Page 91 of Brutal Revenge

Matteo’s motorcycle is gone.

The knowledge painfully twists the knife still lodged in my heart.Thankfully, beneath the hurt, there’s a flicker of relief and gratitude. Even though he left without me, he’s still following the plan. He’s still keeping up appearances.

The drive to the event feels longer than it should. When I slip out of the SUV, the difference from two nights ago is jarring. The paparazzi barely glance at me. Their cameras don’t flash, and their voices don’t rise. They don’t care who I am unless I’m on the arm of a man.

The realization stings more than I’d like to acknowledge.

I’m arm candy. That’sallI am to them.

After the attendant checks off my name at the door, I step inside. Opulence washes over me. Crystals drip from the chandeliers, and the polished marble floors shine like mirrors. Silk linens and gold-rimmed glassware decorate tables that could seat a hundred, and the air is thick with a luxury that intoxicates and suffocates.

I can’t quite remember what this event is about. I think it’s related to a new liquor line, but I’m not completely sure. Antonio only ever told me what I needed to know—nothing more—and I never asked for details.

A server walks by with a tray of champagne, and I snag a glass, hoping the bubbles will soothe my nerves. I take a sip and nearly choke on the delicate taste. Across the room, near the bar, stands Matteo.

He’s not alone.

A beautiful blonde draped herself over him. Her manicured hand rests on his chest, and she presses her body intimately close to his. They appear cozy—extremely so—and the sight is both surprising and humiliating.

Jealousy surges through me so fast that it blurs my vision. I consider storming across the room and ripping her away from him, but I stop myself. I refuse to repeat the mistakes of my past. Jealousy turns me into someone I dislike, and I refuse to give anyone, especially Matteo, the satisfaction of seeing me lose control again this week.

Instead, I turn on my heel and sprint out of the building, my heart pounding.

There has to be an easier way than this. My heart can’t handle much more.

I don’t notice the uneven cobblestone sidewalk until it’s too late. My heel catches, and I stumble, falling hard. Pain shoots up my legs as my knees scrape against the stone, and blood wells up in thin red lines.

Behind me, a deep voice asks, “Are you okay?”

I freeze. I recognize that voice. It doesn’t belong to Matteo; it belongs to Antonio.

With his face scrunched in concern, he reaches out to help me up.

Instinctively, I jerk back. I don’t know why. I doubt Antonio will lose his hands if he touches me. Matteo’s threat was all part of his ruse to make me believe he cares about me more than he does.

Still, I get to my feet before Antonio’s hands make contact.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, even though my knees are throbbing.

“You’re bleeding,” he replies, his voice soft and sympathetic.

“I’m fine.” Repeating the mantra might make it come true. “It’s barely a graze.”

“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Antonio guides me toward an idling limousine at the curb. His hand hovers close enough to direct my steps, but not close enough to touch.

Anyone would swear he knows about the rule, that he’s aware he can’t lay a finger on me.

Antonio leaps two steps ahead and opens the limo door for me. I take a cautious step inside, but just before I fully enter, something compels me to look up.

Matteo is at the top of the stairs, alone, glaring down at us. His eyes are dark, and he has a stony expression.

With Antonio beside me and Matteo above me, everything I thought I knew shifts beneath my feet. Not trusting my shaky legs to keep me upright, I stumble into the limousine more than I glide.

Antonio watches me with a strangely gentle expression. It’s a mask he’s taking for a test drive. When he crouches beside me, I brace myself for the version of him I’ve always known—the cold, calculating,impatient man who never hid his irritation when I inconvenienced him. Instead, he leans forward and blows gently across my scraped knees.

The warm air brushing over the sting startles me so much that I am rendered breathless.

He doesn’t touch me, not even accidentally. The restraint is so unlike him that I can only stare, confused and wary. Eyes locked on mine, he reaches into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out a small packet of Band-Aids. He offers them to me with a softness that feels rehearsed, as though he’s attempting to rewrite every memory I have of him with this one moment.