6. Azra
Azra
My suitcase wheels rattle behind me as I follow a maid down the long hallway. My uneasy steps echo off the polished floors and tall ceilings, and my heart races faster than it should. It’s too reckless and unstable for someone who strategizes every move.
I must still be reeling from the aftershock of Matteo’s agreement.
I didn’t think he’d go along with my plan. I thought he’d laugh in my face, toss money at me, and send me away.
Honestly, if it had gone that route, I would have deposited the money back into his account the first chance I got. I don’t want anything from him. I merely need leverage to get Antonio to look at me like he did when his father arranged our marriage.
As I shadow the maid through the grand Caruso family estate, the memory of a phone call earlier today presses in, sharp and unwelcome, like a scab I can’t stop picking at.
Vivienne, the wedding planner, called while I was still at the private airstrip. Her voice was breathless and frantic, and my stomach dropped before I even understood why she was reaching out.
“Azra, I can’t believe it,” she said, her words tumbling over each other. “Antonio contacted me only minutes after dismissing me.”
I remember gripping the phone tighter, my pulse spiking. “About what? Are they still upset that you’re refusing to refund their deposit?”
Don Adami is cheap. Even with Vivienne’s cancellation fee at only ten percent, he hesitated to sign her on as our wedding planner. He claimed that he should not be held responsible for any payment if the event was canceled. I guess he forgot how much time Vivienne puts into each event.
“No. Quite the opposite, actually. Antonio paid the entire invoice. In full.”
My lungs took stock of my oxygen levels, and the world tilted. Not a lot, more like the ground wasn’t as solid as I thought.
Vivienne adopted the tone wedding planners use when they know they’re saying something they shouldn’t but can’t help themselves.
“You couldn’t have picked a better man to make Antonio green with envy.
I’ve worked with the Adami family for years.
Antonio doesn’t like sharing, but he doesn’t want what everyone else has either.
He wants what Matteo has. Always has. He’s been jealous of him since they were boys.
” Her next words landed in my stomach like a stone, heavy and cold.
“If you want this wedding to go ahead, keep working the angle you are. You’ll be Mrs. Azra Adami before you know it. ”
I hated hearing my name next to Antonio’s, but it gave me the push I needed to tell the driver not to return to the Adami compound. I asked him to take me to the Caruso residence instead.
Antonio idolizes Matteo.
Antonio envies Matteo.
Antonio wants what Matteo has.
And somehow, I needed to become a major part of that equation.
The memory fades as the maid stops in front of a large, gleaming door. With a polite nod, she opens it and I enter, dragging my suitcase behind me.
Immediately, my confusion spikes.
The room is too girly to belong to a man as dangerous as Matteo Caruso.
Floral curtains cover the floor-to-ceiling windows, pastel bedding makes it clear whoever designed this room truly believes a bed is only used for sleep, and a cushioned stool rests under a vanity mirror I swear my grandmother owns.
Absolutely nothing about it feels like Matteo. Not the colors, the furniture, or the atmosphere.
“Is this Matteo’s room?” I ask, turning toward the maid.
She stiffens, her eyes lowering to her gleaming white shoes.
“No English,” she says quickly.
I don’t know her, but I know she’s a fool. Lying is punishable by death in most mafia families. How do I know she’s lying? She spoke perfect English downstairs.
I narrow my eyes before playing this game like a true connoisseur of dangerous situations. “Davvero? E allora perché parlavi inglese un minuto fa?”
She freezes but remains quiet.
I cross my arms, hardening my stance. “Rispondi.”
Her throat works hard to swallow before she proves her foolhardiness by replying in English. “This isn’t Signor Matteo’s room. It’s where he brings… women.”
Women.
Plural.
My stomach twists until an ugly, unmovable lump forms beneath my ribs. “Women?”
She nods before wincing like she expects me to explode.
I’m about to respond with something I’ll probably regret later when the bathroom door swings open.
A woman steps out.
An extremely beautiful woman.
She’s wearing silky lingerie that’s absolutely not meant for public viewing. Her hair is perfect, and her skin shines with effortless flawlessness.
If I weren’t such a girly girl, I’d hate her on sight.
I don’t hate her. I just dislike the circumstances behind my desperation.
When she notices me, she freezes halfway to the bed. “Oh… You’re not Matteo.”
“No,” I say flatly. “I’m not.”
