Page 25 of Brutal Revenge

Even from a distance, her huff fans my cheeks. “I have no interest in sucking your dick.”

I smirk at the dishonesty in her tone before I say, “Again.” She rolls her eyes. They only make it halfway around when I state my terms. “The only term I want added is that if Antonio touches you, inanyform, I get to remove the offending hand… as I did his father’s for hitting you.”

I study all her expressions when I cross the room, holding out my hand in offering. She’s calm and collected. The sole cause of the tremor running through her is from the spark that shoots up her arm when she slips her hand into mine. “Deal.”

Chapter 6

Azra

My suitcase wheels rattle behind me as I follow a maid down the long hallway. My uneasy steps echo off the polished floors and tall ceilings, and my heart races faster than it should. It’s too reckless and unstable for someone who strategizes every move.

I must still be reeling from the aftershock of Matteo’s agreement.

I didn’t think he’d go along with my plan. I thought he’d laugh in my face, toss money at me, and send me away.

Honestly, if it had gone that route, I would have deposited the money back into his account the first chance I got. I don’t want anything from him. I merely need leverage to get Antonio to look at me like he did when his father arranged our marriage.

As I shadow the maid through the grand Caruso family estate, the memory of a phone call earlier today presses in, sharp and unwelcome, like a scab I can’t stop picking at.

Vivienne, the wedding planner, called while I was still at the private airstrip. Her voice was breathless and frantic, and my stomach dropped before I even understood why she was reaching out.

“Azra, I can’t believe it,” she said, her words tumbling over each other. “Antonio contacted me only minutes after dismissing me.”

I remember gripping the phone tighter, my pulse spiking. “About what? Are they still upset that you’re refusing to refund their deposit?”

Don Adami is cheap. Even with Vivienne’s cancellation fee at only ten percent, he hesitated to sign her on as our wedding planner. He claimed that he should not be held responsible for any payment if the event was canceled. I guess he forgot how much time Vivienne puts into each event.

“No. Quite the opposite, actually. Antonio paid the entire invoice. In full.”

My lungs took stock of my oxygen levels, and the world tilted. Not a lot, more like the ground wasn’t as solid as I thought.

Vivienne adopted the tone wedding planners use when they know they’re saying something they shouldn’t but can’t help themselves. “You couldn’t have picked a better man to make Antonio green with envy. I’ve worked with the Adami family for years. Antonio doesn’t like sharing, but he doesn’t want what everyone else has either. He wants what Matteo has. Always has. He’s been jealous of him since they were boys.” Her next words landed in my stomach like a stone, heavy and cold. “If you want this wedding to go ahead, keep working the angle you are. You’ll be Mrs. Azra Adami before you know it.”

I hated hearing my name next to Antonio’s, but it gave me the push I needed to tell the driver not to return to the Adami compound. I asked him to take me to the Caruso residence instead.

Antonio idolizes Matteo.

Antonio envies Matteo.

Antonio wants what Matteo has.

And somehow, I needed to become a major part of that equation.

The memory fades as the maid stops in front of a large, gleaming door. With a polite nod, she opens it and I enter, dragging my suitcase behind me.

Immediately, my confusion spikes.

The room is too girly to belong to a man as dangerous as MatteoCaruso. Floral curtains cover the floor-to-ceiling windows, pastel bedding makes it clear whoever designed this room truly believes a bed is only used for sleep, and a cushioned stool rests under a vanity mirror I swear my grandmother owns.

Absolutely nothing about it feels like Matteo. Not the colors, the furniture, or the atmosphere.

“Is this Matteo’s room?” I ask, turning toward the maid.

She stiffens, her eyes lowering to her gleaming white shoes.

“No English,” she says quickly.

I don’t know her, but I know she’s a fool. Lying is punishable by death in most mafia families. How do I know she’s lying? She spoke perfect English downstairs.