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CHAPTER 5

G iulia

Growing up in a mafia family, I was never na?ve enough to imagine that losing my virginity was going to be a romantic experience. I knew not to expect hearts and flowers from my husband. Because in the world I’m a part of, I should have been married when I first slept with a man.

Candles, scented baths, and rose petals strewn on silk sheets were never going to play a part in my deflowering, but I thought at least there would be a bed. A hard sofa and an even harder floor just don’t cut it.

Though I used to daydream about my first time being with Matteo, I didn’t think it would happen like that. I certainly never imagined I would initiate the whole thing. Because a part of me knew that there could only be one outcome to me provoking him. The moment I said I hated him, I sealed my fate. He just had to prove me wrong.

Burying my embarrassment that the entire staff probably knows we just fucked in the office, I plaster a smile on my face as the waiter approaches the table with our food.

“Is Signore Volante…?” He looks nervous. Matteo has that effect on people. He’s friendlier than his brothers, more gregarious, but his reputation precedes him. Everyone knows his easy manner masks a ruthless streak.

“He’ll be out in a minute.” As he sets the plate of veal down on the table along with my fries and Matteo’s side dish of broccoli, I coo with delight. “This looks fantastic. Grazie .”

As the waiter walks away, Matteo saunters into the room, looking a hell of a lot more put together than I feel. His shirt is tucked into his pants and his hands are in his pockets. I have to fight the urge to jump up from my seat and strangle him. It’s not fair that he appears totally unaffected by what happened between us when my clothes are rumpled and my hair is a mess. Of course, he has a lot more experience with putting himself back together after sex than I do, a realization that makes jealousy rear its ugly head. I take a deep breath as he drops onto the seat opposite me.

“The food’s here.” Matteo’s observation is facile, no doubt intended to test the water between us. He probably thinks I’m about to collapse under the weight of emotion now that my precious innocence is gone. Maybe I will later, when I’ve had the chance to process everything.

“It is.” My voice is remarkably level. I don’t know how to act around him right now, but making Matteo feel guilty about a situation I was complicit in creating would be mean. “And it smells incredible.”

Grabbing a crisp French fry from the metal basket they came in, I drag it through the dark brown sauce encircling the veal, which sits off-center on my plate. I pop it in my mouth and have to hold back a groan of pleasure. The sauce has a rich, beefy taste. There’s definitely wine in it and some herbs I can’t identify. It’s the best thing I’ve had in a long time, though, admittedly, that wouldn’t be hard. Since I moved out of my father’s house and into a tiny studio apartment in the East Village, I’ve been living on cheap takeout. Cooking is not my forte.

As I pick up my fork and knife and cut off a sliver of the veal wrapped in prosciutto, I’m painfully aware of Matteo’s scrutiny.

“Are you okay?” he asks, just as I put the food in my mouth.

I slowly chew and then swallow, giving myself a moment to ensure I can answer without my voice quivering. “Yes, I’m good.”

Matteo frowns, clearly not convinced. “Giulia…”

“Really, Matteo, it’s all good. Can we skip the in-depth analysis of what happened, please?”

For a minute, I think he’s going to press the issue. It would be just like Matteo to decide he wants to explore his feelings on the one occasion I’d prefer not to have a heart-to-heart. He stares at me, eyes narrowed, studying my expression, trying to work out what’s going on in my head. Then he nods and turns his attention to eating.

We barely talk throughout the meal, other than to offer the occasional comment on the taste and quality of the ingredients. Matteo grabs a handful of my fries without asking and, in return, shovels some of his broccoli onto my plate. It tastes bitter to me, but I pretend to like it to avoid getting a lecture about how I should eat more vegetables. Matteo loves all food, but he’s careful to balance out the unhealthy options with plenty of fruit and vegetables. Me? I’m more of a junk food girl, despite my stepmother trying to feed me nothing but protein shakes and rice crackers since I hit puberty.

“Would you like dessert?” Matteo asks as I lay down my cutlery.

Hell, no. I want to get back to the villa, take a nice hot shower to wash the evidence of what we’ve done off me, and then lie down in a darkened room until I come to terms with the fact that I fucked my former best friend.

I conjure up a regretful tone as I shake my head. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”

Though the entrée was filling, I do have a little space left in my stomach that would be filled nicely by the tiramisu I saw on the menu. Unfortunately for my salivating taste buds, I can’t bear another minute of the forced civility between Matteo and me.

“Let’s get out of here, then,” he suggests.

As we get up to leave, Matteo takes his wallet from his pocket and draws out several bills. I don’t know what the different denominations of euros look like yet, but I spot at least one hundred in the pile he drops on the table. Generosity has always been one of Matteo’s best attributes.

We meet the middle-aged waiter as we head for the exit. Matteo shakes his hand. “Thank everyone for coming in on their day off, Alberto.”