Her lips hike up at one side. “I had an inkling he’d want to spice things up eventually, but I had no clue he’d take this route.
” Lust sparks through her eyes as she drags them down my frozen form.
“I’m not disappointed. You’re gorgeous.” Her smile announces she’s accustomed to being admired.
“Come in. He shouldn’t be too far away. He usually comes by around this time. ”
It’s a struggle to express my words without sounding bitchy, but I pull it off. Just. “What’s your hourly rate?”
Her megawatt smile falters. “Sorry?”
“I’m not judging.” I wave my hand through the air in a manner my mother would be proud of. “We all need to make a living. All I’m interested in finding out is what he pays you… so I can double it for you to leave before he gets here.” My last sentence leaves my mouth in a hurry.
Her teeth graze her lower lip. “Double of nothing is still nothing, sweetie.”
I blink, shocked. “He doesn’t pay you?”
“No, he doesn’t.” After dumping shower products into a bag by the bed, she flops onto the mattress.
“He’s never offered, but I have no desire to charge him either.
Who in their right mind would? Have you seen him?
He’s gorgeous, and his cock is…” An inappropriate moan cuts off her reply and fills the room with negative energy.
Jealousy strikes so fast that it’s mortifying. A hot, irrational flare shoots through my head, scattering my thoughts. Momentarily, I consider backing out of my plan entirely, but then my gaze catches something small and familiar on my wrist.
The friendship bracelet tied around my wrist many moons ago is as fragile as my ego now feels, but it’s a silent reminder of a promise I can’t break.
I straighten up, then become a woman I swear I never wanted to be.
“Get out,” I say, nudging my head to the door.
The woman laughs. “What?”
“Out!” I repeat, my voice unshakable. “And don’t come back. Ever!”
I place her age closer to Matteo’s than mine when lines scour her forehead. “Who do you think you are?”
Stepping closer, I use every ounce of my determination to sharpen my tone. “I’m Matteo’s fiancée.”
The woman’s face drains of color so fast that it’s impressive. Her mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, searching for a comeback her bewilderment won’t let her find.
She flicks her eyes to the maid, then back to me, hoping someone will tell her she misheard me.
No one does.
The maid places her hand on her chest, and her pupils dilate to the size of coins. Upon noticing my gaze, she whispers something in Italian that suspiciously resembles a prayer.
The woman stumbles off the mattress, her heel catching on the lip of the rug. “F-fiancée?” Her composure suddenly shrinks, losing the confidence it had earlier. “As in… engaged?”
“As in betrothed.” I wait for the silent warning in my words to settle between us. “As in contracted to marry. As in Matteo isn’t someone you should wait for in silk, barely there lingerie.”
Her cheeks flush a deep, mortified red.
“I-I didn’t know,” she stammers. “He never said… I mean, we don’t really talk, but he didn’t even hint that he was getting married.”
I can’t let her off the hook by telling her this is as fresh as a newborn baby, or she may hang around and ruin my plan, so I cock my hip and fan my hand across it. “Of course he didn’t.” My voice is terrifyingly calm, even to my own ears. “But now you know.”
As her shock subsides into anger, she grabs a trench coat out of her bag and tightens it around herself. “I’m not like that. If I had known—”
“You know now,” I interrupt, my tone soft but sharper, like a fluffy sock wrapped around a baseball bat. “So get your things and leave.”
She doesn’t argue this time.
Frantically, she scrambles around the room, grabbing her shoes, her bag, and a leather jacket hanging over a chair. Her hurried movements cause her to drop her phone twice.
The maid steps aside as she rushes past, stumbling over her feet in her haste to leave.
From the safety of the hallway, she glances back at me with wide, fearful eyes. “Are you really his fiancée?”
I hold her gaze, unblinking. “Yes.” Lying isn’t hard when it’s the only way to survive.
She nods quickly—too quickly—then disappears down the hallway.
The silence that follows her brisk exit settles over the room like dust, and the maid looks at me as if I’ve banished a king from his chambers.
I’m just as panicked, but the game isn’t close to over yet.
It can’t be until I’ve married Antonio.
“Portami nella stanza vera di Matteo.”
She nods so fast that strands of glossy locks bounce free from her bun. “Yes, miss. Right away.”
She’s already halfway out the door before all her reply leaves her mouth, terrified of disappointing me again now that she knows my placement in the Caruso realm.
This time, she doesn’t dare lead me anywhere but exactly where I need to be.