Chapter 35
Annamaria
Strong hands lift me from the bench, warmth settling all around me.
I feel myself stir in Matteo’s arms, but sleep won’t allow me to wake.
Especially when my dream is better than my reality.
I’m enveloped in a soft glow that carries me, as if I’m weightless in the air.
I’m so light, so light that I feel like I might drift away.
Still, I’m not afraid. Because the light will never let me fall. He would never allow it.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. We’re almost there,” his deep, raspy voice whispers in my ear.
In my dream, I hear myself moan at the sound, nestling my head on his shoulder as my arms cling around his neck. He’s so warm. So very warm. I’ve been out in the cold for far too long.
The familiar scent of his cologne surrounds me, so intoxicating that I lean closer, craving more of it. I press my lips to the source, the faint taste of salt and something distinctly masculine making me smile.
“Fuck,” he curses, and suddenly I’m no longer floating weightlessly in the air. My brows furrow, not liking that we’ve stopped. Thankfully, after a few seconds, I drift again, only to be gently laid onto cool sheets and a firm mattress.
Good. This is better.
On second thought, maybe it’s not.
It’s not better. I’m cold again. Why am I always so cold?
The mattress dips behind me, and suddenly I feel his heat calling to me. I inch closer, drawn in by his scent, my lips finding their home once more. I kiss and linger, nipping softly, until I’m fully wrapped in the most heavenly cocoon.
“Anna… sweetheart. Fuck… you’re fucking killing me right now.”
“Shh,” I murmur. “This is a dream. Don’t ruin my dream, Caro Mio.”
I snuggle into him, draping my leg over his muscular thigh, my hand finding his chest. I frown when I feel fabric beneath my fingertips instead of the smooth skin I long for.
“What’s wrong?” he whispers.
“I want to feel you. Why can’t I ever feel you?”
“Jesus… fuck,” he mutters, followed by a hard swallow. “Maybe one day, vita mia. Now go to sleep, okay? Just sleep. For both our sakes.”
I don’t want to, but like all things in my life, it seems I don’t have a choice. Before I know it, sleep pulls me further under its spell, and all the warmth I felt is gone. The cold, black abyss is the only thing that waits for me. That and the splattered blood of everyone I love.
I’m hot. Too hot. Why am I so hot?
The thought startles me awake. I force my heavy lids open and find the reason instantly. Sometime during the night, I must have climbed onto Matteo, his arm wrapped around my waist, keeping me in place.
I don’t even remember how I got here. The last thing I do remember is sitting at the piano, making up for lost time. I must have fallen asleep over the keys. It wouldn’t be the first time. Matteo must have found me there and brought me back to our room.
To his credit, he didn’t even undress me before taking me to bed, leaving me in my shorts and T-shirt. Though, in all honesty, I’d rather he had. Even a T-shirt and shorts feel like too much clothing to survive New York’s brutal summer heat. Chicago summers feel mild in comparison.
Without waking him, I pry myself off him, gently lifting his arm so I can slip back to my side of the bed.
He lets out a small, disgruntled groan, but doesn’t wake.
Once I’ve made sure he’s still fully asleep, I slide out of bed.
But instead of moving away, I turn to look at my husband.
It’s only fair, considering how much he enjoys watching me sleep.
Might as well see what all the fuss is about.
Matteo’s arm is stretched out toward my side of the bed, as if trying to reach for me even in his slumber.
A small frown tugs at his lips, as if something is troubling him, but it doesn’t make him any less beautiful.
If anything, it makes him look… human. Vulnerable.
It’s a strange thing to see in a man like him.
Someone who always seems larger than life. Someone who is always in control.
I shake the thought away, focusing on something that won’t humanize him in my eyes.
He’s wearing his usual white T-shirt and sweats. He must be boiling dressed like that. I wonder if he’s always slept this way, or if he does it for my sake.
Matteo runs hot. He must have slept naked before I came along.
I chew the corner of my lip as my gaze runs down his frame. We’ve been married for two full weeks now, and I’ve never seen my husband’s chest, much less seen him naked. Of course, he’s never seen me either, so I guess that makes us even.
No. That’s not true. He’s seen glimpses of me on our calls.
Those late FaceTime calls where he used to guide my hand and make me…
Yeah. No. I can’t think about that right now. Not when the source of all my temptation is within arm’s reach.
