Chapter 34

He turned, pulling me with him. "Later. Let's go get some food."

He led me into the massive stables next to the villa, which apparently housed both horses and cars. No one could consider themselves an Italian and know nothing about cars. Which was why I was shocked to see him casually lead me over to a shiny, black, vintage Alfa Romeo 6C 2500.

He opened the passenger-side door and let me in.

As I slid down onto the buttery soft leather seats, I noticed the key was already in the ignition.

When Matteo got in behind the steering wheel, I asked, "You just keep the keys in a six-hundred-thousand-euro Alfa Romeo?"

Was this what it was like having insane amounts of family money?

I meant, my father definitely had some wealth, not that he shared much of it with his daughters, but I had grown up around what most would consider comfortable luxury. That being said, I didn't grow up around anyone treating a mint condition, vintage Alfa Romeo as if it were a crappy Fiat Argenta with the keys just casually dangling from the ignition for anyone to steal.

He glanced over at me. "You like cars?"

I shrugged one shoulder. "More like I know cars."

"Did you want to drive?"

My eyes widened at even the thought of getting behind the wheel of such an expensive antique car. I shook my head. "No way!"

He laughed as he started the ignition. "Maybe on the way home after a few Amarena Spritzes for courage."

My head twisted sharply. How did he know that was my favorite drink? Father didn't really approve of women drinking, so it wasn't often that I could indulge.

I asked Matteo as much.

His mouth lifted at one corner. "You'd be surprised how much I know about you, Antonella."

For the rest of the ride into Cavalieri, I remained silent. Staring out at the valley below as we descended from the winery to the base of the mountain. The whole time trying to decide if what he had just said was meant to comfort or threaten me.

After slowing down to navigate the narrow cobblestone streets of the ancient medieval city, another testament to the wealth and power of the Cavalieri legacy, he pulled into a reserved space just off the piazza.

When he opened my car door, he held his hand out palm up to help me alight. The warmth of his fingers wrapping around my own sent a spark of uneasy awareness straight to the pit of my stomach.

Matteo gestured with his head. "That is the headquarters for our other family business, Cavalieri Enterprises. And over there is Enzo's place, where I've been staying while I help at the office."

"I thought you worked the horse farm with your father?"

"Raising champion horses in the Dolomites is more my father's thing. Although I love it up there. It's absolutely beautiful, especially in winter."

He placed a hand on my lower back and led me through the bustling piazza. As we navigated past various stalls and vendors, he continued. "I prefer the property development side of our family interests. I work closely with Milana, Cesare's fiancée, who you'll meet soon."

It was impossible to miss all the turning heads as we made our way to a small cafe with heated outdoor seating on the other side of the piazza. Although I rarely liked being the center of attention, that was my sister's job, it was hard not to feel a feminine thrill at being on the arm of Matteo Cavalieri. It was like I was walking the halls of school as the girlfriend of the best midfielder at the local football club.

He pulled out one of the wicker chairs for me before taking a seat across the small, round table. A server in a long white apron came rushing over. Without even asking me or looking at a menu, Matteo ordered an Amarena Spritz for me and an Americano Perfecto for himself. He then ordered some roasted olives, a small plate of pesto and tomato crostinis, a platter of spiedini di mare with shrimp and calamari, a frico, and some eggplant polpettine.

As the waiter scurried away to fill our order, Matteo propped his elbow on the back of his chair and leaned back. "Just a little apertivo, since we'll be having dinner with the family later."

As we waited for our drinks, I rubbed my upper arms. Despite the warm glow from the heaters, I had a chill. Abruzzo was much colder than Sicily.

Matteo leapt from his chair as he pulled off the wool blazer he had tossed over his T-shirt. "I'm an ass. I can't believe I didn't snag you a proper coat from Aunt Gabbie's closet."

My eyes closed briefly as the warm, cologne-scented fabric settled onto my shoulders. "It's fine. I'm used to it, really. Antonia doesn't"—I held my hands up to do air quotes—"believe in coats. That's why there wasn't one in her suitcase. She thinks they ruin her outfits. So whenever we go out, she won't let me wear one either."

He frowned down at me, then lifted his head. "Wait right here."

