4. Antonio
Chapter four
Antonio
I t's like she's a poison that refuses to stop spilling through my veins, or maybe she's the curse I willingly put on myself.
All I know is that hearing her sharp intake of breath behind that heavy door does something to my insides that I should have under control by now.
I wait for her to say something, anything.
I don't expect her to beg me, but I expect her to yell at me, maybe tell me how awful I am, how I am worse than the Beast everyone used to describe. Maybe, to snarl that my scars are less about what's on the surface and more about the darkness of my soul. Anything, really, just to break this crushing silence.
But she doesn't utter a single word, and the silence is thick and oppressing. And why are my shoulders tightening, thinking about the worst-case scenarios—did she fall? Faint? Why am I so fucking worried about her? Worried about her well-being. Like I should even think about her after everything she's done. Everything she keeps on doing. Caring for her is a weakness I can't afford. A mirage of tenderness that was never mine.
And yet, as soon as I overheard Christo talking about the way she looked—as if he had any right to her at all as he was bringing her food, I lost my shit.
And this is how Signora Martha came into play.
She's the only one I trust with Bella.
And she's the only one I trust with Elena.
Bella because I want to protect myself from her. Elena because I want to protect her from me and my demons.
Elena. That's who matters right now.
The contract weighs on my mind like another scar I can't display – the one thing keeping my business relationships alive while they crumble at the edges. Franco's words echo: "They want to see her. Alive and well." The French making demands like they're the ones who shed blood for this alliance. Like they understand what it cost to claim the Moretti name through marriage.
I slam the door with my open hand, half-expecting Isabella to yelp in surprise, but nothing.
Still nothing.
"How did you get her here?" I finally growl and there's still no answer.
Instead, the sound of Isabella moving away from the door reaches me, her footsteps muffled but she's likely heading towards the bed. The ruffling of paper and the creaking of the mattress. Is she jotting down her thoughts? Sketching something? My gaze lands on several drawings scattered across the floor, all depicting princesses. I bend down to pick one up, curiosity getting the better of me.
"You can't talk to her," I continue and this time, my fingers brush the key that's in my pocket. Always with me. "You can't have her follow you here somehow. How do you even know her name?" I pause, because in my mind, I picture her father telling her secrets I wasn't even privy to until three months ago. Did he know about Elena? Is that why he made sure her mother got killed at that wedding from Hell? My hands clench into fists, wishing that monster was in front of me, instead of his stubborn daughter tucked away in a jail of my own making.
My voice must have alerted my dog because Cerberus trots my way, sniffing the door. Sniffing and whining.
"Cerberus, it's okay." Her voice is soft. And to the dog she speaks. Of course.
"I asked you a question." Silence again. And I hesitate only a second before turning the key into the lock. When the door opens, my heart stills for a moment before slamming against my ribcage.
She's sitting on the bed, looking lost despite the anger radiating from her. The single lightbulb on the ceiling leaves more shadows than light. And the smell? There's something moldy in the air mixing with the ocean salt and her honeysuckle scent.
And I have to clench my jaw not to say anything stupid.
It's the first time I see her since that morning when I shattered her heart, soul and very essence. Or so I thought.
Because in those eyes, there's strength, a distance. A barrier. It's like she's built a fortress I can't scale. Sure, I had the key to open the door, but I don't possess the one needed to unlock the barricades in her gaze, barricades I helped build with every harsh word and betrayal. Part of me hates myself for that. The other part? The other part decides it's time to remind her who's the boss here just as my traitor of a dog rushes to her, nuzzling against her and she pets him like he's her dog, whispering something about him being the best boy.
"Cerberus, come here," I bark and the dog gives me one of those "you wish" look that would have me chuckle if that didn't bring a ghost of a smile on her face. I stride toward her, straighten my spine, cross my arms over my chest, tower over her with my strength and resolve. "I asked you how you got my daughter to come see you..." She ignores me for a couple more seconds until I pick one of the letters Naomi has sent her. There's a hissing in her breathing, like she's a sneaky snake ready to strike. And I know. I know if she could, she'd unload everything on me.
"Don't," she warns. I half expect Cerberus to come back to me at her tone.
But Cerberus doesn't growl, but he sits at her feet, staring at me like she's the one who's feeding him every single day. Like she's the one who saved him. Like she's the one who's his reason to live. Fuck. My gaze drops down to her lips. To her long-sleeve shirt and sweater with the word "Cape Cod" on them. She used to love Cape Cod. We went once together as the fake family we were. And I remember her in the water, dancing in the sand. It's a memory I never forgot. And I'm not sure if the sweater is to taunt her or to remind her of a different time, too. Her sweatpants are gray and her feet are ensconced in heavy socks. But I notice blood on the ground and I growl, "What the fuck happened here?"