I glance at the clock on the nightstand and see that it’s not even four in the morning.
I’ve never been up this early on a Sunday.
Back home, Sundays used to mean church, but ever since my kidnapping, I’ve missed more than one mass this month.
I should definitely go back to church. Maybe that way I could stop lusting after my husband.
I throw another glance at Matteo, and when my heart does that stupid, traitorous thing of skipping a beat, I decide it’s best not to stay in the same room as him.
So I leave and make my way to what has become my favorite room in the entire house—the library.
Of course, it’s too early to play the piano.
And though my fingers ache to touch the keys again, I’ll have to be patient.
Not wanting to wake anyone up, I begin to browse Matteo’s vast book collection instead.
I run my fingers along the spines until one catches my attention.
It’s a first edition of The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan.
Of all the books a Don might own, this is the last one I’d expect to find on his shelves.
I pull the book out, my brow creasing when I find tabs marking most of its pages, along with a small note tucked between the first page and the cover—Anna will love this one.
Hmm.
I grab another book that looks out of place and find yet another note, and even more colored tabs—this poem. She’ll love this poem.
On and on it goes. Every book I pick up has a note inside, all addressed to me.
A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf—for my Anna.
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte—for my Anna.
The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir—for my Anna.
I even find a few classics where he’s far less kind with his remarks.
Misogynistic trash. Donate to the library.
Anna would kill you if you burned a book, no matter how vile it is.
I’m so stunned by what I find that a few books slip from my hands and hit the floor with a loud thud.
Damn it.
I crouch down, quickly picking them up and returning them to their proper place. But just as I’m about to slide the last one back onto the shelf, I feel a presence in the doorway—Raffaele.
“I… um…” he stammers. “Heard a noise.”
I square my shoulders and place the book back without saying a word. I knew we’d run into each other eventually. I just wish it hadn’t happened while I’m still a bit shell-shocked after finding Matteo’s version of love letters to me.
I pick up another and pretend to read the back cover, all the while feeling Raffaele’s eyes on me.
“Can I help you with something?” I ask when his glaring starts to become uncomfortable.
“I… um… was hoping we could talk,” he says, stepping inside the room.
“I have nothing to say to you. I make it a point never to talk to backstabbers.”
“Shit. You’re still pissed at me, huh?” He rubs at the side of his neck.
“I wonder why.” I tap my finger against my chin. “Remind me again, who was it that kidnapped me? Oh, that’s right. That was you. My supposedly best friend.”
“Shit, angel, don’t say stuff like that. You know I didn’t have a choice.”
“Do I?” I arch a brow. “It’s not like you ever came to talk to me about that day. You haven’t even so much as apologized.”
“Fuck… You’re right. I haven’t. And I really should.
” He takes a step closer. “I’m sorry, Anna.
I never meant for you to get involved in this shit.
I didn’t even know…” He trails off before finishing the sentence.
“Before I knew what my asshole of a brother was up to, it was already too late. My hands were tied.”
“No, they weren’t. You could have told me to run. That day in the woods, you could have warned me.” He looks crestfallen, his head dropping.
“You’re right. I could have.” He exhales roughly. “No… I should have. If I had, you wouldn’t have had to marry that motherfucker.” My jaw ticks at the way he just described Matteo, and I don’t know why it angers me so much.
“Well, it’s done now.” I shrug nonchalantly. “No reason to cry over spilled milk, I guess.”
Raffaele looks up at me through his lashes, studying me. “You don’t look very upset about it.”
“Just because I don’t look it doesn’t mean I’m not. I’ve just learned to accept it. For now.”
Even though I’m trying to play it cool, there’s something in his eyes that makes me uneasy.
“Don’t believe him, Anna. Whatever you do, don’t believe a word he tells you.”
“Funny, coming from the man who was the first to ever lie to me.” I scoff.
“Jesus, Anna, will you ever forgive me for that? Can’t you see I’ve already punished myself enough for it? It’s been eating me alive knowing you’re married to him.”
I look at Raffaele then. Really look at him.
Aside from his disheveled appearance, deep shadows also lie under his eyes.
He looks thinner, too, as if he hasn’t been able to stomach a proper meal in weeks.
But that’s not the only thing about him that’s changed.
Even from where I’m standing, he reeks of cigarettes, cheap perfume, and alcohol, as if he’d been drowning himself in all three.