11. Emma
ELEVEN
Emma
Two weeks later…
“This hotel room costs more per night than I made in two months,” I say to Pamela down the phone line. “I’ve no idea how much he’s spent on me so far.”
“Mr. Right Now comes through,” she replies with a laugh. “Where are you today? I’m losing track.”
“Monaco.”
I've seen places like this in movies, but standing here, with the Mediterranean breeze teasing my hair through the open window, it all feels unreal. “We’re here for a couple of days.”
“Lucky you.”
“All I’ve have to do is choose what food I want each day. Hell, half the time he’s willing to do that for me. I just relax and enjoy.”
“You’re sure you’re safe? I mean he hasn’t done anything I need to worry about, has he?”
“Not a thing.”
“Good. Look at my bestie, getting married, swanning around Europe on someone else’s dime. I bet you haven’t even had any time for working through your To Read list, have you?”
“Actually, he’s got calls to make from time to time so I’m chipping away at it. He bought me a new Kindle just for this trip.”
“Of course he did.” She laughs again. “No wonder you sound so happy. Yours was first gen, wasn’t it?”
“Something like that. How’s Amelia doing? Have you seen her much? Whenever I ring, the line’s engaged.”
“I called in again yesterday. She’s on the phone to her therapist for hours at a time. Seems to be doing her some good. She’s not sleeping anywhere near as much this last week.”
“That’s good. I’ve had a couple of messages from her but tell her to give me a call. I miss her.”
“Will do. Have you made a decision yet?”
“About staying married? I don't know. It's all happening so fast. There's something about him. Sometimes, I feel scared and I don’t even know why.”
“Scared of him?”
“No, just scared. I can’t really explain.”
“I can. It’s because you’re used to taking care of everyone else, not having someone look after you. You don’t have to decide yet though, do you? He gave you six weeks, right?”
“Yeah.” I sigh, tracing the intricate ironwork of the balcony with my fingertip. “Honestly, I don’t know. Part of me wants to stay with him. I could get used to this life. But he can be so cold at times, like he’s pissed at himself for having emotions at all. It’s like he’s ashamed to show he cares for me.”
“Remind you of anyone?”
I frown as I look down at the bay, a pleasure boat drifting out to sea in front of me. “What do you mean?”
“You hate giving up control. So does he. You want my opinion, based on a multitude of classic romantic fiction, and zero successful relationships?”
“How could I not with that kind of expertise?”
“You’re falling for each other but you’re both scared of losing control. But you’re not losing control. You’re sharing it with each other. It’s all about choice. You’re choosing to let him take you around Europe, he’s not forcing you.”
Her words hit closer to home than I'm willing to admit. “Maybe. This world he lives in, it's not like anything I’ve ever known. He’s had mayors and politicians meeting him when we’ve rocked up places, cars waiting for him, everyone knows his name. I'm so far out of my depth here. It scares me. My apartment, the job. I knew that. It was safe. This isn’t me.” I sigh, turning away from the view. “What if he gets bored of me?”
“What if he doesn’t?” Her laugh is a warm hug through the phone. “Just enjoy the ride, and who knows? You might just find six weeks becomes six years, becomes sixty. There must be something going right. You sound genuinely happy. It’s wonderful to hear.”
I'm about to reply when a message pops up on my screen. “I've got to go. He wants to meet me down at the casino.”
“The casino? What are you now, a Bond girl?” She laughs. “Remember what I said, okay? And call me with updates! I need all the juicy details. How big it is, how many times. How far up he goes. I need to know everything.”
“I can tell you now. Big, not a lot, a blowjob.”
“No sex yet? Really?”
“Not yet. I told him I wasn’t ready.”
“You’re not ready?”
“To be honest, I’m scared that it’ll tip me over the edge into loving him.”
“Honey, you’re already there. I can tell from your voice. Now go get him and tell him to ride you into the sunset, like a horse in a Western. With his cock.”
“Beautiful image, thanks for that.”
“You’re welcome.”
I hang up and head out of the penthouse, catching the elevator down, looking at myself in the mirrored wall. I’m in the dress he bought me, the makeup he says looks best. I’m not even sure who I am anymore.
I promised to submit for six weeks. The first two are already over. Time is racing by. I’m the most relaxed I’ve ever been and that’s a big problem. Because I can’t stay with him. I can’t hand over control to someone else, can I? Not for all time. Who would look after Amelia? Who would keep my dad out of trouble?
The elevator opens and I step into a cacophony of sounds and a kaleidoscope of lights. Each casino table is a universe unto itself with its own laws of chance and fortune. I weave through the crowd until I spot him sitting at a roulette table.
