Chapter 43
SEBASTIAN
She was hiding from me.
I’d arrived home after several late meetings only to learn that she had stormed to the upper level.
She then spent the evening dragging her personal items back into her old bedroom before locking herself in.
She hadn’t even come out to eat.
This was unacceptable.
Tearing off my tie, I kicked off my shoes and ripped open the buttons of my confining dress shirt. The urge to confront her was strong, but instinct told me that approach would only push her farther away. I needed her to see the man beneath the title, not the ruthless strategist she loathed.
Once I was dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans, I padded barefoot down the corridor to her bedroom.
As I raised my fist to bang on the door, I paused. Glancing down both sides of the corridor to make sure no one observed my foolishness, I pressed my ear to the door.
Silence.
No venting her anger to a friend, or worse, her mother, on the phone—or even, much worse, crying.
With a sigh, I curled my fingers into a fist and pounded on the door.
“Go away. I said I’m not hungry.”
“Sabrina. It’s Sebastian.”
A long pause. Then, clear and unwavering—
“Fuck off.”
I exhaled through my nose, rolling my shoulders. “Open this door.”
“May I remind you, Signore Diamanti, that my workday is finished? I’m now on my own personal time.”
“I’m not asking as your boss. I’m asking as your—”
Fuck. I’d almost said husband.
I dragged a hand through my hair, forcing patience I didn’t feel. “Just open the damn door.”
“Go to hell.”
“Sabrina. I’m warning you.”
A sharp, disbelieving laugh rang out. “For once, being forced to live in this stupid prison is worth it. We both know you can’t break down that door.”
She was right. The door was thick, solid oak with wrought iron hinges. It would be madness to throw my shoulder against it. Instead, I stretched my arm out, fingertips skimming the upper doorframe until I felt cool metal.
The key.
After slipping it into the lock, I turned it with a slow, deliberate click before pushing the door open.
From the bed, Sabrina sat up, her midnight-dark hair wild around her shoulders. “What the fuck? That was locked!”
I held up the key, my slow smirk infuriating her further. “Was it?”
Her eyes blazed as I pocketed it, certain this wouldn’t be the last time I’d need it.
Sabrina launched off the bed, her fury palpable. “That is it! I’m done.”
She yanked her suitcase from the closet and threw it onto the bed with a resounding thud. After marching to the wardrobe, she flung it open and grabbed entire outfits, hangers and all. She stomped back to the bed and shoved them inside with forceful, jerky movements.
“I’m leaving. I’m not staying another night under this roof with you.”
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “We’ve already been through this, sweetheart. There isn’t a hotel in Rome that will give you a room.”
“Fine! Then I’ll sleep on the street!”
My smirk faded. “You can’t honestly think I’d allow that.”
She turned, her eyes flashing with defiance. “I don’t give a flying fat rat’s ass what you will or won’t allow, Sebastian.”
I chuckled. “Colorful.”
She swept her hand over her bureau, knocking perfume bottles into a makeup bag with a clatter. “I signed a six-month contract with the House of Diamanti, and I will honor it. Besides, I still have unfinished business in Rome. But nothing in that contract says I have to live with you.”
Unfinished business?
My stubborn girl had better not mean the judge. There was no fucking way I would let her anywhere near that man. Last night had been a mistake. One I wouldn’t repeat.
But right now, I had a more pressing matter—convincing her it was in her best interest not to defy me.
“Does it matter to you that this displeases me?”
Sabrina let out an unladylike snort. “Nothing would give me more pleasure in the world than knowing I’ve displeased you.”
I arched a brow. “Nothing? Really? Is that a challenge?” I prowled closer, my tone turning silken. “Because I can think of more than a few things that would give you far more pleasure than that.”
Her hands clenched into fists. “Don’t try charming your way out of this, Sebastian. I’m angry. Beyond angry.”
“Noted.”
She struggled to zip her overstuffed suitcase, her fingers fumbling as fabric spilled over the edges. “Dammit.”
I watched her, amused. “My staff tells me you haven’t eaten.”
She didn’t look up. “Of course they have. The whole house is filled with your spies. I’m not hungry.”
