Chapter 29

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

MATTEO

I n my office at the estate, I talk directly with the manager of a large function hall on the very outskirts of the city. I'm purposefully choosing a place as far from civilians as possible without it being suspicious to the Gallos. I also want somewhere I can call in reinforcements quickly. And finally, the location has to have a stage that won't offer an easy vantage point to the performers.

"But sir," says Katrina, a woman we've used before, "if the audience can't see the performers, what use is that?"

I bite down, drumming my fingers on the desk. This isn't a bad point, but it triggers a lot of anger. It just forces ugly ideas into my head or a specific ugly idea. I can't even think about it in explicit terms. It would be the end of my woman. I can't tolerate that. I can't imagine it—the end of everything.

Hell, when did I start thinking of her as my woman ?

"Let me get back to you," I say, "but you've got tomorrow evening free."

"For you, yes, sir."

"What are we bumping?" I say, knowing they've been booked long in advance.

I just hope it's not a Girl Scout's award ceremony, an event for veterans, or something like that. When she tells me it's a palm-greasing political fundraiser, I hang up primarily satisfied, but there's still the issue of the vantage points. Even if she wears a bulletproof vest, Bella will still be at risk.

Leaving my office, I expect to find Elio in the armory. That's where he was when I went for lunch with Bella. He was taking apart his favorite weapons, treating the act almost like he was getting his painting materials ready, an artist preparing to go to work.

Instead, I find him in his art studio. His hair is streaked with red paint, giving him an almost warrior look. He walks around barefoot, paintbrush at his side, striding toward a large canvas in the corner. He looks determined as he adds a flurry of brushstrokes to it.

I can just about see the outlines of a woman when I squint. Maybe the edges of a window frame, but the picture is messy and wild, just like he seems.

"You good?" I ask.

He turns to me like I've taken him off guard. For a moment, he looks manic, like our mother would sometimes get before shutting herself in her room for long reading binges. Then he smirks, making me wonder if I imagined the look.

"Yeah. Just keeping busy until it's time. Is everything ready?"

"There's a snag," I say. "Katrina thinks it will look strange if the performers are out of view of the crowd."

From how my brother looks at me, I'm almost shocked when he doesn't say duh . "There might be a way around that, though. We can keep them safe?—"

"Them?" I snap.

"She hasn't asked you yet?"

"This doesn't sound good," I grunt.

"It's not my place to say."

He's got that stubborn look on his face, so there's no way he's going to spill. I can tell. "What's your idea?" I snarl.

"It's your favorite thing …" he smirks. "Poetic, artistic. It'll be perfect."

As soon as I approach the guesthouse, I know I've guessed correctly. I hear two violins lacing the air with their music, one hopping between intricate notes, the other playing a steadier background. I can't quite place the piece. Whether that's because I don't know it or because of this pounding in my head, I don't know.

"Oh, hello ."

I turn at the voice. Samantha is sitting under the eaves of the porch. With the shadow across her face, she looks very similar to her daughter. Yet when she enters the light, I find it difficult to believe I would ever see Bella so visibly angry.

"Mrs. Rossi," I murmur.

"It's Miss," she cuts in. "I didn't correct you before … but it's Miss."

"I'm sorry, Miss Rossi," I tell her. "You kept your husband's name?"

"It's my daughter's name." She gestures at the porch chairs. "Will you sit with me?" The music continues to act as a backdrop.

"Sure."

Walking over to the chairs together, she leans forward, looking at me closely with major mother-bear energy. "Are you going to hurt my daughter?"

Straight to it, then? "No," I say firmly. "I'd never do that. I'll do everything I humanly can to keep your daughter safe. She deserves the best and all the support a man can give. I'm going to give that to her."

I stop, taking myself off guard with the sudden passion. Miss Rossi leans back as if I've taken her by surprise, too. Her eyes widen. She has to close her mouth forcibly.

"Wow," she mutters a moment later.

I laugh gruffly. "I know. It's a lot."

"Is it the truth?"

I think for a moment. I don't have to think about this for more than a second. Yet with something this important, I must know, without a single doubt, that I'm telling the complete truth.

"Yes," I say, nodding. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you this, but your daughter is a special person. She's so talented, dedicated, selfless. She's the best person I've ever met." All of it rushes out. I didn't plan on any of this, but the words flow from somewhere deep and warm. "It's the look on her face when she plays her violin …"

I don't mention the video with those perfect shorts, but just the memory of it makes me want to rush into the house and tear the instrument from her hand.

"It's the light she brings out in my sister. It's just, just her. " I let out a shuddering breath. Samantha seems like she can't look away. "It's everything about her," I go on. "I know how vague that sounds, but?—"

"Not to me, it doesn't," she says, wiping a tear from her eye. "Is that all true? Is that really how you feel?"

I put my hand on my chest. "Ma'am, I swear," I tell her. "I haven't lied. I wouldn't even think about it, not to her mother. If a man is going to pursue a woman, he has the responsibility to make her parents happy. That's all there is to it."

"Parent s ," she murmurs, emphasizing the s .

"Uh …" It seems like there's something she wants to say, but I don't want to presume too much. "Yes, ma'am."

"Do you want some advice for my daughter?"

"Of course."

I'll take any connection with the mother of the woman I want that I can get. She seems like an emotional, sincere person. It seems like she only wants the best for her child.

"Don't push her too hard, and … trust her. She's always been wise beyond her years. Believe in her if she has an idea, even if it seems wild. I did that when she came to me as a little girl with hope in her eyes, asking to learn the violin. I believed, and I know it will lead to greatness."

I swallow a ball of emotion, nodding. Her love for her daughter is impossible to ignore. "I agree, but for what it's worth, your daughter is already great."

"I wanted to hate you," she goes on. "Then I saw this look on my daughter's face. It was a look I hadn't seen since she came to me as that excited little girl, eager because she had so much to learn."

"And you gave her that chance."

She smiles with a sad quality. "I'm not a saint. That's what you need to understand. I'm not a hero. You said you wanted to earn the respect of her parents, but her father is dead. He ran out on us when she was a kid. I got word he died two years after that, but I never told her." Her voice cracks. "I never told her …"

"You wanted to give her hope," I say, reading her.

"That doesn't make it right. Oh, God, it feels so good to say it, though— I lied —and not have to keep it inside."

"She'll forgive you. She'll understand."

"Sometimes, I think I don't deserve her," she says tearfully. "She's just too perfect."

"We can agree on that," I say, conviction burning in my voice. "Not that you don't deserve her. She's perfect, though."

When I head inside, her words are bouncing around my head. Maybe that's why I say yes when she asks me something that should be an instant no . I find myself agreeing to something I never thought possible.

I'm putting my sister and my woman in danger now.