Chapter 35 #2
I frown at the sight. Even though Raffaele tricked me, betrayed me in the worst way imaginable, he was the only real friend I’ve ever had. I cared deeply for him. A part of me still does.
“I can’t promise you anything. But I will try to forgive you.”
“Really?” His eyes light up.
“Just…” I let out a breath. “Give me time. Time heals all wounds, right?”
“That hasn’t been my experience. But I really hope it does when it comes to us.”
Us. There is no us. Not anymore. Maybe not ever again.
I offer him a little smile, but when he takes it as permission to step closer, I take a step back. That earns me another frown.
“Like I said, it’s going to take me some time.”
“Okay, beautiful. Whatever you need. I’ll be here for you.”
I wish I could trust his words, but I don’t.
Something about Raffaele is off now, like I don’t even know who he is anymore.
I wish the boy who was my friend all those years would come back.
But right now, he’s not here. Only a bitter, angry man living with too much guilt and too much resentment for his own good.
With a book in hand, I try to sidestep him toward the couch, only for him to move in front of me, blocking my path.
“I just… fuck, what do I want to say… I just… don’t let him play you, okay?” he warns.
“What do you mean?”
“Matteo. He doesn’t love you. All he loves is revenge. Remember that when he’s filling your head with nonsense.” I square my shoulders and lift my chin, all while strangling the book in my hand.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I just don’t want you to be a pawn in his little war.”
“I’m not a pawn in his war. I’m the variable he’ll never control,” I retort sternly, wishing I believed my own words.
“Good.” Raffaele smiles. “Keep it that way.”
“Are we done?” I ask, not masking my annoyance for this entire conversation.
But then Raffaele stills. His smile fades away, his gaze locking onto mine as if he’s trying to read something buried deep inside me. The shift is so sudden it catches me off guard.
“You haven’t fucked him, have you?”
The urge to slap my brother-in-law is so strong that it takes everything in me not to.
“If you want to rebuild our friendship, you’re going about it the wrong way, Rafe. I’d be careful with whatever you ask next.” He lets out a relieved exhale.
“That’s a no,” he says, a little too pleased. “Good.”
I cannot throw a book at his head.
I cannot throw a book at his head.
I cannot throw a book at his head.
Even as I repeat the mantra in my head it does little to quiet the anger surging through me.
“Tell me, Rafe, are you saying this because you want to help me, or because you want to punish your brother?”
“Honestly? Both,” he has the audacity to admit. “Besides, if you’re not sleeping with him, he’ll lose interest in you soon enough. And maybe after the war is won, he’ll send you back home to your family.”
Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that.
“Maybe.” I fake a smile, but then something else occurs to me. “Rafe… were you the one who left that newspaper in my nightstand? The one about my parents a few days ago?” The way his pearly white teeth flash all at once answers my question.
“Well, I should leave you to your reading. This place is too stuffy for me anyway. It’s like standing in the middle of a dead tree cemetery. Fucking creepy in here.” With another toothy grin, he waves goodbye and leaves.
Maybe it’s true what they say. Sometimes we outgrow people, even those who were once near and dear to us.
Raffaele and I might have been friends at one point, but aside from the lives we led, we never really had anything in common.
Not that having things in common is essential for a lasting friendship, but it certainly helps.
Still, that’s not what I should be focusing on right now. My attention should be on that little nugget Raffaele mentioned—once the war is over, Matteo might send me back home. All I have to do is make him lose interest.
Right now, Matteo is infatuated with me. He might even believe that he’s in love with me. But Raffaele once thought the same, and judging by the scent of a woman’s perfume clinging to his clothes, he’s long since forgotten his little crush. Maybe Matteo’s interest in me is just as skin-deep.
Unlike Raffaele, I don’t think not sleeping with his brother is a punishment for him at all.
In fact, Matteo seems perfectly content never to touch me like that.
It’s almost as if his abstinence only deepens his feelings for me.
I’m the forbidden fruit, after all. His enemy’s daughter.
It’s the chase he’s really enamored with, not me.
From what I’ve noticed, growing up with four brothers, especially the twins, nothing makes a man lose interest in a woman faster than sleeping with her.
So if sleeping with Matteo makes him realize that he doesn’t actually love me, then maybe I should just bite the bullet and let it happen.
I’ll make some excuse, insist we use protection—say he needs to get tested first—and then take it from there. It might be worth a try.
Even though I hate Matteo for what he’s done to me, it’s obvious I’m attracted to him. My body comes alive whenever he’s in the same room, for crying out loud. It wouldn’t even be that much of a hardship. Not if it meant it was my ticket out of here. Not if it meant I could go home.
For all his belligerent talk, Raffaele was right about one thing—Matteo doesn’t love me.
He loves his war. And once it’s over, he’ll have no use for me anymore.
No matter how many times he says he doesn’t want an heir, sooner or later that will change.
The Cosa Nostra will demand it from him, and thinking otherwise is delusional.
