Page 59 of Brutal Revenge

It reminds me that she’s several years younger than me and I still have so much to learn about this woman and the ruse she’s conducting.

After a beat, Azra mumbles, “I just wanted to know what it felt like to be wanted without restraint.”

Only now do I remember what my mother always told me:Personalgrowth is the most powerful form of revenge. It frees you from negativity and helps you thrive.

If my mother’s theories are correct, Azra needs to make Antonio jealous because she’s not yet ready to forgive herself for the failure of their relationship.

Although I’d sign up for a year of abstinence to learn what Antonio did to make her feel unworthy, I’ve got more important matters to attend to right now. Like building this beautiful woman’s confidence to a point where even if I’m not by her side, Antonio will wish I’d loaded the gun I forced him to perform oral on.

“Did our time in the closet not show you that,micina?”

“It did.” The limousine slows as we approach the gala venue, and she scoots forward. “But I’m still not convinced I’m not dreaming.”

Her shriek bounces around the cabin of the limousine when I pinch her thigh.

“You’re not dreaming.”

Her eyes narrow as a wish to stab me blasts through them. Good. Because her fury could be the sole thing capable of containing mine.

She’ll never move past her quest for revenge if I kill Antonio the instant I step out of the limousine, and my family’s name will remain tarnished for eternity.

I fucking hate that they forced me to look more deeply into whatever the fuck is keeping me on edge, though I’d rather not drag them to hell and back unless it’s to recover a soul corrupted for the greater good instead of evil.

When the limousine stops, flashing lights burst against the windows as paparazzi swarm like moths to a flame. Usually, I effortlessly slip into the role of a charming, controlled, and untouchable mafia figure.

Tonight, I feel like a grenade with the pin half pulled.

The driver opens my door, and I step out, buttoning my suit jacket as if something more ludicrous than a wish to breathe occurred during the commute. I don’t rush around the limousine to open Azra’s door like the attendee ahead of me does. Instead, I signal for the driver toback off before he takes on a task that previously held no appeal for me.

With the driver back behind the wheel, I bob my torso back into the limousine and extend my hand in offering to Azra. She exhales a shocked breath before she slips her hand into mine.

We don’t get near the reserved media area before we’re swarmed by them. As over two dozen paparazzi members shout my name, Azra cozies up to my side, chin high, expression perfect.

The paparazzi are surprised they can photograph me at an event with someone of the opposite sex. Normally, I’m only photographed sneaking out the back entrance with more than one female attendee in tow.

“Matteo, who’s your date?”

“Can we get a name for our article?”

“This way, sweetheart. Let us capture every angle of your beautiful face.”

They adore Azra. They snap her photo while shouting for her to give them the money shot they’ll splash across every glossy magazine’s front page tomorrow morning, which will only add another million names to my hit list.

A handful of the paparazzi are smarter than they look.

“Isn’t that Azra Sahin?”

“I thought she was engaged to Antonio Adami?”

I glare at the two reporters who caused Azra to stiffen before guiding her toward reporters with cameras that are much bulkier than the ones at the start of the gauntlet.

Azra answers a series of questions while I hover in the background.

The attention isn’t on me, and for once, I don’t hate it.

I didn’t realize how exhausting putting on an act could be until I had to perform the role of my life.

Pretending I didn’t become an addict after only one hit was an Oscar-worthy production.