Before I could object, he had left the small, enclosed area of the cafe.

When the waiter returned with our drinks, he raised an eyebrow at Matteo's empty seat.

"He'll be right back."

The waiter didn't look like he believed me. "Uh huh."

Feeling peevish, I reached for the garnish pick in my drink and scraped my teeth along the wood to eat the three brandied cherries. Usually I saved them for last, but I figured I'd earned a small treat. I then used the garnish pick to stir the ice cubes, mixing the teaspoon of dark ruby cherry syrup and balsamic vinegar that had sunk to the bottom with the Punt e Mes and Carpano Bianco vermouths with the bubbly prosecco.

I took a sip, needing the fizzy sweet drink with its pungent bite of bitters. As I watched the bubbles from the pilsner beer coat the slice of orange garnish in Matteo's drink, I resisted the urge to look for him over my shoulder.

It was bad enough I could feel all the curious gazes of the other patrons on me. I didn't want to give the impression I was nervous or I had just been ditched.

The waiter returned and with what was definitely a smug look asked, "Perhaps you'd like to be moved to a less public table since it does not seem Signore Cavalieri is returning."

I raised my chin. "This table suits me just fine."

After a pause, the waiter nodded. He then raised his hands and clapped. Several more waiters streamed out of the restaurant. They weaved through the other cafe tables carrying trays like a demented parade of ants. One by one they dropped various plates, bowls, and platters, covering the table's already small surface.

Clearing his throat, my new enemy, the waiter, announced each dish with a flourish of his hand. Pointing to the slightly greasy paper cone which had small fried breadcrumb balls spilling out of it onto a rectangular platter, he said, "Here we have your polpettine de melanzane."

He then pointed to a small, still sizzling cast-iron pan. "And this, of course, is the frico made with Montasio cows milk cheese. Please stop me if you don't understand anything I'm saying, I know in Sicily you people choose to use different words from us Italians."

I swallowed as I focused on the edge of the table, knowing my accent had given me away. It was no secret that mainland Italians viewed Sicilians with a certain amount of disdain. As popular as it was, that stupid American movie The Godfather painted all Italians as corrupt mobsters, and the mainland blamed the Sicilians.

Since my father was a corrupt mobster, there wasn't much I could say to defend myself.

"Thank you, no. I understand everything. You don't need to point each item out," I whispered as my cheeks burned.

The waiter smiled. "Perhaps that is not how they do it in Sicily, but here in Abruzzo, there is a proper way of doing things." He then pointed to the grilled skewer of shrimp and calamari. "Here, of course, is your spiedini di mare using Amalfi lemons."

Another tiny dig at one of Sicilians proudest exports, our lemons.

"Then, of course, we have the roasted olives and the pesto crostini. The pesto is made the proper Italian way with pine nuts, not with almonds, as I believe you Sicilians prefer."

Once again Sicilian was said as if he were spitting out something bitter.

"Then take it back," came Matteo's dark, commanding voice from behind both of us.

I turned in my seat to see him only a few steps away carrying an emerald-green paper bag.

The waiter shook his head. "I'm sorry. What did you say, Signore Cavalieri?"

Matteo stood behind me as he pulled anElide Vivianna coat with wool camel sleeves and a brown-and-gray houndstooth pattern from the bag. "Stand up, babygirl."

With my head lowered so I wouldn't meet the gaze of the waiter, I pushed my chair back and stood.

Matteo took his blazer from my shoulders and held up the coat for me to slip my arms into . The moment it was on, he pulled me back against his chest and wrapped his arm across my shoulders from behind.

His breath moved wisps of my hair as he addressed the waiter again. "I said to take it back and make it with almonds."

"But, signore, we simply do not…"

"Do I need to call Chef Giuseppe and tell him that a waiter is refusing my simple request?"

Through the covering cascade of my hair, I observed the arrogant waiter's reaction.

His mouth puckered, then thinned, before he bowed his head. "Of course not." He reached for the platter of crostini. "I will let Chef know you would prefer your pesto with almonds. The Sicilian way."

With his arm still tight around my front, Matteo kissed the top of my head, which barely reached above his shoulder, before nodding toward the table. "And make me a fresh drink while you're at it."

