But knowing my father, he would have traded me to one of them as a wife, I’m sure of it. As long as it got him what he wanted. But I never had a seat at the table. The men brought their sons to every meeting. I had to sit outside and watch. The sons were made to leave towards the end when, I’m assuming, certain things were spoken about that even they weren’t privy to hear, but they were included. I never was.
“I’m aware, and as the newest member of the syndicate, I would appreciate your transparency.”
Massimo barks out a laugh. “Member. Transparency.” He laughs again. “You.” He points. “Are not a member. You are not welcome here.”
“You will never be a member,” Mateo Mancini spits.
“Once Lorenzo and his sons arrive, you will need to be gone so we can start this meeting.”
“Oh.” I rub my neck. “You haven’t heard?” I smirk. “The Costas, they won’t be attending.” I stand, resting my knuckles on the table as I lean forward. “Who put the order out? Who made the call?”
I stare them down. Enzo De Luca looks confused. Mateo Mancini’s eyes dart, but him, Massimo Ricci, his eyes bore into mine unflinching; he fucking knew. Gotcha, motherfucker.
“Massimo, that’s very unsportsmanlike of you. I thought we had a deal?”
“Pfft. Deal? You think I’m going to allow you to take a space at this table? We,” he barks out, “run this city. We have for decades. You will never take a seat at this table.” I glance at Bellino, and there’s a fire that sparks in his eyes, a note, a promise—he’s coming for me, and it will be brutal. I rise, standing fully, and rest my hands on my hips.
“So, gentlemen. I’m assuming that no matter how I turn all this around, you still won’t accept me?”
“Ahh, now she gets it,” Massimo scoffs, and the others smirk and nod to each other.
“I don’t want a seat at your table, Massimo.” He smiles, he honestly fucking smiles, and the others look smug as I survey them all. “I have no intention of joining your little boys’ club. You don’t see me as an ally, a partner. As someone who’s an asset, useful or that I have my own connections to make something great. You see a little girl. Something you don’t have to deal with—a gnat, inconsequential. Well, I have news for you all. You’ve just made the biggest mistake of your careers. No, I don’t want a seat. I won’t accept one. I won’t take it. But I will take the whole fucking table.”
I stride towards the door, turning as I crack it open. “Good luck, gentlemen. May the odds be ever in your favour.” I step through, letting it click shut behind me, and stride down the corridor.
Luca and Matteo fall into step with me as I reach the lift. I press the button. When the doors slide open, I step inside, and we make our way down to the lobby. As we stride out, the phone rings, but I keep walking. I know they’re sending the messages that I’m not welcome anymore, but I don’t give a fuck. I’m gonna take it all and destroy every one of the fuckers who get in my way. Underestimate me, and I will make you regret it.
Once we’re back in the car. I let out a breath, and Matteo drives us back to the house. I’m so wound up. Everything is on high alert. I need to do something to ease this fucking tension.
I don’t talk the whole ride home, but neither do the boys, although Matteo keeps watching me, his eyes keep flicking to mine as I stare out of the window. I can feel his gaze on me. I can see the frown etched across his brow. His eyes flicking to the road and back to me. Luca is surveying everything. He’s doing his checks. Watching outside the vehicle, checking to make sure we’re not being followed, that there are no dangers heading towards us.
I wouldn’t put it past Massimo to send Bellino after me, and I know he’d take great pleasure in tearing me apart. Literally, the man is a beast. His reputation precedes him. He was the kind of kid who pulled the legs off spiders and ripped the wings off butterflies just to watch them squirm.
We pull up at the house, and I climb straight out. I don’t wait for either of them to open the door. I stomp up the driveway and straight into the house. I hear footsteps behind me, but I know it’s Matteo. I can sense him near.
I stalk through the room and out through the back into the swimming pool area. I start undressing. Tossingmy jacket on the lounger. I don’t turn. I don’t look to see if he’s still there. I know he is. I toss my gun down and remove my trousers. They pool around my boots, and I lean over, removing the other gun. I add that to the pile before undoing the zips and kicking them to the side. I rip my blouse over my head. Leaving me in my pants and bra.
