15. Emma
FIFTEEN
Emma
Our last day dawns bright and clear, the kind of day that promises new beginnings, yet for me, it's a countdown to a return to a reality I’ve been avoiding. He’s not just any husband. He’s a mafia boss used to being in control of his entire world. Can I really expect him to change just for me?
As I move around the room, packing the last of my things into my suitcase, the silence between us is a tangible thing, heavy with the things we've left unsaid. I have to make a decision soon. Do I stay with him or leave?
My phone rings as I pack. Glancing at the screen, I see my sister's name flashing, a lifeline in the midst of my turmoil. “Hey, Amelia,” I answer, trying to keep my voice light.
“Hey! Guess what? I actually did it—I went outside today. Like, only the stairwell but I did it,” Amelia’s voice is a mixture of excitement and disbelief. “All thanks to your husband’s therapist. Will you thank him for me?”
I glance across at him. “That's amazing, Amelia! I'm so proud of you,” I reply, warmth spreading through me at her news.
“Yeah, it was scary, but I did it. I wish you could have seen it,” she says, a hint of wistfulness in her voice.
“I wish I could have been there too. But there'll be more firsts, and I promise I'll be there for the rest of them,” I assure her, feeling a pang of guilt for not being present. “Might even let you buy me a coffee if you can make it to Jitters.”
“We’ll see. I even bumped into Mr. Petrelli. He looked terrified. I asked him about the rent but he just said not to worry about it. It’s all paid up.”
“I guess Dad must have paid him. Look, I'll be back by tomorrow night. Come see you as soon as I can.”
After we say our goodbyes, I hang up, feeling a mix of pride for Amelia and a deep-seated worry for what awaits us back home. Not just my father and the shadows of my past, but the unresolved tensions between us—tensions that have only grown during our time away.
There are times I’m certain Matteo loves me. His eyes light up with warmth. But then it’s like clouds crossing over the sun, the light fades and he’s miles away, not with me at all. I’ve no idea of the pressures on his shoulders as he won’t share them but something is gnawing at him. That’s when I think there’s no chance of this working. He becomes a closed book.
That’s often when we have sex. At first, it worked as a distraction but the more I get to know him, the more I see he’s doing it so he doesn’t have to think, not to get closer to me.
He looks at me, questions in his eyes. “Everything okay?” he asks, his voice gentle, again trying to bridge the gap that's formed between us.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, the complexities of our situation swirling in my mind. My sister's progress, my father's weaknesses, and the looming presence of Petrovitch all combine into a knot of anxiety.
I haven't needed any of my rituals here, in this place far removed from my daily battles, but the thought of going back, of facing my old fears and insecurities, is daunting. Will my OCD come racing back, my anxiety? I haven’t had a single panic attack since we left. Are they just waiting for me back home?
As I look at him, I realize that our return is not just a return to geographical familiarity but a dive back into the complexities of our lives, a test of whether the fragile peace we've found can withstand the storms awaiting us.
He’s saved my sister, kept her safe. He says he loves me. But how strong is his love? Will there always be an enemy waiting to be fought? Another step before he’ll relax and be himself?
“Did you pay our rent?” I ask. “Apparently our landlord is now terrified of us.”
He nods. “Your landlord’s a worm. Fear’s the only thing that works with men like that. Fear or money. I gave him both to stay out of your way. You ready to leave?” He holds his case and mine like they weighs nothing at all.
“I guess. Can’t stay on vacation forever, right?”
The drive to the airport is filled with a palpable tension. He stares out of the window, lost in thought. Our driver sensing the mood, saying nothing.
“What are your plans when we get back?” I ask. My voice sounds small, almost hesitant, against the hum of the car.
He spares me a glance. I spot a brief flicker of something unreadable crossing his features. “To finalize the deal. Get the file back and ensure everything is resolved in time,” he says, his tone all business, the mask of the formidable man I met slipping back into place.
“And my father?” The question hangs between us.
He sighs, a momentary break in his resolve. “I will leave him be, as I promised you.” His voice is firm, but I detect an undercurrent of something else—restraint, perhaps, or the weight of the promise he's made. “I believe you’re making a mistake but I will honor your wishes as long as he doesn’t put you in danger.”
I nod, taking a moment to process his words. “What about us? Have you thought about what happens next?”
