31. Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-One
Mariella
W e drive straight into the garage, the other cars that had surrounded us peeling off and disappearing into other corners of the property.
The engine’s low rumble echoes off the walls, the door sliding shut behind us.
I take a deep breath in, trying to get it into my head that we’re safe now.
I must be in shock. The way I’m feeling isn’t normal. My senses are dulled, and everything around me seems distant, as if I’m not really here.
I could have been killed. That thought is on a continuous loop in my mind, and I’m fighting to push it away.
Mateo’s calm, steady presence has been my lifeline. I’m in awe of him, now more than ever.
Every move he made was so sure, so deliberate. There was no hesitation, just unrelenting focus on getting us both out alive.
I can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if I’d been with my father instead. Would he have kept me safe? Would he have worried whether I lived or died?
Mateo cuts the engine, the sudden quiet strange after all that terrible noise. The silence should be a relief, but instead, it only seems to exaggerate the pounding of my heart and the tremor in my breaths.
He turns to look at me, worry written all over his face. He slides over onto the passenger seat that’s still reclined flat, and shimmies back until he’s sitting right beside me.
His hand moves to my face, fingertips brushing so lightly it almost tickles as he tilts my chin, scanning for any sign of a bullet graze.
His eyes are sharp and dark as he studies me with an intensity that makes my pulse jump. He’s so close, I can see the faint crease between his brows. That crackling energy in the air that’s there whenever we’re near still lingers, but right now it’s quieter, tempered by the concern in his gaze.
Satisfied I’m unhurt, he lifts my hand, brushing his thumb over my knuckles. I flinch, and we both glance down, noticing the small cuts all over my skin. There are more on my legs, all of them minor, nothing serious.
Yet Mateo freezes, his expression hardening like he’s been turned to stone, his face going as pale as ice. His grip on my hand tightens, and I feel his pulse racing beneath the surface. I look down, wondering if I’d missed something about these cuts, but they’re exactly what I thought.
“Mateo?” I ask, uncertain.
But he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even seem to hear me.
His whole demeanor has shifted from one second to the next. He seems locked in a state so tense it lets me forget my own shock.
Our roles suddenly seem reversed, and now I’m the one who wants to draw him out of whatever is happening in his head. His gaze remains fixed on my hand, distant and unseeing, and it’s clear his mind is miles away.
“Mateo, I’m okay.” I say, having the urge to reassure him. But his eyes stay fixed on those trivial injuries.
Slowly, I reach up with my free hand and cup his face. My thumb traces gentle strokes over his cheek, and finally, his eyes lift to meet mine. They’re guarded, but behind that shield, I glimpse raw pain. It stirs something deep within me. Something that wants to take it all away for him, to carry whatever burden weighs on him so he doesn’t have to.
“I’m okay,” I murmur softly, sensing this is all because of the cuts I must’ve gotten from flying shards of glass and other debris.
His eyes flick back and forth between mine like he’s just woken up and is struggling to remember where he is.
Then he gives a small shake of his head, snapping himself free of whatever held him. He looks away, slowly regaining his composure. Without another glance, he slides back to the front seat and gets out. I watch him, confused and caught off guard by the sudden shift in his mood.
What was that?
When I don’t follow, he bends low, peering into the car and holding his hand out to me.
“Let’s get you inside. We need to clean those cuts,” he says, his voice steady again.
I slide my hand into his, and as soon as our fingers meet, he wraps his firmly around mine. Somehow, that small gesture grounds me and steadies the nerves his strange behavior just rattled.
I scoot across the backseat and clamber out through the passenger side, inwardly wishing this Ferrari had four doors instead of two.
Needing to fully grasp what we survived, I walk around to the other side of the car, the side that took the brunt of the gunfire. My breath catches as I take it in.
The sleek, once-flawless black paint is now marred with a scatter of dents and scuff marks, the glass pocked and spider-webbed but miraculously intact, all thanks to the bulletproofing.
My chest tightens with a mix of fear and gratitude. If it weren’t for this car’s reinforced armor, I might not be standing here. The thought is sobering.
“Come on, dolcezza . Let’s get you cleaned up.” He takes my elbow gently and guides me out of the garage and through the quiet house to my room.
It’s strange entering it with him following me. If I wasn’t still in shock, I’m sure my nerves would get the better of me. But as it is, I’m somewhat numb.
