Alessia couldn’t speak past the lump in her throat. She tried to avoid the L word. The one that was stronger than like. There was only so much a woman could deal with at once. So instead, she just nodded and watched Teresa walk back up toward the house.
Alessia stayed in the garden and waited. The darkness thickened, the lights burning brighter. And Matteo didn’t come.
She moved into the house, walked up the stairs. The palazzo was completely quiet, the lights off. She wrapped her arms around herself, and made her way back to the bedroom Matteo had put her in to get ready.
She went in and sat on the edge of the bed and waited for her husband to come and claim his wedding night.
CHAPTER SIX
MATTEO DIDN’T GET DRUNK as a rule. Unfortunately, he had a tendency to break rules when Alessia Battaglia—or was she Alessia Corretti now?—was involved.
Damn that woman.
Even after his father’s death he hadn’t gotten drunk. He’d wanted to. Had wanted to incinerate the memories, destroy them as the fire had destroyed the warehouses, destroyed the man who had held so much sway over his life.
But he hadn’t. Because he hadn’t deserved that kind of comfort. That kind of oblivion. He’d forced himself to face it.
This … this he couldn’t face.
He took another shot of whiskey and let it burn all the way down. It didn’t burn as much at this point in the evening, which was something of a disappointment. He looked down at the shot glass and frowned. Then he picked it up and threw it against the wall, watching the glass burst.
Now that was satisfying.
He chuckled and lifted the bottle to his lips. Dio, in his current state he almost felt happy. Why the hell didn’t he drink more?
“Matteo?”
He turned and saw Alessia standing in the doorway. Alessia. He wanted her. More than his next breath. He wanted those long legs wrapped around his waist, wanted to hear her husky voice whispering dirty things in his ear.
He didn’t think she’d ever done that, whispered dirty things in his ear, but he could imagine it, and he wanted it. Dio, did he want it.
“Come here, wife,” he said, pushing away from the bar, his movements unsteady.
“Are you drunk?”
“I should be. If I’m not … if I’m not there’s something very wrong with this whiskey.”
Her dark eyes were filled with some kind of emotion. Something strong and deep. He couldn’t decipher it. He didn’t want to.
“Why are you drunk?”
“Because I’ve been drinking. Alcohol. A lot of it.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know, could be because today I acquired a wife and I can’t say I ever particularly wanted one.”
“Thank you. I’m so glad to hear that, after the ceremony.”
“You would have changed your mind? You can’t. It’s all over the papers, in the news all over the world. You’re carrying a Corretti. You, a Battaglia. It’s news, cara. Not since Romeo and Juliet has there been such a scandal.”
“I’m not going to stab myself for you just because you’ve poisoned your damn self, so you can stop making those parallels anytime.”
“Come to me, Alessia.”
She took a step toward him, her movements unsteady, her lips turned down into a sulky frown. He wanted to kiss the expression off her face.
“You left your hair down,” he said, reaching out and taking a dark lock between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing the glossy strands. “You’re so beautiful. An angel. That was the first thing I thought when I saw you.”
She blinked rapidly. “When?”
“When we were children. I had always been told you Battaglias were monsters. Demons. And I couldn’t resist the chance to peek. And there you were, running around your father’s garden. You were maybe eleven. You were dirty and your hair was tangled, but I thought you looked like heaven. You were smiling. You always smile.” He frowned, looking at her face again. “You don’t smile as much now.”
“I haven’t had a lot of reasons to smile.”
“Have you ever?”
“No. But I’ve made them. Because someone had to smile. Someone had to teach the children how to smile.”
“And it had to be you?”
“There was no one else.”
“So you carry the weight of the world, little one?”
“You should know something about that, Matteo.”
He chuckled. “Perhaps a little something.” He didn’t feel so much like he was carrying it now.
He took her arm and tugged her forward, her dark eyes wide. “I want you,” he said.
