Ruthless Monarch

“He sounds like a smart man.”

“He was.”

“Was?”

“Yes, he and my mother passed away a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry.” I nibble on my lower lip. I want to ask him so many questions, but I can’t find the words in my mouth.

I’m surprised when he smiles at me. It’s not a large or infectious smile, but it still makes my heart beat a little faster.

“It’s okay to ask me what happened to them.”

“I don’t want to pry.”

“You’re my wife now. It is not prying.”

I take a deep breath and give him a tight smile. “How did they pass?”

“They were killed.”

I let out an audible gasp. Not only am I shocked that his family died in such a horrific manner but I also can’t believe how easily he speaks about it. He acts as though his family went to the supermarket when, in fact, they were murdered. Or at least I think they were. He hasn’t said that yet, but I can only assume in the line of business he’s in, that’s what happened.

“How?”

“There was a bomb . . . The fire it caused killed them.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, it feels like I’ve been sucker punched. It feels like a knife twisting in my back. As though I can’t breathe through the pain, through my own memories.

“I-I . . .” There are no words that make it out of my mouth.

“As I said before, it’s okay, Viviana. I have had three years to mourn them, and although I miss them, I have learned to move on.”

“Does it hurt to talk about them?”

“Not anymore.”

He turns his attention back onto the street.

New York traffic is at a standstill, our car barely moving.

“We’ll get out here,” Matteo says, shocking me and causing his driver to turn in his seat.

“Here, but—” Through the rearview mirror, I can see the shock on the driver’s face as he speaks.

“I said here.” Matteo’s clipped voice leaves no room for objection.

“I’ll tell the men . . .”

“No need.”

“But—”

“No one knows we are here. No one followed us. We’re fine. We’ll walk. If I need you, I’ll call.”

With nothing more to add, he throws open the door and steps out. I scoot over across the center of the car to leave from the same door he does.

His hand reaches in, and he takes my hand, helping me out of the car.

I expect him to let me go, but instead, he interlocks our fingers.

His warm hand around mine.

It’s chilly in the city, but with his proximity and the way he makes my heart work faster than normal, I don’t feel the cold at all.

Instead, I feel my cheeks heat, and my pulse roar to life.

“Where are we going?” I squeak above the sound of the cars honking in the distance.

“It’s a surprise.”

“Oh. . . Okay.”

My stomach chooses that moment to growl, and I’m thankful that it’s noisy in the city so he can’t hear. I am starving, but things are going so well that I don’t want to point it out.

Fifteen minutes pass. I keep expecting him to drop my hand, but he never does.

When he finally stops walking, I see he’s stopped in front of a small Italian restaurant.

“I hope you’re really hungry.”

Now that he said it . . .

“I’m starved,” I admit.

“Good. Because they make the best brick oven pizza in the city.”

He lets go of my hand, and instantly, I miss its warmth. But then he places it on the small of my back. I’m not sure why, but something feels so intimate about the move.

I don’t know if it’s because he looks down at me, and it’s as if he can see through me, or if it’s just the feeling of him touching me. I feel shaky, and I have to rid these thoughts from my head. With his free hand, he opens the door to the restaurant.

“After you,” he says.

I take a step forward and walk inside.

The restaurant is not what I would expect from the man who lives in such an immaculate estate.

I notice the walls have old, faded paper on them, but then in certain spots, there’s paint. There are a few tables, not many, probably around ten, but like the rest of the place, they look like they’ve seen better days.

“Follow me.”

He starts to walk, leading me to the far wall. There is a table for two in the corner. He pulls out the chair for me, and I sit.

“As I said before, they have the best pizza, and trust me, I know.”

“How did you find this place?”

“That's a long story.”

“Well, I have time.” He’s about to open his mouth and start speaking when an older lady walks out from the door in the back of the restaurant that must lead to the kitchen.

“Matteo, it’s so good to see you. It’s been too long,” she says, as he stands and gives the lady a hug. She pulls back, eyes on me, wearing a large smile on her face. Curiosity playing in her weathered eyes.