“I’ll get the first aid kit and some tea. Why don’t you have a shower, wash off the last hour? It will make you feel better.”
On autopilot, I nod. Mateo steps closer, his hands settling on my shoulders in a gentle squeeze. He leans in, his nose brushing through my hair as he inhales deeply, then a soft kiss presses against the top of my head.
“It’ll all be okay, Mari, I promise.”
With a gentle push, he guides me toward the bathroom, and when I reach for the doorknob, he seems satisfied and turns to leave. “I’ll be right back.”
As he leaves, the phone in my purse that’s still slung across my body vibrates, and I pull it out with shaky fingers, staring at the display.
Isa.
I can’t talk to her. Not while I’m in this state. I’d only worry her.
If things had gone even slightly differently, I might never have spoken to my sister again, or to anyone else. The weight of that realization crashes over me, sharper and heavier than before, and my knees give out as I slide down the door to the floor.
Sobs rack my body, the intensity building with each breath until I can’t hold anything back anymore. I let it all out, every ounce of fear and relief flooding to the surface.
I don’t hear the door to my room open, or the footsteps that approach. But suddenly, strong arms wrap around me, lifting me from the floor.
Mateo carries me over to the bed and sits down with me in his lap. I bury my face against his chest, trying to hide, not wanting him to see me this pathetic.
This is the second time since I came to Rome that he’s had to comfort me because I completely lost it. God, he must think I’m so weak.
“I’m sorry,” I manage to hiccup between bursts of tears, my voice trembling. “I’m normally not a crybaby.”
His arms tighten around me, anchoring me as his hand strokes gently down my back.
“Mari,” he murmurs, his voice soft but unwavering. “You don’t have to apologize for having feelings. Not to me.”
His hand keeps moving, steady and grounding, and his tone drops to a gentle whisper. “You don’t have to be strong all the time. Let me be strong for you.”
I like that he thinks I’m not as pathetic as I feel.
So, I let him take care of me, let him be strong for me.
I sink into his embrace, melting against him, soaking up his warmth and comfort. The steady beat of his heart under my ear is grounding, reassuring me we’re both alive.
Alive.
And life is for the living. So why am I still crying?
I wipe away my tears, determined. If he thinks I’m strong, then I’ll be that.
“Thank you,” I whisper, avoiding his gaze.
“Anytime, dolcezza ,” he replies, his arms still wrapped securely around me.
Please, don’t ever let go , my heart begs.
Here in his arms, I not only feel safe, but I feel like I belong.
What a beautiful dream!
I sense him glance down at me, and even without looking, I know he’s frowning. Hmm, when did I get so in tune with him?
“Your beautiful dress, it’s ruined,” he says, sounding genuinely disappointed. “If you like, I can have some similar fabric delivered tomorrow. And a sewing machine, and whatever else you need.”
Is he serious?
I pull back and look up at him.
“You want to buy me sewing stuff?” I ask in disbelief.
No one has ever offered to do anything like this for me. Isa and Mia might have supported my love for drawing and creating, but the rest of my family? My father saw it as a worthless pursuit, and even my mother called it a hopeless attachment to a dream.
A small smile plays on his lips, amused by my surprise.
“Yes, dolcezza . I want to buy you sewing stuff. It makes you happy, doesn’t it?”
I keep staring at him, wondering how this has become my life. I’ve just survived a gunfight, and the most gorgeous man ever is holding me in his arms, wanting to buy me the things my starved creative heart has always dreamed of.
“I loved this dress on you. Do you have any others you made with you?” he asks when I haven’t replied.
I shake my head, still too choked up to speak. If I think any more about this gesture, I might cry again.
To him, it probably means nothing. He has more money than he could ever spend. But to me, him saying he wants me to be happy. Well…
Tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them away.
“That’s a shame. I would have loved to see more of your creations. You have an eye for what works.”
“I’ve got my designs with me,” I tell him.
Why did I do that? I don’t really want him to see.
“Will you show me?” he asks.
“You… you really want to see my designs?” I ask, taken aback.
Why would he be interested? He’s always impeccably dressed, yet never seemed that into fashion.
Maybe he’s still trying to pull me out of my earlier despair? That has to be it.