“It was our pleasure, Signore Volante.”

I smell bullshit. Nobody would be pleased to be dragged into work on their day off to prepare a single course meal for two people. Creating those dishes wasn’t a simple case of slapping a few ingredients together. Time and effort went into it. Matteo probably doesn’t see that, though. As a Volante, he possesses a streak of arrogance that makes him think everyone around him is happy to bend over backward to do his bidding. It’s one of his least appealing qualities.

We walk along the riverside to where Matteo parked his car. Actually, it was more like he screeched to a halt and jumped out where he decided it was most convenient. It’s another manifestation of his cocky attitude. He believes in his absolute right to do whatever he pleases. In New York, he’d get away with simply dumping his car wherever he chose because nobody in their right mind would ticket a car belonging to one of the Volantes. Here, however, he isn’t being treated like the mafia princeling he is. Some brave soul has put a ticket on the windscreen of his Bugatti.

“What the fuck?” Matteo snatches the plastic-wrapped ticket off the window and throws it to the ground.

“Matteo!” I scold.

“What?” Anger pulses off him. “I am not paying that.”

“I don’t care if you refuse to pay it.” I purse my lips and try to channel his mother’s energy. Ava Volante is typically a sweet woman, but when she gets mad, even her sons tremble. “You cannot litter the streets of this beautiful city.”

He scowls at me, but picks up the ticket and shoves it in his pocket anyway. He opens the car door for me and waits until I’m settled before getting into the driver’s side. Something I’ve always liked about Matteo is his chivalry. Even when we were kids, he displayed excellent manners. In the school cafeteria, he always insisted on carrying my tray and Isabella’s. He cleared our plates away for us, too. He opened doors and protected us from harm. It was hard not to fall in love with him, just a little. I wish we could go back to those days.

As Matteo revs the engine and takes off as if the devil himself is on our tail, I grip the seat beneath me. I’m used to him driving like he’s on his own personal racetrack, but here in the narrow, unfamiliar streets of Florence, it feels more dangerous. The city flashes past too quickly for me to make out much of anything, but I get the impression this is a place I’d love to explore.

With Matteo apparently trying to break the sound barrier, it takes only minutes before we’re out in the countryside and heading toward the villa.

“The house we’re staying at. Whose is it?” I have no idea whether Matteo has rented it or if it belongs to his family.

“Gabriele’s.”

“Your cousin?” I glance over at Matteo, who grunts his affirmation. “He lives in Rome, right?”

“If you can call it living.”

I remember Matteo telling me about his cousin becoming a virtual recluse after he was disfigured in an ambush.

“He still doesn’t leave the house?”

“No.” Matteo flashes me a wry grin. “Perhaps I should send you to him. You’re good at getting people out of the house when all they want is to be left in peace.”

His dig at me is not exactly subtle. I thought he’d enjoyed spending time with me at the Uffizi and the Pitti Palace. He was happy to share snippets of information about both buildings with me. He’s always been into history and he regaled me with tales of the Medici and other prominent families who fought for dominance in the city during the Renaissance. I guess he sees parallels with his own family and their rivals.

He didn’t utter a single complaint all day, and he certainly enjoyed the meal at the restaurant. The unexpected bonus of popping my cherry was surely worth leaving the house for, not that he’s mentioned it again. Perhaps I misread him today, and he hated every minute he spent with me.

“Sure, send me to Rome. I’ve always wanted to see the Colosseum.” My flippant tone is designed to show Matteo I’m not put out by the thought he might have preferred to stay at home. “Perhaps I can get Gabriele to fuck me too.”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve waved a red rag at a bull. Matteo slams on the brakes so hard I’d have been propelled through the windshield if I wasn’t wearing a seatbelt.

“What the fuck, Giulia?” He slaps the steering wheel and I jump, even though I know he would never turn his rage on me.

I look back over my shoulder nervously as a car horn blares behind us. Matteo, of course, doesn’t give a damn if he’s holding up traffic. He turns fully in his seat to face me. His anger is more intense than I expected.

I swallow hard. “I was joking, Matty.”

“Well, it wasn’t fucking funny.”

Before I can even blink, Matteo is on me. He presses me back into the seat as his lips meet mine in a furious kiss. It’s harsh and uncompromising, a brash statement of ownership. I should rail against him asserting his claim like this, but I find myself softening. The minute I do, Matteo pulls back as if all he wanted was my submission. He grasps my chin, his fingers digging in almost painfully. The determination in the dark gleam of his eyes startles me.

“You’re mine now, Giulia. Don’t you forget it.”

He glares at me, obviously expecting a response. When I nod, he sits back in his seat and drives off again. My heart pounds so hard I fear it will break my ribs. I feel like I’ve opened Pandora’s Box. How the hell am I going to put the lid back on?