Fina chews her lip anxiously. “Will he hurt Matteo?”
“Not if I have anything to do with it.” I wouldn’t put it past Father to send Matteo away or deliberately put him in danger in the hope some fucker kills him. Plausible deniability and all. To stop that from happening, I plan to have a word and disabuse him of that idea.
Under normal circumstances, Fina would have moved out years ago, but because she’s female and our father is an overprotective asshole, she still lives at home.
Matteo has been taking one hell of a risk sneaking into her bedroom. A risk that has come back to bite him.
It’s a miracle Father hadn’t strung Matteo up already, but knowing him, he’s waiting for the optimal moment. That’s how he operates.
“I need to talk to Matteo. Fuck, I have to warn him!” Fina pushes her wine to one side and jumps up. “If he’s in danger, he has to leave, Angelo. I can’t bear the thought of Dad punishing him for being with me.” Her eyes shine with tears. “I love him, and he loves me. We want to be together, but…”
“Yeah, I know. You can’t.”
“Fuck this life.” She picks up her wine glass and launches it at the fireplace. Wine splashes the decorative flower arrangement while shards of glass sprinkle the rug. “I fucking hate it!”
“Calm down. I’ll speak with Dad, see what he says. I’m sure I can talk him out of doing anything stupid."
My sister wraps her arms around me and hugs me hard. “Thank you, Angelo. You’re my favorite brother.”
Neither of us mentions Luka.
She briefly frowns. Luka continues to be a pain in my ass, but I know Fina adores him. I watch her leave and then pour myself another drink. The minute I lift the glass to my lips, my phone rings.
“Any news?” Kane’s been running down a lead in Texas. Neither of us expected it to come to anything, but the informant is someone he trusts, so he traveled there to check it.
“I found her. She’s unconscious right now, but good luck to you when she comes around. Fucking bitch broke my nose.” I wondered why his voice sounded weird.
“That’s my wife you’re talking about,” I snap, but he just laughs.
“We’ll be back in roughly five hours.”
He ends the call, and I push my glass to one side.Well, well. My evening just got a lot more interesting. The thought of finally bringing my runaway bride home raises a smile.
4
Chiara
There’s a pneumatic drill going full throttle inside my head when I open my eyes. I’m half expecting to find myself chained to a wall in a concrete cell, but to my surprise, someone has placed me on a soft bed in an attractive, if somewhat bland, bedroom.
Soft cream drapes obscure the window. There’s a vase of fresh flowers on a side table, and a half-open door leads to an attached bathroom. Judging by the light flooding in through the drapes, I’ve been unconscious for more than a couple of hours.
The handsome bastard who ambushed me outside Mack’s bar said he was Angelo’s best friend. I grin as I remember the satisfying crunch his nose made when my head slammed into it.
Sadly, that was the only decent hit I got in. Who knows where I am right now, but at least it’s comfortable. Presumably, that will change if I don’t cooperate. My head throbs, and nausea swirls in my belly as I drag myself off the bed. I can’t ignore my bladder any longer, and I desperately need a drink of water.
The bathroom is luxurious, with a large walk-in shower, marble surfaces, and a bathtub next to a window overlookinglandscaped gardens. Is this Angelo’s home? It doesn’t look or feel like a hotel room.
I should feel pissed. Angry.Fucking furiousabout being snatched off the street, removed from a life I’ve made for myself, away from my awful stepmother who never treated me as anything other than an investment. But I'm all out of spoons right now.
I’m tired of running. Tired of lying to everyone about who I am and where I’ve come from. And besides, I knew all along this cat-and-mouse chase would eventually end. Angelo Di Rossi is not a man to let a runaway bride get the better of him.
A wan face stares back at me from the bathroom mirror. My hair’s not in the best condition thanks to box dyes and poor nutrition, and there are bags large enough for a three-week Hawaiian vacation under my eyes.
Given the state of me, it’s a strong possibility my husband won’t want his bride any longer. If I’m really lucky, he’ll decide I’m too much trouble and trade me in for a new one.
I live in hope.
After brushing my teeth and drinking two cups of water, I explore my palatial new bedroom. The walk-in closet is well stocked with clothes, all of which are more or less in my size. Whoever shopped on my behalf has good taste.
