Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
brIAR
Matteo texts again midmorning. The message pops up while Stacy and I are reviewing the seating plans for the Met event. My stomach drops the moment I see his name.
Dinner instead. Seven thirty. Same place. Don’t be late.
The confidence dripping from the words turns my stomach. I want to throw the phone across the room. I want to pretend I never saw it. I want to delete the message and forget I ever agreed to meet him. But I type back anyway.
Fine.
The moment I hit send I regret it. A heavy, suffocating guilt sinks into my lungs.
All day in the loft I feel like I’m walking through water, every breath thick and tight. Stacy sits near me at the dining table, her hair up in a messy knot, laptop open, trying not to probe too deeply. I can tell she is desperate to ask if I told Lucien. The answer is written all over my face.
I did not.
I should tell him. He deserves to know. He would protect me. He would never let Matteo near me again. But if I tell him he will go after Matteo. Someone will die. Maybe both of them. I couldn’t live with that. I won’t be the reason everything burns down.
So I say nothing.
We work quietly. Emails. Seating charts. Catering confirmations. Security schematics. My hand shakes every time I reach for my coffee. The pain in my jaw throbs with every movement. My lip pulls against the stitches as it slowly heals.
Every time my phone lights up, I flinch.
The guilt is worse than the fear now. It settles like acid in my chest. If this doesn’t work tonight.
If Matteo refuses to listen. If he refuses to let me go.
Then I have no choice. I will have to leave New York.
Leave Stacy. Leave everything. Maybe even leave Lucien without explanation.
I will disappear again. It’s the only way everyone stays safe.
Lucien calls just before six. He tells me he has been called into an urgent meeting and won’t be back at the loft until late. His voice sounds strained but calm. He has no idea what I’m planning. The relief that floods me tastes bitter.
After we hang up, I sit frozen for several minutes, shaking. Then I stand and walk to the bedroom to change. I put on dark jeans and a soft, black sweater, nothing special. I look exhausted in the mirror. My bruises are fading but still visible. There is no way to hide what Matteo did.
Stacy watches silently as I pull a coat from the wardrobe. She knows. I don’t need to say anything. She walks over and wraps her arms around me, holding me tightly.
“Please be careful,” she whispers.
“I will.”
“Please tell Lucien.”
“I will,” I lie, because I can’t say anything else. I pick up my bag and walk toward the door. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
Security is distracted downstairs, two guards laughing at something on their phones. Hockey highlights playing loudly. They don’t look up as I pass. I slip out into the cold night.
If Lucien knew I left without an escort he would tear the city apart. But I have to do this. I need to try one last time to end this without more violence.
The cab drive to the restaurant is uneventful.
I enter the restaurant and inwardly cringe at its lit candles placed in the windows, soft piano playing inside, the ambiance one of romance and intimacy.
Matteo is already seated at a table near the back.
He stands as I approach, smiling like nothing is wrong.
He looks polished and elegant in a tailored suit. Dark hair impeccably styled. Collected. Calm. A throwback to the man I met years ago on a beach in Spain. The one who told me I was beautiful with such sincerity I believed him. It’s terrifying how easily a monster can hide behind a handsome visage.
He leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek. I pull back slightly, but he still touches my skin. My stomach lurches. I want to vomit. I want to run. I want to claw his eyes out.
“Sit,” he says, pulling out my chair.
I lower myself cautiously, every muscle tight with tension. He gestures for the waiter and orders two glasses of white wine before I can speak. I don’t want wine. I want to leave. I want to walk out the door and never see him again.
“So,” Matteo says as he settles opposite me. “We talk.”
“Yes,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I want you to leave me alone. I want you to move on. I want this to end. If you ever cared about me at all, you will let me go.”
He watches me with an expression that is almost gentle. He nods slowly. I think maybe, for a moment, he might understand.
But then the softness vanishes. “No,” he says with perfect calm.
“I’m still in love with you. In my mind, we are still married.