Which only makes being his wife more of a burden than a blessing.
Though divorce isn’t something mafia families like ours pursue, I’m sure there’s a way to annul our marriage if neither of us wants to stay in it. Especially considering I was basically blackmailed into it. I doubt my consent even counts when everyone knows it was forced. Right?
I take a deep breath and really think this through. How will I initiate something like that when all I’ve done is push him away? And more importantly, do I even have the courage to go through with it? Do I even have it in me?
All these doubts keep swirling in my head when I notice the alcohol cabinet in the corner. I’ve never been much of a drinker. I may have had a glass of champagne at a party, but that’s about it.
Before I can second-guess myself, I grab a whiskey bottle, pour a generous amount of the amber liquid into a glass, and down it in one go. It scorches my insides, but that doesn’t stop me from pouring another shot. Then another.
When the floor starts to tilt beneath my feet, I stop. That’s enough liquid courage for one night. It’s time I put this crazy plan in motion. I can do this. I think.
On wobbly knees, I make my way back to our shared bedroom, where Matteo is still fast asleep. I stop at the foot of the bed and just admire him for a moment.
God, he’s stunning. Still, it isn’t even his beauty that draws me to him. It’s the little things he does that tug at my heartstrings, even when I don’t want them to.
How can I not want a man who buys me a piano just because he knows how much I miss playing it?
How can I not swoon like a schoolgirl with a crush when he leaves little notes in books he thinks I might like?
How could I ever not want him when he looks at me like I’m the most precious thing in his world?
I tell myself that what I’m about to do is only so I can go home.
I tell myself that I won’t enjoy it. That it’s only a means to an end.
I tell myself that the butterflies taking flight in my stomach are nerves, not excitement.
Yes, I tell myself a lot of things and pretend that none of them are lies.
With the rays of dawn starting to flicker into the room, I climb into bed before I lose my nerve.
I lie there, just watching him sleep for another minute, taking in every perfect line and edge.
Now that the alcohol has given me permission to touch him, I trace my finger ever so lightly over his brow, smoothing out the creases.
He must feel my touch, because his whole body relaxes. He looks so peaceful.
I run my fingers over his cheek, down to the curve of his chin. Matteo is marble brought to life. I brush my finger along his lower lip, my breathing turning uneven. His lips are soft. Inviting.
What if I only kissed him tonight?
Just one kiss. That isn’t so bad, is it?
One kiss?
I feel my heart drum in my chest as I lean in and ever so gently press my lips onto his.
His mouth is warm beneath mine, pliant in a way I didn’t expect.
The fullness of his lower lip makes my breath hitch as it grazes against mine, his exhale mingling with my own.
For a second, the world narrows to just this—his lips, his breath, the quiet pull between us.
And then suddenly, Matteo’s hand is in my hair, firm and unyielding.
I gasp as he rolls us over in one swift motion, my back hitting the mattress.
I try to catch my breath as Matteo hovers above me, his weight caging me in.
His eyes are open now. Dark, awake, and locked on mine.
However, the fact that his lips are no longer kissing me almost makes me whimper. Thankfully, I don’t.
At least I don’t think so.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his breathing ragged.
“I was… trying to kiss you,” I admit, my voice sounding minuscule compared to the intensity of my pounding heartbeat.
“You wanted to kiss me?” he asks, his eyes darkening.
I nod, licking my lips, almost begging him to take me out of my misery and just let me kiss him again. Just as he’s about to answer all my silent prayers and lower his lips to mine, he pulls back abruptly at the last second.
“Have you been drinking?” His forehead creases.
“I… um…”
“You have,” he accuses, confused, straightening up on top of me. “I can smell it on you.”
“Well… I was in the library… and then Rafe—”
“Rafe?” he whisper-shouts, jumping out of bed entirely.
No. No. No. Why is he putting distance between us? Why is he…
“So let me get this straight,” he says, his jaw tight as he drags a hand through his hair. “You were talking to my brother in the middle of the night, alone, got drunk, and then decided you wanted to kiss me?”
“That’s not… what happened. I mean, it is, but…” I stammer, unable to find my words.
“So is that what happened or not, wife?” he counters, his tone colder than ever.
I’m so stunned by his reaction that I don’t even have it in me to answer. I’ve seen this look in his eyes before—fury masking the pain underneath. So much of it that it suffocates whatever response I might have had.
“I’m not sure what’s worse. That you needed to get drunk to kiss me, or that maybe you were imagining his lips on you instead of mine?”
I don’t have time to defend myself, because he starts opening drawer after drawer, yanking out a few things before heading for the door.
He pauses with his hand on the handle, his back to me. “If you wanted him,” he says in a tight voice, “then why marry me?”
“Matteo—”
“Don’t. If your intention was to hurt me, congratulations. You succeeded.”
And then he’s gone.
He doesn’t sleep in our bed that night.
Or the following night.
And I start to wonder if he ever will again.