Chapter 42
Annamaria
For the past two months, New York has been a battleground. The news is flooded with reports of gunfire in the streets, of civilians caught in the crossfire, of bodies piling up in a war between mob-affiliated families fighting over territory.
The news is wrong though.
People aren’t dying because of a turf war. They’re dying because of me.
There’s a war outside these walls. But the real danger is in the way he looks at me, and how my heart always skips a beat.
I’ve never been a selfish person. I’ve never wanted someone else’s blood on my hands.
However, ending this war would mean having to go back to Chicago.
And I don’t want to. Not if it means leaving Matteo behind.
New York is my home now. Matteo is my home.
But if this war keeps escalating, soon there may be no home left for me to run off to.
These are the thoughts rummaging in my head as I glance at the bedside clock for the millionth time tonight.
It’s well past three in the morning, and there’s still no news from my husband.
I pace the room, arms wrapped tightly around myself, holding the pieces together before I fall apart.
Every time Matteo leaves this house, a part of me breaks.
What if he doesn’t come back? What if someone shoots him? What if he dies?
I shake my head, forcing the horrid thoughts away. No. Matteo will come home to me. He always does. He has to.
Just as the thought settles in my chest, our bedroom door swings open behind me.
“Matteo!” A sob escapes me as I run to him, throwing my arms around his neck.
“I’m okay, sweetheart. I’m okay.”
Still, he doesn’t sound okay. Not even close.
I pull back from our embrace and freeze. He’s covered in blood from head to toe.
“It’s not mine,” he says, reading the question in my eyes.
“Is it…?” My voice trembles.
“No. Your brothers and sister are alive and well.” He exhales heavily. “Cavaliere… not so much.”
Matteo shrugs off his jacket, then his shoes, as if the weight of the night were too much for him to carry any longer.
“Who?” I ask quietly.
“Cavaliere,” he repeats. “The Don of Long Island. I watched your brother Jude put two bullets in his skull tonight.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, sitting on the edge of the bed, my head hung low, knowing that another person lost their life because of me.
Matteo steps closer, lifting my chin gently.
“Don’t be sorry, vita mia,” he murmurs. “Cavaliere knew what he signed up for. He was more than happy to die for the cause.” He smiles at me, but it never reaches his eyes.
“I will say this,” he adds, voice low with exhaustion, “your family is one hell of a force to be reckoned with. I thought for sure Rocco was a goner when your sister hurled a blade at his eye. He only survived because Nico shoved him out of harm’s way at the last second.
Never seen someone handle a blade like that. She should’ve gone to the Olympics.”
“You sound impressed.”
“I sound tired, sweetheart.” He presses a soft kiss on my forehead. “Let me get out of these clothes and grab a shower. I’ve never liked having a dead man’s blood on my skin for too long.”
I nod, watching him empty his pockets, setting his loose change, keys, wallet, and phone aside before disappearing into the ensuite bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.
Silence fills the room immediately now that he’s no longer in it, my gaze drifting to the phone he left on the dresser.
Before I can second-guess myself, I grab it and begin to scroll through his contacts until I find my father’s name. My heart pounds with every ring.
“You have a lot of nerve—” my father growls.
“Papà?” There’s a sharp intake of breath.
“Anna? Anna! Is that you, angelo mio.?”
“Yes, Papà,” I choke out, emotion clogging my windpipes.
“Madonna santa, angelo mio!” he shouts. “We’ve been beside ourselves with worry. Ti voglio tanto bene, Anna. Tanto.” His voice sounds older, worn down, and pained.
“I love you, too, Papà. But you don’t have to worry. I’m fine, Papà. Truly,” I say, wiping the tears from my eyes.
“Where are you? Tell me, and I’ll send your brothers and sister to get you,” he rushes to say.
I shake my head, even though he can’t see me.
“That’s not why I’m calling.” I take a fortifying breath. “I need you to end this, Papà. End the war. Please… before more people die.”
“The war ends when you come home,” he pleads. “Just tell me where you are, and we’ll come find you. We’ll bring you home.”
“But I am home,” I say softly. “This is my home now. Matteo is my home.”
The line goes so quiet that I can actually hear my heart thumping in my chest.