You can’t cheat on me with a Moretti and expect me to forgive that.
It’s the ultimate betrayal.” He reaches out and brushes a finger over my jaw.
“I hate seeing you bruised. I hate that you made me do that to you, darling.”
My chest tightens painfully. “We’re divorced. You signed the papers. You let me go and you need to stop this madness before someone is dead.”
“I made a mistake.” His eyes sharpen and I see the hint of the anger that assaulted me but days ago. “I want you home. And nothing else will satisfy me.”
“I’m not coming back to your home.”
“You will.” His voice is low and quiet. “Or your cousin will pay the price. And your family. And your boyfriend. I know everything about him and your life now. No one will survive if you try to run from me again.”
The words slam into me like a blow. The room spins. There it is. The truth. He will never let me go. He will watch me forever. Hunt me forever. Hurt everyone around me until I have nothing left. He will destroy me piece by piece and enjoy every moment.
The fight drains out of me. I slump back into my chair and clasp my hands to stop them trembling. Without thought, I sip the wine without tasting it. The glass is cold in my fingers. I swallow the last mouthful and set it down.
“Then there is nothing more to discuss,” I say quietly. “I’m leaving.”
He nods once. That is all. He watches me gather my bag. He doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t move. He is still a predator deciding when to strike. It’s too easy. Too quiet. Something is wrong.
I leave the restaurant and step outside.
My legs feel unsteady and I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience.
I hail a cab and it pulls to the curb, and I climb in fast, glancing behind me, out of fear or habit, I did not know.
Perhaps both. Matteo remains inside. He hasn’t followed, but I see him in the recesses of the restaurant, his dark, ominous gaze set on me.
The cab pulls into traffic, but still I’m not safe. None of us are safe. I’ve ruined everything. I’ve dragged danger into Lucien’s life. I’ve put Stacy at risk. I should have stayed away. I should have never come back to New York.
When I reach the loft, the lights are off. Lucien isn’t home. My chest squeezes with panic. Stacy has left a note that she’s returned home for the night and for me to call her the moment I return. I send off a quick text and head to the bathroom.
I shower, letting the hot water pound against my skin until my muscles soften and my thoughts quiet. I pull on pajamas and sit on the sofa, checking my texts. No new messages from Lucien.
The silence feels like a scream.
Where is he? Why is he not home? Why hasn’t he called? Did he go after Matteo? Did he know of my meeting him?
I turn on the TV for noise and flip through channels until I land on a late-night news broadcast. A red banner streaks across the bottom of the screen.
Breaking news. Underworld figure Matteo Romero found dead in an alley in Midtown. Police sources confirm the body was discovered brutally beaten with a single gunshot wound to the head. Investigations ongoing. Possible gang retaliation suspected.
My phone slips from my hand and lands with a thump on the rug.
The room closes around me. Oh God. Matteo is dead.
Someone killed him. Brutally. Execution style.
How did this happen? Who did it? Did Lucien?
Was he pushed too far? Did I push him too far?
Lucien swore he would handle Matteo legally.
Did he break that promise? Did he destroy everything for me?
I can’t look away from the screen. Matteo’s face flashes in a photo taken before his arrest several years ago.
I recognize the image immediately as I’m the woman with his arm around, but thankfully cut out of the broadcast. I shake my head, staring at Matteo’s arrogance. Now he is lying in a body bag.
The elevator door opens and Lucien steps into the loft. His coat is dark and damp from the weather. His expression gives nothing away. He doesn’t look at me. He walks straight past, his shoulders tense, his jaw locked.
He disappears into the bedroom without a word.
I sit frozen on the sofa, hating that there had been no hello.
No recognition at all. The shower turns on and I debate going to him.
Did he kill Matteo? Am I in love with a man capable of murder?
Have I become part of a world I swore I would never return to?
What do I do now? How do I ask him? How do I breathe?
I stare at the closed bedroom door until my vision blurs.
I have never felt so alone.