But hey, I’ll take it. Truth is, just thinking about my designs stirs a flicker of happiness in me. Much like the guitar, creating new designs has always been my escape, my joy.
I slide off his lap and this time he lets me go. I step into the walk-in wardrobe and retrieve my sketchbook. Quietly, I sit back down on the bed and hand it to him.
My heart erratically jumps in my chest as he takes it from me, our fingers brushing. He opens it with deliberate care and studies each drawing, giving every page his full attention, rather than flipping through quickly like I expected.
“This is incredible,” he says, glancing up at me. “You have talent.”
I can’t help but blush at his compliment. “Thanks, but it’s just doodles, really.”
“No, it’s not just doodles.” He turns to a page with a swirling dress design. “This is beautiful. I can see the movement in the fabric. It looks like it’s ready to come to life.”
I smile, feeling a flutter of pride. “That one was inspired by a girl dancing on the beach. She was a little drunk,” I chuckle. “But the way the fabric flowed, I had to capture it.”
Mateo nods, his eyes sparkling with interest. “You have an eye for detail.”
He flips to another page, revealing a sketch of a gown adorned with intricate lace. “And this one? Is there a story behind it?”
I take a deep breath, enjoying the warmth of his presence beside me.
“When Father announced I had to marry Renaldo Conti, I felt like my life was over. Once Father dismissed me, I ran to the beach on our property and sat there. I didn’t cry,” I say, needing him to know that really, I’m not a crybaby.
“Of course, I’d always known that day would come, so I accepted it. I drew this to escape my reality. I imagined a bride walking down the aisle, surrounded by flowers and sunlight, and so much happiness. This is the dress she would have worn, something romantic and ethereal.”
Mateo studies the sketch a moment longer, tracing a finger over the delicate lace pattern. “You’ve been a pawn in your father’s plans for so long,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “And no one ever asked what you wanted?”
I shake my head, feeling both vulnerable and strangely comforted.
“My life was always planned out for me. But drawing was my escape.”
Mateo’s gaze softens, his hand coming to rest lightly over mine.
“This dress,” he says, looking back at the sketch, “it’s like you were drawing a piece of yourself, the part that refused to give up on happiness.”
I bite my lip, surprised he sees so much.
“Maybe. I wanted to believe that part of me could still be free, even if I was trapped.”
He turns to me fully, his expression intense. “You’re not trapped anymore, Mari. Not as long as I’m here.”
There’s a sincerity in his voice that makes my breath hitch.
“Why?” I ask softly, feeling more exposed than ever. “Why do you care so much?”
Mateo reaches up, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering.
“Because I see you, Mari. I see the strength, the beauty in you. And I’m not letting Antonio or anyone take that away.”
His words are so unexpected that they leave me speechless. For a moment, I just stare at him, wondering if I’m somehow dreaming this up.
This can’t be real. No one has ever looked at me like this, with such conviction.
And Mateo De Marco of all people?
I look into his eyes, feeling a connection that goes deeper than I ever imagined possible.
“Thank you. That means more to me than you know,” I whisper.
I don’t quite believe his words, because as long as I am an Accardi and my father is alive, I will always be trapped, but I do believe he cares. Perhaps only for now, but in this moment, that’s enough.
He smiles, and for a moment, the weight of everything else fades away.
It’s just the two of us.
The moment lingers. We linger.
As much as I want to cling to it, it can’t last. Eventually, Mateo clears his throat and says, “It’s time we take care of those cuts. I don’t want them to get infected.”
Sliding off the bed, he grabs the first aid kit from the bedside table before settling back down beside me, carefully pulling my hand into his lap.
His gaze lingers on the small cuts, and for a few long heartbeats, he’s lost in thought. Then, breaking his stare, he opens an alcohol swab and dabs it against my skin.
His jaw tightens, working side to side, that strange tension from earlier resurfacing. As he meticulously tends to my wounds, a strange heaviness settles in my chest.
“What happened back in the garage?” I ask, watching his hands pause briefly before he resumes dabbing.
“You went white as a ghost when you saw these cuts,” I say, pressing a little, not just out of curiosity but to understand and maybe help him the way he’s helped me.
He doesn’t answer right away, instead keeping his focus on the cuts on my hand until they’re thoroughly cleaned. Then he shifts to the ones on my legs, taking a steady breath.
“I…”