take this? I can role play as much, or as little, of this as she likes. Inspiration comes to me, and I spend a while jotting down notes in my phone before continuing to read her book with a keen eye.
As midnight passes by, I tear myself away from Elena’s words and go in search of my bed. Tomorrow will likely be another long day. At least I have some new insight, and with it, hope that my failed proposal isn’t the end.
As I’m passing Elena’s room to get to my own across the hall, I hear a strange whimpering sound. I stop, straining my ears. Did I imagine the faint noise?
A moment later, soft cries and murmurs come through her bedroom door. I lean closer, resting my face to the cool wood surface. Another whimper shreds my heart. Is she crying? In pain?
I knock. Wait. No answer.
I try the knob, only to find it locked. Of course it is. She doesn’t trust me enough to sleep with an unlocked door, why would she after that filthy threat I sent?
To be fair, she shouldn’t trust me. I’m not the type of man to leave much to chance, and I certainly won’t let a locked door stop me from entering. Going back to my office, I grab the key to her room, then give another knock before I enter.
It’s dark, the curtains drawn mostly shut against the city’s ambient light. They let in a luminous sliver, just enough to see that Elena’s curled up in the middle of the mattress. She’s lying still, and I think she’s sleeping. A soft, hurt sound emerges from her parted lips.
Something’s wrong. Adrenaline courses through my veins.
Instinctively, I start toward her, only stopping myself when I realize my presence is more likely to scare her than chase away her nightmares. I should leave her alone. Clearly there’s no immediate threat, she’s safe in her room. I take one step back.
But then her eyes open.
She stares straight at me and screams.