I stride towards the pool and dive. When I break clear of the water, my arm arcs over my head, and I take a breath as my legs kick furiously, breaking into front crawl. My arms cut through the water as I cup my hands, dragging myself along behind them. The cold of the water bites into my skin. It sparks against it. Making me feel like I’m alive. It cools the rage inside me. It soothes something in me as I cut through the water. I reach the end, flip, push off the side, kicking hard before I break the surface. I take a breath and let the whole day wash off me. Concentrating on only me and the water, I breathe. I swim.
After a couple of minutes, even Matteo’s glaring stare fades, dissipating into the background. With every pull of my arms, my body glides through the water. I focus. I breathe. I take hold of the feeling, and I just swim. Length after length. I go until my lungs burn. Until my muscles ache and my eyes sting. I reach the end and stop. I drag in breath after breath. I rest my forehead on the side of the pool for a second before gripping onto the edge and letting myself slip under the water before thrusting up and heaving myself out.
When I jump up and pull myself out, standing on the side, dripping. Matteo steps up to me with a towel. I stare up at him. He nods, gives me a tight-lipped smile. Wrapping the towel around my shoulders. I stare up athim. It’s a tender moment as his hands linger, holding me so close. I take a breath and open my mouth to speak…
“Well, isn’t this fucking cosy?” Vittorio’s gruff voice echoes around the pool. Matteo’s arms wrap tighter for a split second. Before he relaxes and takes a step to the side, still keeping me close, still touching me.
Vittorio’s dark eyes glare at me and Matteo. The scowl that spreads across his face tells me more in that second than I’ve seen this whole time. Vittorio crosses his arms, his thick chest flexes, and his black t-shirt stretches tight across his tense biceps. The glare enhances his beauty, that deadly bad-boy look that works so well for him, the intricate lines and swirls of his tattoos, that dark hair rumpled and messy, hanging over his brow. His jeans hang low on his hips, and my gaze roams down his body, taking in every delicious inch until I reach his bare feet. I swallow. Fuck, that man is a wet dream.
I blink. Breaking the spell before I stare between them. I shake my head and stride away. I don’t turn. I keep going until I reach my room.
I slam open the door. I storm straight into the bathroom and into the shower. I toss my stuff in the hamper, and I turn the water on. The steam billows out, and I turn the temperature down. I step into the warm water. Lean against the wall and just let the water beat down on my neck and shoulders. I let it centre me. I know this is gonna be hard. Why are men so infuriating?
I blow out a breath. I know I need to set boundaries with Matteo. I need him, and I know if I cross that line, it will all go to shit. But those moments of tenderness, the way I catch him looking at me. It confuses me and makes me want to let him love me, but that’s the thing, isn’t it?He would undoubtedly love me. But would I love him in return?
I need to be strategic. I need to nurture powerful alliances. And I need to start with Vittorio. I don’t know whose side he’s on, but I need to figure that out, and the only way I’m gonna do that is by having a conversation. I think about what Marianne said, and I know she’s right. I just don’t know how to let my guard down and let someone in. I don’t know how to be me around anyone else. I’ve been so used to giving everyone what they want to fly under the radar that to be the real me sounds impossible. I don’t know if I can. Do I even know who I am?
I play the part, whatever part that person needs for me to get what I want, but it’s draining, masking all the time. I want to be myself. I just don’t know if anyone will accept me. The real me, I mean, the ruthless, nasty bitch that lives inside me, crawling to get out. Instead of the sweet, sickly thing I portrayed for years. The weak, pathetic waste of space—was that who Vittorio saw in the corridors? Is that who he wants, some caricature of myself?
But the real me, I take. I hate. I survive. I want to trust, but no one has ever seen me. Even Marianne only gets snippets of the real me. If I shed all the personas, what am I left with? I fake emotion. I fake existence, but I want to take it all and burn them around me until their extremities crisp, turn to ash and blow away in the breeze.
