“Why should I do any more business with a Corretti than necessary?”
“Because I hold your potential fortune in the palm of my hands. Not only that, I’ll be the father of your first grandchild. Mainly, though, because you’ll take what I give you, and no more. So it’s by my good grace that you will have anything.”
Antonioni’s cheeks turned red. It was clear the old man didn’t like being told what to do. “Corretti, I don’t have to give your family rights to—”
“And I don’t have to give you a damn thing. I know you’re making deals with Angelo. And you know how I feel about Angelo, which puts you in my bad book right off. I may, however, be willing to overlook it all if you do as I ask. So I suggest you take steps to make me happy. Send your children to college. I’m paying for it.”
“That’s hardly necessary.”
He thought of Alessia, of all she’d sacrificed for them. “Listen to me now, Battaglia, and remember what I say. Memorize it. Make a nice little plaque and hang it above your fireplace if need be: If I say it is necessary, then it is. So long as you do what I say, you’ll be kept well in the lifestyle you would like to become accustomed to.”
The other man nodded. “It’s your dime, Corretti.”
“Yes, and your life is now on my dime. Get used to that concept.”
Had Alessia’s father not said what he had, had he not acted as though her virginity, her body, was his bargaining tool, Matteo might not have taken such joy in letting the other man know his neck was, in effect, under his heel.
But he had. So Matteo did.
“I paid for one wedding,” Battaglia said. “I’m not paying for another.”
“I think I can handle that, too.” Matteo picked up the tiny glass hotel, turning it in front of the light. “You’re dismissed.”
Battaglia liked that last order least of all, but he complied, leaving Matteo’s office without another word.
Matteo tightened his hold on the small, breakable representation of his empire, curling his fingers around it, not stopping until it cracked, driving a shard deep into his palm.
He looked down, watched the blood drip down his wrist. Then he set the figurine back on his desk, examined the broken pieces. Marveled at how easy it was to destroy it with his anger.
He pulled the silk handkerchief out of the pocket of his jacket and wrapped the white fabric around his hand, pressing it hard, until a spot of crimson stained the fabric.
It was so easy to let emotion ruin things. So frighteningly easy.
He gritted his teeth, pushed the wall up around himself again. Control. He would have it, in all things. Alessia Battaglia was not allowed to steal it from him. Not anymore.
Never again.
“I’ve secured the marriage license, and we will have the wedding at my palazzo.” His inheritance after the death of his father. A piece of his childhood he wasn’t certain he wanted. But one he possessed nonetheless.
“Not at your family home?”
“I have no use for that place,” he said, his tone hard. “Anyway, it has all been arranged.”
Alessia stood up from the plush bed, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. “Really? And what shall I wear? How shall I fix my hair? Have you written my vows for me?”
“I don’t care. Who gives a damn? And didn’t someone already take care of writing vows for weddings hundreds of years ago?”
She blinked, trying to process his rapid-fire response. “I … Don’t you have … I mean, don’t I need to conform to some sort of image you’re projecting or … something?”
“This will be a small affair. We may provide the press with a picture for proof. Or perhaps I’ll just send them a photocopy of the marriage license. Anyway, you can wear what you like. I’ve never seen you not looking beautiful.”
The compliment, careless, offhanded, sent a strange sensation through her. “Oh. Well. Thank you.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Well, thank you again.”
She wasn’t sure what to do, both with him being nice and with him giving her a choice on what to wear to the wedding. Such a simple thing, but it was more than her father had given her when it came to Alessandro.
“As long as it doesn’t have lace,” she said.
“What?”
“The wedding dress.”
“The dress for your last wedding was covered in it.”
“Exactly. Hellish, awful contraption. And I didn’t choose it. I didn’t choose any of that.”
“What would you have chosen?” She shook her head and looked down. “Does it matter?”
“Why not? You can’t walk down the aisle naked and we have to get married somewhere, so you might as well make the choice.”
“I would wear something simple. Beautiful. And I would be barefoot. And it would be outside.”
He lifted his hand and brushed it over his short hair. “Of course. Then we’ll have it outside at the palazzo and you may forego shoes.” He lowered his hand and she saw a slash of red on his palm.
She frowned and stepped forward. “What did you do?”
“What?” He turned his hand over. “Nothing. Just a cut.”
“You look like you got in a fight.”
His whole body tensed. “I don’t get in fights.”
“No, I know. I wasn’t being serious.” Tension held between them as they both had the same memory. She knew that was what was happening. Knew that he was thinking of the day she’d been attacked.
But she wanted to know what he remembered, how he remembered it, because it was obvious it was something he preferred to ignore. Not that she loved thinking about it except … except as horrible as it had been to have those men touching her, pawing at her, as awful as those memories were, the moment when they’d been wrenched from her, when she’d seen Matteo … the rush of relief, the feeling of absolute peace and certainty that everything would be okay, had been so real, so acute, she could still feel it.
She’d clung to him after. Clung to him and cried. And he’d stroked her cheek with his hand, wiping away her tears. Later she’d realized he’d left a streak of blood on her face, from the blood on his hands. Blood he’d shed, spilled, for her.
He’d been her hero that day, and every day since. She’d spent her whole life saving everyone else, being the stopgap for her siblings, taking her father’s wrath if they’d been too noisy. Always the one to receive a slap across the face, rather than allow him near the younger children.
Matteo was the only person who’d ever stood up for her. The only one who’d ever saved her. And so, when life got hard, when it got painful, or scary, she would imagine that he would come again. That he would pull her into impossibly strong arms and fight her demons for her.
He never did. Never again. After that day, he even stopped watching her. But having the hope of it, the fantasy, was part of what had pulled her through the bleakness of her life. Imagination had always been her escape, and he’d added a richer texture to it, given a face to her dreams for the future.
He’d asked if she always spoke her mind, and she’d told him the truth, she didn’t. She kept her head down and tried to get through her life, tried to simply do the best she could. But in her mind … her imagination was her escape, and always had been. When she ran barefoot through the garden, she was somewhere else entirely.
When she went to bed at night, she read until sleep found her, so that she could have new thoughts in her head, rather than simply memories of the day.
So that she could have better dreams.
It was probably a good thing Matteo didn’t know the place he occupied in her dreams. It would give him too much power. More than he already had.
“I’m not like my father,” he said. “I will never strike my wife.”
She looked at him and she realized that never, for one moment, had she believed he would. Her father had kept her mother “in line” with the back of his hand, and he’d done the same with her. But even having grown up with that as a normal occurrence, she’d never once imagined Matteo would do it.
“I know,” she said.
“You know?”
“Yes.”
“And how is it you know?”
“Because you aren’t that kind of person, Matteo.”
“Such confidence in me. Especially when you’re one of the very few people who has actually seen what I’m capable of.”
She had. She’d seen his brute strength applied to those who had dared try to harm her. It had been the most welcome sight in all of her life. “You protected me.”
“I went too far.”
“They would have gone further,” she said.
He took a step away from her, the darkness in his eyes suddenly so deep, so pronounced, it threatened to pull her in. “I have work to do. I’ll be at my downtown office. I’ve arranged to have a credit card issued to you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black card, extending his hand to her.
She took it, not ready to fight with him about it.
“If you need anything, whatever you need, it’s yours.” He turned away and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
She’d done the wrong thing again. With Matteo it seemed she could do nothing right. And she so desperately wanted to do right by him.