"Of course."

After the waiter left, Matteo turned me around to face him. He pulled on the lapels of the coat to button them. "Not bad. A little big, but since you'll probably fill out these cute curves after a few months of Rosa's cooking, I'm sure it will be fine. We'll get you something more appropriate when we're in Rome."

He then pulled the white price tag attached to the collar off and pushed it into the front pocket.

All while my anxious gaze looked past his upper arm to the surrounding patrons, who were now openly staring at us.

Stepping back, I crossed my arm over my middle. "It's fine. You didn't need to get me a coat."

Matteo ran his knuckle over my cheek. "Yes, I did. It's my responsibility to take care of you."

A warmth that had nothing to do with my new coat spread from my belly. Not since my mother had anyone given a damn about taking care of me. It was always me sacrificing to take care of others.

He kissed me on the forehead. "Let's eat."

Oblivious to the collective gasp that just radiated over the patrons like a wave, Matteo took his seat and reached over for my plate.

"I'll just take a few roasted olives and a crostini, please."

Completely ignoring me, he piled two shrimp skewers, a wedge of the potato cheese pancake, several fried eggplant balls, and two of the re-made crostini. Topping the whole pile off with a few roasted olives.

The moment he placed it before me, I gingerly picked up the skewers and started to return them to the platter.

"Don't you dare," he warned.

"I'm not hungry."

My stomach took that moment to growl.

Matteo raised a single eyebrow at me.

With thinned lips, I matched his expression, arching my brow. "Fine. I might be a little hungry, but it isn't ladylike to scarf down a full trough of food in front of people."

Too many years of my father's taunting had made me practically incapable of eating in front of people. Not that I didn't eat or like food.

As we were sitting on the edge of the cafe's patio facing the piazza, Matteo dragged his chair around from across the table to beside me, directly to my left. His broad shoulders and back now effectively blocked the view of all the patrons. "There. No one's looking. Eat."

I picked up a skewer and pulled a grilled shrimp off the end with my finger and thumb as he picked up his own skewer and sank his teeth into a tender piece of calamari, ripping it off the wood stick.

Catching my gaze, he smiled and winked at me as he chewed.

The sweet yet salty bite of shrimp with its hint of citrus cutting the earthy taste of the olive oil it was grilled in practically melted in my mouth. A groan escaped my lips before I had a chance to stop it.

Matteo leaned in close. "Fuck, you're sexy as hell when you eat."

My eyes widened as I swallowed my bite and then exclaimed, "You, sir, are a bald-faced liar."

His gaze focused on my mouth. He then reached up and brushed his thumb over my lower lip. "If I hadn't promised not to fuck that beautifully tight pussy of yours the other night, I would have drizzled your breasts with honey, spread your knees, and pounded my cock into you while I suckled your honey-coated nipples."

"Sciatiri e matri," I breathed, my shaking hand reaching for my drink. I took a large swallow, choking as a few droplets went down the wrong pipe. "You shouldn't say such things to me. Especially not in public."

His large hand wrapped around the arm of my chair. The legs screeched against the ancient stone floor as he pulled the chair away from the table.

Then he reached for me.

I recoiled as all the heads in the cafe turned to watch us. "What are you doing?"

He grasped my hips and lifted me out of my chair and onto his lap. With the folds of my wool coat shielding his hand from view, he wedged his fingers between my thighs.

Nuzzling my ear, he rasped, "If I didn't know your pussy was too sore from earlier, I'd take you up to my office right now, bend you over my desk, and fuck you all over again."

My head spun from a dizzying blend of humiliation and titillation. The edges of my palms pushed against his chest. "You have to stop. People are staring."

"Let them stare."

"They'll think we're together."

His brow lowered. "We are together. You're my fiancée."

"No, we are not. Just because you broke your word and we had… we had…" I lowered my voice to barely a whisper. "Real sex changes nothing. I am not your fiancée. My sister is your fiancée."

His finger and thumb clasped my chin as he forced my gaze to his. With narrowed eyes, he ground out, "The fuck it doesn't. You're mine now, Ella. I don't give a shit what happens with Dante and your father and the whole rotten lot of them. You will be my wife."