Not waiting for a response, he leaned in and kissed her. Hard. She remained immobile beneath his mouth, her lips stiff, her entire body stiff. He pulled her more firmly against him, let her feel the evidence of his arousal, let her feel all of the frustration and need that had been building inside of him for the past three months.
“Did he kiss you like this?” he asked, pressing a heated kiss to her neck, her collarbone.
She shook her head. “N-no.”
“Good. I would have had to kill him.”
“Stop saying things like that.”
“Why?” he asked. “You and I both know that I could, Alessia. On your behalf, I could. I might not even be able to stop myself.” He kissed her again, his heart pounding hard, blood pouring hot and fast through his veins.
“Matteo, stop,” she said, pulling away from him.
“Why? Are you afraid of me, too, Alessia?”
She shook her head. “No, but you aren’t yourself. I don’t like it.”
“Maybe I am myself, and in that case, you’re wise not to like it.”
He released his hold on her. And he realized how tight his grip had been. Regret, the kind he usually kept dammed up inside of himself, released, flooding through him. “Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I wouldn’t.”
Suddenly, he was hit with a shot of self-realization so strong it nearly buckled his knees. He had done it again. He had let his defenses down with Alessia. Let them? He didn’t allow anything, with her it was just total destruction, a sudden, real demolition that he didn’t seem to be able to control at all.
“Get out,” he said.
“Matteo …”
“Out!” he roared, images flashing before his eyes. Images of violence. Of bones crushing beneath his fists, of not being able to stop. Not being able to stop until he was certain they could never hurt her again.
And it melded with images of his father. His father beating men until they were unconscious. Until they didn’t get back up again.
“What did they do?”
“They didn’t pay.”
“Is that all?”
“Is that all? Matteo, you can’t let anyone disrespect you, ever. Otherwise, it gets around. You have to make them an example. Whatever you have to do to protect your power, you do it. And if people have to die to secure it, so be it. Casualties of war, figlio mio.”
No. He wasn’t like that.
But you were, Matteo. You are.
Then in his mind, it wasn’t his father doing the beating. It was him.
“Out!”
Alessia’s dark eyes widened and she backed out of the room, a tear tracking down her cheek.
He sank down into a chair, his fingers curled tightly around a bottle of whiskey as the edges of his vision turned fuzzy, darkened.
Che cavolo, what was she doing to him?
Alessia slammed the bedroom door behind her and tore at the back of her wedding dress, such as it was, sobbing as she released the zipper and let it fall to the floor. She’d wanted Matteo to be the one to take it off her. She hadn’t realized how much until now.
Instead, her groom was off getting drunk rather than dealing with her.
“It’s more than that,” she said out loud. And she knew that it was. He was getting drunk instead of dealing with a whole lot of things.
Well, it was unfair because she couldn’t get drunk. She was pregnant with the man’s baby, and while he numbed the pain of it all, she just had to stand around and endure it.
There was nothing new to that. She had to smile. Had to keep it all moving.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, then scooted into the middle of it, lying down, curling her knees into her chest. Tonight, there was no fantasy to save her, no way to avoid reality.
Matteo had long been her rescue from the harsh reality and pain of life. And now he was her harsh reality. And he wasn’t who she’d believed he was. She’d simplified him, painted him as a savior.
She’d never realized how much he needed to be saved. The question was, was she up to the challenge? No, the real question was, did she have a choice?
There wasn’t a word foul enough to help release the pain that was currently pounding through Matteo’s head. So he said them all.
Matteo sat upright in the chair. He looked down at the floor, there was a mostly empty whiskey bottle lying on its side by the armchair. And there was a dark star-shaped whiskey stain on the wall, glass shards gathered beneath.
He remembered … not very much. The wedding. He was married now. He looked down at the ring on his left hand. Yes, he was married now.
He closed his eyes again, trying to lessen the pain in his head, and had a flash of lilac memory. A cloud of purple, long dark hair. He’d held her arm and pulled her against him, his lips hard on hers.