He's silent for a beat, considering his words carefully. “The deal is the priority. Everything else follows from that. But regarding us,” he adds, choosing his words, “that's up to you. You have the decision to make as we agreed. You told me you wanted to stay.”
He reaches over, his hand finding mine, a gesture that bridges the distance between us. It’s like he can tell the doubts are building in me. “Whatever you decide, I'll respect it. But know this,” he says, pulling over to face me fully, “if you choose to stay, I will be in control. That's the only way I know how to operate.”
His admission sends a ripple of fear through me, a stark reminder of my own misbelief that I must remain in control to protect myself, to prevent the past from repeating. “I need to maintain some semblance of control over my life,” I say, my voice tinged with desperation. “I need a new job.” I feel panic rising in me at the pressures waiting for me back in New York. “I need to take care of my sister.”
He smiles, a softening around his eyes that I've come to associate with the moments of genuine connection between us. “Didn’t I say? I've found a place for you and your sister. It's safer, nicer, and rent-free. I was just waiting for her to make enough progress to mention it. She's almost ready to leave the apartment now, isn't she? Her therapist told me how well she did this morning. All the way to the stairwell. You should be proud.”
His offer, so generously given, clashes with my ingrained need for independence. “Do I have any say in this?” My response is sharper than intended, a knee-jerk reaction to the perceived encroachment on my autonomy.
He pulls out his phone, showing me photos of the new place, its location pin-marked on a map. Despite my reservations, I can't deny the perfection of the arrangement, the thoughtfulness behind his actions. “And it’s yours,” he adds, as if reading my mind, “whatever decision you make.”
It's overwhelming, his ability to address concerns I haven't even voiced, to provide solutions that strip away the burdens I've carried for so long. Yet, it's also terrifying—the idea of him taking over, of losing my hard-won control over my life's direction.
“Do I have any say in this?” I repeat, needing to hear his reassurance, to understand the boundaries of this new dynamic he's proposing.
“Yes, you do. This is just an option. A choice,” he says, his voice gentle, coaxing me to see the possibilities rather than the constraints. “You want somewhere else, you choose. Just make sure it’s near a college so you can study and look after your sister.”
As we drive on, the airport drawing nearer with every mile, I'm torn between gratitude and fear, between the desire to embrace the future he's offering and the terror of losing myself in the process. It's a crossroads, one that demands a choice not just about where I live or how I manage my finances, but about who I want to be—and whether I'm brave enough to trust someone else with the control I've clung to for so long.
I’m still unsure when we’re seated on the private jet. Settled into the plush comfort of the plane's seats, the dim lighting and soft hum of the engines create an intimate cocoon. The earlier conversation in the car lingers like a shadow, coloring our interactions.
He breaks the silence first, his voice low, “You've been quiet since we left the car. What's on your mind?”
I hesitate, searching for the right words to bridge the gap between us. “I'm just thinking about everything. Us, my sister, my father, the future,” I confess, the uncertainty making my voice tremble. “Everything.”
He turns to me, his gaze intense and searching. “And what have you decided? About us, I mean.” There's a hint of vulnerability in his question, a crack in the fa?ade of control he always seems to wield so effortlessly.
“I don't know,” I admit, feeling the weight of his expectation. “Part of me wants to stay, to see where this goes. But another part is scared of losing myself, of losing the control I've worked so hard to maintain.”
A muscle twitches in his jaw, a visible sign of his frustration. “I told you, I'll respect your decision. But I can't change who I am. How I operate is the reason my world is secure. If you stay, I need to maintain control, for both our sakes.”
His words sting, a reminder of the fundamental difference in how we view the world. “But what if I need that control too? What if giving it up means losing a part of myself?”
He leans in, his lips brushing against mine in a kiss that's meant to soothe, to reassure. It's gentle and I should love it but it just feels like a distraction.
As we pull apart, he whispers against my lips, “Just give me one more week. The deal goes through, I can relax and think about this properly. A lot of peoples' jobs depend on this deal. We’re talking a billion dollars, years of my life have gone into preparing for this.”
“And you don’t want Petrovitch to ruin it, I know.”
“I won’t let him, trust me.”
That’s the thing I’m no longer sure about. Can I trust him to be the man I know he can be? Or is he forever doomed to be the man he thinks he has to be?