“How did you do that?”
He winked. “Better not to ask.”
“Oh. Of course.”
He leaned against the desk. “You can surf the net, do anything you want, but no Facebook or social media accounts. No pictures.”
“I understand.”
“If there is something you want ordered online, please give the information to Matteo. It will be done, delivered to a safe location, and brought to you when it arrives.”
I highly doubted I would need anything, but I nodded.
“I made the username and password the same as Mrs. Armstrong had. She rarely ever used it. Change the password if you want.”
“Should I tell someone if I do?”
He laughed. “No. We don’t monitor the usage, Evie. Marcus mentioned you wishing you had your recipe book from that site, so I got that for you. Matteo thought a printer would be helpful for your recipes. That’s all.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“Anything else you need?”
“Can I use the Kindle app on that?” I asked hopefully.
“Yes.” He scribbled something on a piece of paper. “Use this email to open it and the credit card Matteo gave you to purchase the books.”
With a wave, he left. He seemed nice enough. I knew he was a cousin of Matteo’s. He was tall and slim, once again the Italian heritage showing with the dark hair and eyes. He and Roza made a good-looking couple.
I sat down, tracing the edge of the iPad. It was a sleek, top-of-the-line model—nicer than anything I had ever used before. I looked forward to trying it. Reading. Blaine hated it when I read. He felt as if I was ignoring him. He wanted my attention focused on him at all times.
I lifted my hand to my cheek, recalling the first time he’d hit me. I’d been reading and missed something he said. The next thing I knew, my Kindle was in pieces on the floor and my head rang from the slap across the face I’d received. The pain and shock had rendered me useless, and he had shaken me, screaming in my face about my priorities. It was the beginning of the nightmare my life became.
“Evie?” a quiet voice prompted.
I looked up, startled. “Matteo.” I stood. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I came to see if the tablet was acceptable. I thought you would like it.” He studied me. “Perhaps I was mistaken?”
“What?” I wiped my eyes. “Oh no, it’s lovely.”
“Why, then, are you crying? Did Alex say something that upset you? He said you thought you’d done something wrong, but that wasn’t why I was changing the equipment.”
“No, not at all.”
“Tell me,” he demanded, then tempered his voice and took my hand. “Please.”
Unable to look at him, I explained my memory.
His grip tightened on me, then he wrapped me in his arms. “Piccolina, I’m sorry. For all you went through.” He sighed. “For how we came to be. But you are here with me now and safe.” He pulled me closer. “He is dead now, Evie. You need never fear him again.”
My body jerked at his words. “Dead?” I whispered.
“Yes.”
“Did you–did you…?”
He sighed.
“No.” He eased back, lifting up my chin. “I had planned to, but he did it on his own. He pissed off another prisoner and was killed in a fight.”
“Oh.” A tremor went through me.
“This upsets you?” he asked, incredulous. “After all he did to you, you still have mercy for him?”
“No. It’s just a shock, I suppose. Maybe some relief?” I replied, unsure how to explain how I was feeling.
“You will never be touched in anger again. I swear this to you.”
“I know,” I murmured, nestling close, the fear fading and calm settling in my chest.
Was that what I needed? Matteo’s arms?
“I’m always safe with you.”
“You are. With me. In this house. Out with Marcus. You will always be safe.”
He pressed his lips to my head, holding me until Marcus’s voice spoke behind him.
“Matteo, Julian is on the line, waiting.”
“I’ll be right there.”
He pulled away and cupped my face. “Enough of the past. Make me some cookies, my wife. And a list of everything you want. A stereo for in here? New cookie trays? A bigger desk? Whatever you want, it is yours.” He nodded decisively and headed to the door to follow Marcus. He glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll be back to check on the cookie-making progress later.” He winked, making me smile, then he was gone.
With it, he took the bad memories that had appeared. He gave me something to do—asked me for something.
I had cookies to make.
Three hours later, the kitchen smelled like a bakery. Cookies of all sorts filled the containers on the counter. I’d found an old radio and turned it on, the music helping me feel more at home in the kitchen that still felt as if it belonged to someone else.
The kitchen door opened, and Matteo strode in, smiling.