When she doesn't answer, I'm one second away from snapping. "I asked you a question."
She lifts her eyes to me like she wants me to know she's not afraid of me and there's a beat of hesitation, like she's weighing the pros and cons of talking to me, but she must see the patience thinning in my eyes.
"You ask a lot of questions. It's like you have all the questions, don't you?" She doesn't raise her voice but she could chill an entire country with that tone.
I fight the impulse to caress her soft skin, to remind her how I once played her body like a piano—drawing out the most exquisite notes before I shattered her heart, composing a dissonant melody from the very essence of her being.
She shakes her head, as if reading my thoughts. "You'll never break me again. Not in that way."
"Are you sure about that?"
"You'll never get close enough to my heart to leave a bruise, let alone break it." It's like a vow to her. "I may be your wife. But I'll never be yours again. Not like that."
I wish I could prove her wrong, but seeing her after so many months is unsettling and I don't do "unsettling".
These living conditions – the mold creeping along stone walls, the thin blanket, the damn blood on the floor – they're worse than I ordered. Someone's head will roll for this. I need her alive and well for the contract to hold. The signatures mean nothing if she wastes away in this forgotten wing – something I should have considered before locking the door and throwing myself into war with her father.
"How did my daughter get here?" I insist. "How did you know about her?"
A dry chuckle escapes her. Like she can't believe what I'm saying. "I didn't know you had a daughter," she replies. "So, it wasn't a grand plan. And the only reason I'm talking to you right now is not because I can see the fury and lack of patience in those eyes of yours." So, great she can read my mind now. She continues, "It's because of her." She inhales deeply, waving into the distance. "Because she could have gotten down the staircase. The one if I remember correctly leads to the crashing waves. And ..." She bites her lower lip. "She's just a kid. I didn't want anything to happen to her..."
"And now that you know she's mine?"
She rolls her eyes and the sight has me clenching my fists even harder.
"It doesn't change a single thing. She's innocent. How can you...?" Another deep inhale and slow exhale like she's trying to remind herself not to lose her shit. "I heard her coming toward the door and when I heard her voice, I found ways to keep her busy." She pauses and I'm sure she has questions. Millions of them.
But I have some, too. "Why is there blood on the floor? Did someone do something to you? Did you do something to yourself?" And I don't know why my voice almost cracks. If someone did something to her, they will not see another day.
She looks at me without another word.
I should leave.
Slam the door behind me.
Lock the door and lose the key. Throw that damn key into the ocean. Far, far from here. From her. From me.
"I'll answer one question you have and you answer one of mine," I tell her, bargaining in a way I didn't expect when I stepped into the room.
"I don't have any questions."
"A favor then?"
"Let me out."
"Not that one."
"Well, then, have a nice day, husband."
It's a battle of wills. And I won't give in. Just like she won't. I call Cerberus to follow me, but he doesn't. And I can't carry him out without looking like a damn fool. So, I do something different.
"He's staying with you for a bit, wife." The word rolls off my tongue way too easily. "I'll get Signora Martha to let him out when she comes with your lunch shortly."
I'm half hoping for that ghost of a smile to come back.
But she's already diverting her gaze, her nose in one of the few books I let in that place that looks much more like a jail than what I remember. Maybe it's the guilt feasting on me that prevents me from just walking away, or maybe I'm fooling myself, thinking I'm still using her for some twisted advantage. Or, just maybe, she's burrowed too damn deep under my skin, her venom dancing in my veins battling with the symphony of revenge I've orchestrated for so long for so long.
No matter the justification I drum up, I find myself speaking again, my words laced with a bitterness that's become too familiar. "Oh, and get ready to show your face." She doesn't so much as flick a glance my way, continuing to read as if I'm just a shadow in her world or not even on the same planet.
"What do you mean?" The question comes, her voice devoid of any evident concern, but the slight stiffness in her posture tells me she's not as unaffected as she appears.
"The French want to see you. The others, too. We'll arrange something." It's an order, not a request, and the ease with which I impose it, dictating her fate may not be solid as it once was. "That precious contract your grandmother set up? Everyone wants proof you're alive and well. Seems your father's spreading rumors. You're going to help me shut them down." I pause, watching for a reaction. "And never speak to my daughter again."
And I slam the door shut before she can throw my own words back at me, before her silent defiance can peel away the layers I've built up around myself, before I do something even more foolish than I've already allowed.