Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Matteo
I don’t bother knocking. I shove the door open hard enough that it rebounds off the wall, and Alessia startles, halfway through tugging a silk shirt over her head.
For the briefest moment, I see her back and side boobs in the mirror, with her pale skin against a dark fabric. I see thin scars but they look cruel, slashes across her ribs before she jerks a shirt down, hiding them.
She meets my gaze with fire in her eyes, as if daring me to say something but I don’t. Not yet. The image of those scars sears itself into my mind, raising questions I don’t want to examine.
I step closer, the air between us charged. “Do you want to tell me why Romeo is suddenly acting like a knight in shining armor? He asked me to give you more freedom. Said you needed fresh air.”
Her brows lift with feigned innocence. “Maybe he just has a heart.”
“Romeo doesn’t have a heart. He has orders. So why is he forgetting them around you?”
The corners of her mouth twitch, and she doesn’t bother to hide the amusement. “Maybe I’m just irresistible.”
The way she says it—teasing, daring—sparks something dark in me. Possessiveness coils low in my gut, sharp and unwelcome. I don’t want my men looking at her. Hell, I don’t want anyone looking at her.
I step closer until her back hits the edge of the dresser. She tilts her chin up, refusing to retreat even as I cage her in with my presence. “Listen carefully, principessa. Whatever game you’re playing with my men, it ends now. Romeo belongs to me. His loyalty is mine. Not yours.”
She folds her arms across her chest, the silk shirt gaping just enough for me to glimpse the shadow of her bosom beneath. “Funny, I didn’t realize loyalty was something you could own. Or people, for that matter.”
“You’d be surprised what I own.” My voice is low, edged. “And if you think flashing those big eyes will earn you favors, think again. You’re mine to handle. No one else’s.”
Her eyes flash, t partly filled with anger and something hotter. “You sound jealous, Matteo.”
The word lands like a blade. Jealous. I almost laugh, but the sound dies in my throat. Instead, I lean down, close enough that she can feel the heat of my breath. “Don’t flatter yourself. What I feel is control. And control means making sure my men don’t mistake my prisoner for a queen.”
Her lips part as if to fire back, but I cut her off, straightening. “There’s a dinner in a couple of days. My inner circle and Isabella will be there. You may attend or stay locked in this room like a sulking child. You decide.”
“And if I come?”
“Then you’ll sit quietly, smile when spoken to, and above all…” I pin her with a look that brooks no argument “you won’t do anything stupid.”
The silence between us stretches, crackling with defiance on her end and possession on mine. Finally, she nods once, sharp and mocking. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Don Romano.”
I turn on my heel before I do something reckless, like drag her back against the dresser and wipe the insolence from her mouth with my lips.
The door slams behind me, but the image of her scars follows me down the hall like a ghost I can’t exorcise.
Alessia
The door slams behind him, leaving me alone with the echo of his voice.
Don’t do anything stupid.
I pace the length of the suite, silk shirt brushing my bare thighs, trying to shake off the feel of his presence.
The way he loomed over me, accusing, possessive.
And yet—behind the fury, I’d seen it. The flicker of something almost human when his eyes caught on my scars.
I covered them quickly, but not quickly enough.
He saw. And that unsettled me more than anything else.
A knock startles me. My heart kicks, ready for him again, storming back with more commands. But when the door opens, it isn’t Matteo—it’s two women carrying glossy shopping bags, arms weighed down with boxes and fabric.
“Delivery from Signor Romano,” the older one says, placing the bags neatly on the velvet sofa. Her voice is soothing and smooth. The younger one drops to her knees to arrange everything as though I’m some pampered mistress instead of a prisoner.
The sight stirs something sharp inside me. Gifts, clothes, silk dresses—it’s not kindness. It’s control, another way to remind me that he dictates what touches my skin.
I drift closer, feigning casual curiosity. “He got all this for me?”
The older maid nods, offering a small smile. “He said you’d need proper things.”
Of course, he did.
As they fuss with the piles of silk and lace, I tilt my head and soften my tone, to make my voice harmless. “Have you been working here long?”
“Three years,” the younger one answers, still focused on folding tissue paper.
“And you?”
“Five,” says the older one.
I let out a soft laugh, brushing my hair back to make an idle conversation. “Then you must know all him pretty well.”
They exchange a glance—quick, telling I’ve hooked them, a little charm with a little curiosity. That’s how you make people forget they’re talking to the enemy.
When the younger maid bends to pick up some scarves she’s dropped, I hear the jingle of keys at her belt. The sound is like lightning in my veins. My pulse spikes, and before my brain can caution me, my hand is moving.
I crouch beside her, with my fingers brushing hers in a gesture of false assistance, my other hand hooks the ring clean off her belt. Smooth. Quick. She doesn’t notice.
The keys are in my pocket before my heart has finished its first wild beat.
I turn away, trying to act normal and calm because my hands are shaking. “Thank you,” I say casually, steady despite the fear raging inside me. “This is… generous.”
They smile politely, and after a few more adjustments, they leave. The lock clicks behind them.
My hand goes under the bed, where I quickly hid the keys. One wrong move and I’m finished. But if I wait too long, the chance will slip through my fingers.
Minutes pass. I peep through the keyhole at the doors and Marco stands stationed outside, silent as stone. Then Romeo’s voice drifts in: “I’ll head down to the kitchen. Bring back something for later.”
My blood surges. That leaves only Marco. One less pair of watchful eyes.
Okay, I need to think fast because I have no idea where the kitchen is. He might be back in not more than two minutes.
Reacting on instinct, I press a hand to my temple, letting my shoulders sag, rehearsing the mask. “Marco?” My voice is soft, frayed. “I don’t feel well. My head’s still pounding and I think I need a doctor.”
There’s a pause, the faint sound of shifting boots. “You’ve been checked already.”
“I need to be checked again,” I insist, letting imperiousness sharpen my tone. “Do you want Matteo to hear you ignored me?” I say back.
That does it. Silence, then a reluctant sigh. The doors open up again, and he stares at me like he is examining me. “Lie down and I will go get the doctor.”
The heavy lock clicks, and his footsteps fade down the hall.
The moment he’s gone, I rip the keys from my pocket, fingers trembling as I test them one by one. The third slides in with a blessed click.
The door swings open.
The corridor stretches before me, dim and cavernous. My heart slams against my ribs as I step across the threshold, bare feet silent on the marble. I spot a heavy porcelain vase gleaming on the pedestal to my right, painted with cherubs. I grab it, clutching it like a weapon.
My breathe becomes shallow, sharp. One wrong turn, one creak of the floor and I’ll be caught.
I take three steps into the hall. Four. Five.
Then a shadow shifts at the end of the hall and I freeze, tightening my grip on the vase.