“I think you should eat. Come with me. I’ll make you something.”
“No.”
“It wasn’t a request.”
She let out a humorless laugh. “Funny how that doesn’t change my answer.”
God, she was so fucking adorable when she was angry. Her blue eyes sparkled, her cheeks bloomed a becoming pink. Her stubbornness only made me want to break her resolve more.
“Fine,” I murmured, stepping closer. “Please remember that I tried to ask you nicely.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What do you—”
I moved swiftly. Snatching her by the upper arm, I spun her to face me before bending, pressing my shoulder against her middle. With one sharp motion, I lifted her off the floor.
“Oh my God! Put me down.”
“No.”
She shrieked, kicking wildly, her fists pounding against my back. “Sebastian! Put me down this instant!”
I held her tighter against me as I carried her through the bedroom doorway.
A furious growl ripped from her throat. “I swear to God, I will murder you in your sleep.”
I smirked and delivered a playful swat to her ass. “Behave.”
The muffled screech she let out against my back only made me grin wider.
She could fight me all she wanted. But she wasn’t going anywhere.
And by the time I was through, she wouldn’t want to.
* * *
I finally set her down on a stool on the other side of the large marble island, releasing her only when I was sure she wouldn’t bolt.
The kitchen was a chef’s dream—sprawling counters of cool Carrara marble, dark walnut cabinetry, and high-end appliances seamlessly built into the sleek design.
Warm, ambient lighting softened the sharp lines of the space, making it feel inviting despite its grandeur.
Sabrina crossed her arms over her chest, her lips pursed as she glared at me.
“You cannot live in Rome and not eat an authentic Pasta Carbonara,” I announced.
She arched a brow. “What’s your special ingredient? Arsenic?”
I smirked as I moved to the cabinets and pulled out a deep skillet and a pot for the pasta. “Close. It’s guanciale. You Americans always screw it up and use bacon.”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s cured pork cheek.”
Her nose scrunched adorably. “Gross.”
Ignoring her dramatics, I reached for a bottle of crisp white wine, uncorked it with a practiced twist, and poured two glasses.
I slid one toward her. “You’ll try it and like it, little one.”
She hesitated before taking a slow sip. “Okay,” she conceded. “But after this, I’m leaving.”
I bit back a smirk and filled a large pot with water, then set it to boil on the stove. “We’ll see.”
As I placed the guanciale onto a cutting board, I continued. “While this is the quintessential Roman pasta dish, its origins are disputed. Some think it was created by charcoal makers—carbonari means ‘charcoal makers’ in Italian.”
Sabrina, despite herself, leaned forward slightly as I sliced the guanciale into thick, meaty strips and slid them into the heated skillet.
The fat sizzled immediately, releasing a rich, smoky aroma.
I grabbed a wedge of Pecorino Romano from the counter and held it out to her. “Grate this.”
She accepted the cheese with a sigh and started grating. “The black specks from the pepper are supposed to be the coal dust, right?”
I nodded, stirring the sizzling pork. “Exactly.”
She kept grating. And grating. “Is this enough yet?”
I barely glanced over. “No, keep grating.”
She huffed but obeyed.
“Another theory is that Roman trattoria owners made it for American soldiers after the war to satisfy their craving for bacon and eggs.”
“That sounds silly,” she muttered. “They could’ve just made the soldiers some scrambled eggs.”
I chuckled, reaching for a bowl to crack fresh eggs into. “My thoughts exactly. My favorite theory is that it was the signature dish of a secret society, also named the Carbonari.”
She paused mid-grate then shot me a look. “You would like that version.”
I smirked as I whisked the eggs. “It has a certain charm, doesn’t it?”
The water had reached a rolling boil. I tossed in a generous handful of salt before adding the pasta, then I stirred to keep it from sticking.
Sabrina stopped grating and flexed her fingers. “Now?”
I examined the pile of cheese. “That’ll do.”
Satisfied, she set the grater down and rubbed her hand, but I could see the curiosity in her eyes as she watched me cook.