“Is he there? Is he forcing you to say this?” my father says coldly. “I’ll kill him—”
“Papà, stop! Matteo isn’t even here. He’s in the shower.” Another bout of silence ensues, heavier this time.
“Did he… did he force himself on you?”
“What? No, Papà. Of course not. You’re not listening.” My voice cracks. “Matteo is my husband now and—.”
“That is not a marriage. He forced you into it, I know he did. That, sweet girl, is coercion. I’ll have that certificate burned and annulled before you even finish unpacking. Just tell me where you are. I’ll deal with Matteo later.”
It’s no use. He’s not hearing me. Or he’s being too stubborn to.
“That might have been true at the beginning,” I say, swallowing hard, “but not anymore. Matteo is my husband.” I inhale shakily.
“Please, Papà… end this war. Before you make me a widow. Before Marcello, or Jude, or Stella die because of me.” My voice breaks.
“I’m exactly where I want to be. Please…
do this for me.” A heavy sigh echoes through the line.
“Oh, my sweet, sweet girl… he’s twisted you up. He’s got you thinking things that are just not real. It happens more than you think to kidnap victims. It’s called Stockholm Syndrome. But when you come home, we’ll get you all the help that you need. Everything will be alright again.”
Through blurred vision, I listen as my father turns my husband into an even greater villain. He’s already made up his mind about us… about our love. There’s no talking him out of it. No stopping him from destroying my home, my heart, my husband.
“Can I talk to Mamma, please?” I ask, hoping she will be able to reason with him. If there is a voice any of my fathers listen to, it’s hers.
“Annamaria—”
“Please, Papà. I just want to talk to Mom now. Okay?”
“Okay, angelo mio. Okay,” he says, my heart cracking in two at how much misery my dejection has caused him. There’s a brief pause, then muffled movement before my mother picks up the phone.
“Anna?” My mother’s voice trembles through the line. “Is it really you, piccolina?”
“Yes, Mamma.”
The words have barely left my lips when she breaks out crying. Her tears feel like a spear to my heart. I’m causing my family so much pain, so much misery, while I’ve been the happiest I’ve ever been. If only they could see that.
“Mamma, please don’t cry. I’m fine. I really am,” I plead, only for her sobs to become louder. “I’m healthy. I’m safe. I’m… loved,” I confess, hoping it’s enough to stop her crying.
It’s not. In fact, her sobs have only grown into a full-blown meltdown.
This wasn’t my intention when I called home. I wanted my family to stop this war before they ended up killing each other. Before they killed the only man who had ever loved me for me.
As my mother continues to cry on the line, Matteo opens the bathroom door, steam billowing behind him, making him look as though Hades himself has just stepped into the world. My eyes lock on his as I keep the phone pressed to my ear.
“Please tell everyone that I’m fine. That I’m exactly where I should be.
Please try to convince Papà to end this war.
You’re the only one he’ll listen to. Please, Mamma.
Do this for me. I love you. I love all of you so much.
But please… if you love me too, end this war before it’s too late. ” And with that, I hang up the phone.
Matteo strides towards me, his towel hanging loosely around his hips. He picks up my chin with one hand, while taking the phone from my grip with the other.
“I don’t think it worked,” I say, silent tears streaming down my cheeks. “They didn’t listen to a word I said. How can I put a stop to this if they don’t listen? If they don’t believe me?”
Matteo wipes the tears from my eyes and lifts me into his arms, settling me on his lap.
“I love you so much, vita mia. So very fucking much,” he exhales, his voice rough, as he brushes my hair before pressing a soft kiss to the crook of my neck.
“But this war is so much bigger than you and me. Yes, stealing you from your family might have been the catalyst that started it all, but neither you nor I can stop it now. The only way out of this is to see it through,” he explains, releasing his hold on me to cup my face in his palms. “Having said that, it took courage to call your parents. I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. ”
“But it didn’t make a difference. Nothing I do ever makes a difference. You’re out there putting your life on the line, while I…” I swallow the sob that wants to rip me apart. “People are dying because of me. And I can’t stop it.”
“No,” he snaps more forcefully now. “People are dying because they have lived in bondage for too long under my father’s lackluster leadership and your father’s tyrannic rule.
They are fighting for freedom. Fighting for the city they love.
I don’t want you to ever live with the guilt of their deaths.
They died fighting for something they believe in.
