Chapter 31
Annamaria
“You can stop pretending to be asleep now, wife. I know you’re awake.”
Damn it. And here I thought I was doing a pretty good job pretending while Matteo got ready for the day.
“How do you know?” I grumble, frustrated that he caught me. “You don’t know that,” I mutter, cracking one eye open just enough to see he’s already showered and dressed in pressed dark gray trousers and a crisp white shirt, both fitting him far too well for my liking.
“You have a tell.” He smirks.
“What tell?”
“Do you really want me to tell you?” he teases, his lips curling at the corners, only making him look even more strikingly beautiful.
No, no, no. Not beautiful. Monsters are not beautiful. They are grotesque and hideous.
Ugh.
Not mine, apparently. Mine looks…
“Tell me then. I’m dying to know,” I say, refusing to let my mind go there as I push myself up against the headboard.
“You’re not going to like it,” he says, fixing his cufflinks.
“Believe me, there is plenty I don’t like already about this morning. What’s one more thing?”
Matteo’s smile fades, even if only slightly, but it’s enough for me to notice.
“You snore.”
I blink hard, suddenly wide awake.
“Excuse you? I what?!”
He grabs his suit jacket and slips it on. “I said you snore, wife. But it’s cute. Almost whimsical, those little sounds you make.”
“Dear God, I must have been a heinous person in my past life to deserve this,” I mumble, more to myself than to him.
“We’re Catholic, wife, which means this life is all we’ve got.”
“And what kind of life am I expected to live, confined to this penthouse? Or are you saying I can leave it?”
“That depends on you.”
“How so?” I arch a brow, surprised by his response, folding my arms across my chest.
“When I can trust that you won’t leave me, then you’re free to go whenever and wherever you please.
As long as you’re always accompanied by two of my most trusted soldiers, I see no reason you can’t get to know your new home.
Who knows? You might even like it. New York has a way of charming everyone it meets. ”
I tap my head back against the headboard and frown.
Great. More bodyguards. I guess some things never change.
When I go quiet, Matteo moves toward me. My body goes rigid the second he sits at the edge of the bed, just inches away. His cologne reaches me first, earthy and warm, grounding in a way I don’t want to like. It lingers, pulls, makes it harder to think straight.
Maybe it’s not the cologne at all. Maybe it’s just him.
“So… can I trust you?” he asks, looking deep into my eyes.
“No,” I answer truthfully. Right now, I can’t even trust myself.
He exhales under his breath and offers me a sad smile. “Maybe one day, then.”
“Don’t hold your breath… husband,” I say, forcing a fake smile.
However, it doesn’t get the reaction I expected. Instead, Matteo lowers his gaze to my hand, focusing on my wedding and engagement rings. His expression softens, turns gentler.
“I know you call me that like it’s a bad joke,” he murmurs, “but I have to admit… I really like the way it sounds when you call me your husband.”
My breath hitches when he runs his thumb over my fingers, still staring at the proof of our fates bound together.
“Maybe one day,” he continues, his voice softer now, “you’ll actually mean it.”
Before I can come up with a snarky response that even Stella would be proud of, he takes my hand and lifts it to his lips. His mouth brushes over my rings, the touch achingly tender yet burning, sending a strange heat up my arm.
He then lets go of my hand, stands up, and walks toward the door, pausing only to glance back at me.
“Breakfast is ready downstairs whenever you’re ready. I should be home before dinner.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
The room feels too quiet without him and I hate that I notice its silence.
“Stop it, Anna,” I chastise myself, hating that my mind went there, when it should be focusing on the problem at hand.
This almost blissful illusion of normalcy he’s trying to force on me isn’t going to work. I can’t let it. I’m not his wife, and he’s not my husband. Maybe on paper, but that’s it. I need to set clear boundaries with him. Like I did last night when I told him I would never sleep with him.
Maybe you’ll give me a different answer in my dreams.
The way he said that last night dragged up memories that should have stayed buried. Memories of how my Caro Mio once said something similar to me once upon a time.
How tragic to read such lukewarm words from the same woman who consumes my every waking thought and haunts all my dreams. Good night, vita mia. Maybe one day I’ll get a different answer.
But there is no Caro Mio. There’s only Raffaele. And all those sweet words were nothing more than manipulation dressed up as something real. A lie I was stupid enough to believe.