It’s immediately apparent that he's not like the other patrons. The staff treat him with a deference that borders on fear, their nods subtle but unmistakable, their smiles a touch too tight.
It’s a mixture of respect and fear I’ve gotten used to over the last couple of weeks, an intriguing cocktail that has me studying him more closely. Is this the real him or the man who wraps around me and sends me off to sleep with whispered words every night since we got together?
He beckons for me to join him at the table. I sit in front of a sleek, polished wheel that feels miles away from the seedy gambling dens in movies. “You ever play?” he asks, his voice smooth as he hands me a stack of chips.
“Sure, I’m in here all the time,” I reply, trying to match his ease, but the weight of the chips in my hand feels wrong. “They call me the high roller.”
He chuckles, a low sound that sends a shiver down my spine. “Let’s make it interesting then. Pick a number.”
I hesitate, scanning the table. My gaze lands on 19, Amelia’s age. “Nineteen,” I say more confidently than I feel.
He places a bet for me. The wheel spins, a blur of possibilities, and for a moment, I'm caught up in the thrill of it all. But then, as the ball finds its home, it’s not on 19. I laugh, the sound lighter than I’ve felt all evening. “So much for beginner’s luck,” I say. “How much did I just cost you?”
“Only five thousand,” he says, his eyes glancing past me. “But I’ve had more than my fair share of luck recently.”
I glance past him and notice a man in a white suit watching us closely. I lean in so I can whisper in Matteo’s ear. “He’s back.”
He doesn’t move. “The guy from Paris?”
I nod. “Who is he?”
“An irritation that’s gone on long enough.” He frowns. “Excuse me,” he says, getting to his feet and walking straight up to the man.
I watch from a distance, the previous ease between us replaced by a sudden tension that tightens my chest. I can’t hear their conversation, but the stranger’s body language speaks volumes. The man is clearly terrified, glancing around nervously as if afraid of being overheard. Matteo appears perfectly calm even as his eyes burn with dark fire.
The man suddenly runs off without looking back, crashing through people on his way to the exit.
Matteo returns to me, his expression unreadable. “Everything okay?” I ask, unable to keep the tension from my voice.
He studies me for a moment, then smiles. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just business. Nothing to worry about.”
But I am worried. The exchange has peeled back another layer of the world he inhabits, a world that deals in whispers and weighted glances. “Who was that? Why’s he been following us?”
His gaze sharpens, a hint of the danger lurking beneath his polished veneer. “It’s better if you don’t know.”
I press, driven by a mix of fear and the thrill of the unknown. “I think I have a right to?—“
“Not here,” he cuts in, his voice low but firm. “There are consequences to asking too many questions, especially in public. Give me another number.”
“You choose,” I say, watching as his arm sweeps forward, placing chips in several places. The ease with which he spends money is hard to watch. Each chip he puts down represents months of work for me.
I look around at the other patrons. None of them seem to care that there must be a million dollars in total on the table. Am I the one in the wrong for thinking this is a waste of money? That money might have helped keep Mom alive. Gone in the blink of an eye.
He looks at me. “You’re pale,” he says, getting to his feet. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. This way.” He loops an arm through mine, walking me past the tables and through to the restaurant. Is this what married life is like with him? Just playing the dutiful wife for the rest of our lives? Is this really what I want out of a marriage?
As we leave the table, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m playing a game far more costly than roulette. I’ve no idea if I’m going to win or lose. For someone who needs to be in control to feel alive, it’s a horrible feeling.
The luxury hotel restaurant he takes me to is too much. He can tell by the sound of my breathing, leading me straight through to a balcony with a view of the sea.
A waiter approaches, bowing deeply. “Mr. Rossi, welcome back. It's always a pleasure to have you with us. And this must be your wife?” His tone is impeccably polite, yet there's an undercurrent of curiosity, a subtle probing beneath the surface of his words. “I must confess, I was surprised to read about the wedding. Pleased, of course, but surprised.”
Matteo’s back straightens. “And why was that?”
“Because last time you were here, you said it would be a cold day in hell before you got married.”
“Time’s change.” It’s clear from his tone that the conversation is over.
The waiter’s brows quiver and almost rise but he controls himself as he turns to me. “Mrs. Rossi, it's a delight to have you join us. May I start you off with some champagne? We have a delightful vintage that I recall Mr. Rossi is quite fond of.”
I glance at Matteo, noticing the slight nod he gives in approval. “That sounds lovely, thank you,” I manage to say, my voice steadier than I feel.