As am I,” he says more gently now. “I’m fighting to keep the love of my life in my arms. And I will keep fighting until my last breath.
” I fall into his embrace and shatter in his arms, sobbing with the image he just planted in my head.
“Come, sweetheart. Let me turn those sobs into soft moans. You’ll feel much better after. ”
Matteo picks me up and lays me on the bed and proceeds to do just that.
After seeking comfort in each other, we lie in bed with a deafening silence.
His mind is trapped in war strategies, while my guilt refuses to let me sleep.
By the time sunlight filters through the curtains, neither of us has rested much.
“I’d like to go to church today,” I say, with my head nestled on his chest.
“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll make sure to set something up for you,” he says, brushing my hair with his fingers.
Matteo doesn’t ask why I suddenly need to go to church. He just complies, as if my wishes were commands, and he’ll do everything in his power to fulfill them.
Later that night, Matteo picks me up from our home and drives me to a quaint little church in Little Italy.
I’m relieved he didn’t take me to the same place we were married.
That cathedral was far too intimidating for me to feel God’s presence.
And right now, I need Him to hear me, since He’s probably the only one who can help, given that neither of my parents seems willing to.
I’m sure Matteo chose this smaller church because it’s easier to guard. When we walk up the steps, I spot six of his soldiers lined up by the door, and four SUVs with more soldati—our protection for the night.
“Wait here. If anything feels off, call me,” he says to one of his men.
The soldier nods, and Matteo places a hand on the small of my back, ushering me inside. The church is quiet and serene, not a soul within its walls. Not even a priest. I look at my husband, and he gives me a soft smile.
“I thought you might need some privacy. But if you want me to call a priest, I’m sure I have one on speed dial.”
“No, that’s okay. Men can’t help me, no matter what collar they wear,” I mutter, his brows knitting at my words.
“Do you want me to leave too?” I thread my fingers in his and shake my head.
“Stay. Please.” He nods, pressing a tender kiss to my temple.
I let go of his hand and walk toward the altar with Matteo at my heel.
I fall to my knees and clasp my hands, hoping to find God here, and ask Him to hear my prayer.
I beg Him to keep my family safe. To make sure no harm comes to the people I love.
To spare the lives of the innocent and put an end to the bloodshed, sooner rather than later.
I rise from my knees and move to light a few candles, each one meant to protect the people I love.
“Those are a lot of candles, sweetheart. Do you mind me asking why you are lighting so many?”
“Each candle symbolizes each person I want to keep safe. Each soul I want to protect.”
“Do I make the cut?” he asks lightheartedly, though I can tell he’s nervous about my reply.
“Yes,” I say, pointing to the first candle I lit.
“You lit mine first? Are you that worried about my eternal soul?” He chuckles.
“No.” I shake my head and place the wick back in its holder. “I lit yours first because you’re my husband,” I say, taking a step toward him. “And I love you.”
Matteo’s eyes widen, as if the words don’t quite make sense to him at first. But then something shifts in his expression, something raw and unguarded. Almost animalistic.
“Say that again,” he orders, grabbing my arms and pulling me against his chest.
“I love you, Matteo. With all my heart and soul. I love you.”
His lips crash into mine, kissing me brutally, madly, before he breaks the kiss just to glance at our surroundings.
“I can’t believe you waited until now to tell me,” he says, kissing my lips, cheek, jaw, anywhere and everywhere his lips land. “Let’s go home. I can’t fuck you here like I want to. Not when God’s watching,” he adds, his voice rough and dripping with desire.
“God is always watching, my love.”
“Well, he’s in for a show. I’m going to do very bad things to you when we get home.”
“Is that right?” I taunt, running my tongue over his bottom lip, just to hear him hiss.
“Fuck it. I might do them in the car on the way there.”
“Restraint. I’m surprised you can wait that long,” I tease, feeling lighter than I did before I set foot in this church.
“Are you toying with me right now, wife?” He arches a brow.
“Just a little, husband.”
He looks deep into my eyes and whispers, “Say it again.”
“I love you.”
He then picks me up and gently presses my back against the nearest stone column.
“One more time,” he says, his hand already up my skirt, lifting my leg to cradle his hip.
“I love you.”
“Again.”
“I love you,” I moan out when his hand slides between my thighs.
“Again.”
We never make it to the car, much less home.