I’m actually glad I haven’t run into Raffaele yet. I caught glimpses of him at the cathedral yesterday, and again at the reception, but only for a fleeting moment each time. Still, when our eyes met, all I saw was misery in his. As if he’d rather lose a limb than watch me marry his brother.
Not sure why he was so upset. Wasn’t this the plan all along? Shouldn’t he be celebrating after such a coup against the Outfit? I swear, these Donato men are going to be the end of me.
Not wanting to think about either of them, I get out of bed, take a shower, and get dressed.
All the clothes Matteo bought me fit perfectly, which only tells me he is deliberate with everything he does.
Even getting the exact measurements of his kidnapping victim.
How very thorough of him. He excels at everything he puts his mind to, apparently.
Pushing that idea out of my mind, I walk down to the main floor and find Paolina singing to herself in the large empty kitchen.
I smile at the sight. I’m a bit ashamed to have assumed she was Matteo’s housekeeper.
I should have realized she was his mother sooner since there’s an unmistakable echo of her in all her sons.
Raffaele has her coloring, the same golden hair and blue eyes, while Matteo and Niccolò clearly take after their father, dark where she is light. But all three of them have her beauty. It’s there, in the shape of their features, in the lines of their faces.
As I watch her sing and dance in the kitchen, unaware of her audience, I realize that the ease with which her sons take up space in any room might not have come from their father after all. Maybe it comes from her.
“Good morning,” I call out.
She spins toward me, a bright smile already on her lips.
“Good morning, Annamaria,” she sings, genuinely happy to see me. “Did you sleep well?”
Apparently well enough to snore, if Matteo’s version of last night is to be believed.
“Yes,” I nod. “Thank you.”
“I’m glad. Would you like something to eat? I got a little excited and made more than my boys could manage.”
I step closer to her, my gaze drifting over the counter beside her. Platters crowd the surface, fresh bread, fruit, pastries, while pans on the stove hold eggs, bacon, and sausages, warm and waiting.
“I could fix you a plate?”
“That’s okay. I can make my own, thank you,” I say with a smile.
I fix myself a plate and sit at the table, acutely aware of Paolina’s gaze on me the entire time. She moves around the kitchen as if giving me space, but I can feel her eyes on me just the same. It’s only when I reach for my coffee, preparing to finish, that she finally sits beside me.
“So,” I start weakly when she makes no attempt at conversation, “do you always do the cooking?” Paolina nods with a joyful smile.
“The doctor says it’s therapeutic for me. I’m not sure she’s right, but I do know I enjoy it. This room,” she adds, eyeing the four walls enthusiastically, “is my safe space. I find peace here.”
My brows furrow at the remark, but I quickly smooth them out, offering her a smile of my own when her attention returns to me.
“That’s nice. Still, it must be taxing to do all the cooking. Don’t you have any help?”
“No,” she laughs. “I don’t do well with… um… strangers.” Her bright smile is still intact, but I catch how her steel-blue eyes dim a little. “Matteo has some cleaners that come by every other day to do the housework, but I’m used to them now.”
“Oh, I see,” I mutter, placing my mug on the table. “I hope my presence here hasn’t caused you any discomfort.”
“Of course not,” she lets out another giggle, placing a hand over mine on the table. “You’re not a stranger. You’re family, Annamaria.”
“Please, call me Anna,” I say, reading the sincerity in her eyes.
As I look at her, I’m reminded of the son who looks at me the same way. So earnest. So genuine.
Is she a liar, too?
No. My intuition might be a little off-kilter lately, but I can tell Paolina has a kind heart. More than that, there’s something fragile behind her eyes, almost as if she might break with any sudden movement.
“I… um…” she says nervously, “I was just about to go to the terrace to check on my plants and flowers. Would you like to accompany me?”
“I’d love that, thank you.”
I’m once again struck by how her smile takes up most of her face.
Paolina picks up my plate and mug, rinses them, and places them in the dishwasher. I mutter a quiet prayer, thanking God that at least there is one person in this house who doesn’t confuse me. She is what she is—good and kind-hearted to her very core.
However, I then frown, because good, kind-hearted people get used in our world, and to my shame, I’m about to use her kindness to my advantage too.