The waiter bows deeply toward Matteo before withdrawing.
As he departs, I lean in, whispering, “Do they always treat you like royalty here?”
He chuckles, a sound that eases the tension in my shoulders. “They treat me like I own the place, don’t they?”
“Why is that?”
“Because I do own the place.” He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine, steadying it. “You'll get used to it,” he assures me, but I think of the men he killed, the stranger by the roulette table. The terror in his eyes when he ran.
The champagne arrives, and with each sip, I feel the edges of my world blurring, the alcohol a warm, comforting blanket.
Matteo waits until the waiter has disappeared again before picking up his glass, examining it closely.
“The man watching us in the casino,” he begins, glancing around to make sure no one is listening. “You wanted to know who he was, correct?”
“Who was he?”
“A spy for Petrovitch.”
My heart skips a beat. “A spy?”
He nods. “Relax. I didn't hurt him. He's just a pawn. I merely persuaded him to leave. He’s been following us. It’s why I brought us here. The casino manager helped corral him to a spot where I could get hold of him.”
The revelation sends a shiver down my spine, not just from the danger we were in but from the care behind his actions. “You threatened him?”
“In a manner of speaking,” he says, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “It's important to show strength, but unnecessary violence is more often a sign of weakness. I control with precision, not brute force.”
His words paint a picture of a man who walks a fine line, one who wields power with both hands yet knows when to hold back. It's both terrifying and mesmerizing, this side of him that's governed by a code I'm only beginning to understand. But then I think of the two men who kidnapped me. He was going to torture them. Was that necessary violence? Was that precision or is he fooling himself as much as he could be lying to me?
As we eat, Matteo watches me with an intensity that makes the moment feel even more intimate. “This hotel,” he starts, his voice tinged with a mix of pride and nostalgia, “was the first significant purchase I made after my parents passed away. They spent their honeymoon here.”
I pause, placing my fork down gently. “It's beautiful,” I say, glancing around at the opulent setting.
“They certainly thought so.”
“Do you miss them?” I ask tentatively.
He looks out over the sea, his eyes shadowed by the failing light. “Every day,” he replies after a moment, his voice low. “They taught me what it means to be in charge. As if my father knew he’d be picked off sooner or later.”
“When did they die?”
“Ten years ago. I took over the day my parents died but I didn’t leave the mansion for the first two years. I was weak, drank too much, let Petrovitch get his claws into the city while I grieved. It won’t happen again.”
“You weren’t weak, you were dealing with a huge shock.”
“I was brought up to deal with shocks and keep working. I let them down.”
The way he speaks of his parents reveals a vulnerability he rarely shows, and it draws me in deeper. “Was it hard?” I ask, “taking over everything after they died?”
“It was,” he admits, turning his gaze back to me. “Necessary, but hard. It's not always pleasant running an empire.”
His words remind me of the darker aspects of his life he had mentioned earlier. “Like with those men who kidnapped me?” I venture, curious yet cautious. “You said you were going to?—“
“Torture them, yes.” He doesn't flinch from the word. “It sounds brutal, excessive even, but in this life, my life, it’s sometimes the only language understood. I assure you, Emma, it's not a decision taken lightly. They would have hurt you, given the chance. It’s dog eat dog out there.”
I nod, absorbing his explanation. It’s a stark reminder of the complexity of his existence—one that's both terrifying and mesmerizing. “And is it always about control with you?” I ask, the alcohol loosening my tongue.
He smiles slightly, a rueful twist of his lips. “Mostly, yes. Control is safety, Emma. In my world, losing control, even for a moment, can mean losing everything.”
The sea reflects the last light of the day, turning the water into a canvas of shimmering gold and deep blue. Matteo’s profile is etched against this backdrop, strong yet somber.
“And do you ever wish for a different life?” I ask, the question floating between us like the gentle sea breeze.
“For a long time, I didn't allow myself to think that way,” he confesses, turning to meet my gaze squarely. “But now, with you here, I start to wonder if maybe there is more to life than just surviving it. For the first time I can imagine having a family, children, heirs to all this.”
“With me?”
“Of course, who else?”
“I don’t know. It’s not always easy to know what you’re thinking.”
“I know, I can be a closed book at times but you encourage me to open up. It’s a precious gift you have.”
“The best books just need the right person to open them,” I say with a smile. I’m about to admit that I’m falling for him when he gets to his feet.
“I’m going to take a walk,” he says, disappearing down a flight of iron stairs to the tree lined terrace below.