I combined the frothy eggs with the finely grated Pecorino, forming a thick, creamy mixture.
I lifted a spoonful of the sauce and held it out to her. “Taste.”
She hesitated, her lips parting slightly before she leaned forward, wrapping them around the spoon. She hummed as she withdrew, her tongue flicking over her lower lip, then she licked the tip of her finger where a bit of sauce had dripped.
Hunger coiled in my gut.
“Okay,” she moaned softly. “That is good.”
“Fuck, woman. Keep moaning like that, and we won’t make it to dinner.”
Never in my life had I been jealous of a spoon.
“When do you add in the cream?”
I held my hand up, pinching my fingers. “Mamma mia. You Americans and your cream! There is no cream in Carbonara. And while I’m at it, there is also no cream in Alfredo sauce.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Seriously?”
“Yes. It is only good quality butter and cheese for Alfredo. You are supposed to use the starch of the pasta water for thickness. Not cream.”
She ran her tongue over her lower lip. “That’s funny. I thought you liked…cream.”
After picking up the wooden spoon, I gave it a quick wag in front of her. “Keep talking like that and I’m going to spank you with this.”
Fuck. There was something so undeniably alluring about her innocent seduction.
It was like watching an angel give a striptease.
I removed the pasta from the water, transferring it still dripping directly into the skillet with the crispy guanciale.
I killed the heat and poured the creamy Pecorino-egg mixture over the top, then I tossed it quickly to coat the pasta without scrambling the eggs.
The result was a luscious, velvety sauce that clung perfectly to every al dente strand.
Sabrina leaned forward, inhaling deeply. “Damn.”
I plated up two dishes and grabbed the wine. “Come.”
She lifted her brows. “Where?”
Ignoring her question, I led her past the formal dining room and deeper into the palazzo, through a set of double doors, and into a small yet elegant room filled with cozy furniture.
A fire crackled in a stone hearth, casting warm shadows over the rich leather armchairs and the slightly worn but inviting sofa.
I gestured toward it. “Sit.”
Sabrina hesitated before lowering herself onto the plush cushions, her fingers tracing the soft fabric. “What is this room?”
“My private drawing room.” I handed her a plate and a glass of wine. “We can eat in the formal dining room if you prefer.”
She looked around again then shook her head. “No. This is the first room that feels normal in this whole place.”
I sat beside her, close enough that our knees brushed.
After replenishing our wine, I twirled my fork into the pasta and took a bite.
She followed suit, lifting her fork and swirling it through the creamy, glistening strands. As soon as she took her first bite, her head fell back slightly, eyes fluttering shut as she let out another moan.
I shifted uncomfortably, my cock responding instantly.
Adjusting my jeans, I forced myself to focus. “So, what do you think of your first authentic Carbonara?”
She opened her eyes, her lips curving into a slow smirk. “Don’t quit your day job.”
I scoffed then reached out and tugged one of her curls, letting it slip between my fingers.
She swatted at my hand, laughing, and for a moment, the tension between us shifted, softening.
But beneath the lighthearted exchange, something simmered.
Something deeper.
As we fell into a comfortable silence, I watched her.
She was still mad. Still hurt.
But she was here.
And for tonight, that was enough.
But I knew better than to believe in peace.
This was only a lull in the storm, a fragile moment held together by the warmth of food and wine, by the illusion of normalcy.
Because no matter how much I wanted to keep her here, safe and tucked away in my world, the truth was that danger had already found her.
Because of me.
The judge now knew of her existence.
This had been my plan all along. My carefully constructed revenge, my way of luring the bastard out into the open. She was the perfect pawn, the unknown daughter, the weakness he never saw coming.
And I had used her without hesitation.
Until now.
Because now I wanted her in a way I hadn’t anticipated. Now the thought of handing her over to fate—to the chaos I had orchestrated—unsettled me in a way nothing else ever had.
The judge would come for her.
He’d see her as a liability, something to be discarded like all the others who had outlived their usefulness.
Whether I admitted it or not, I was the reason she was in danger.
And if I couldn’t protect her, it wouldn’t be the judge who destroyed her.
It would be me.