Page 92 of Brutal Revenge

I try to play along, but my efforts are pitiful. I need more than exemplary acting skills to pretend I’m not still reeling from seeing Matteo with a woman draped over him. The hurt is too raw and vicious, meaning I snatch the Band-Aids out of Antonio’s hand with a defensive movement that betrays exactly how fragile I feel, rather than politely accepting them.

He neither flinches nor scolds.

He doesn’t even blink.

With quiet intensity, he simply observes me before asking, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” My reply is brittle and unconvincing, but since I don’t care what this man thinks of me, I reach for the limo door, intending to put some distance between us. It isn’t like a bitchy response will ruin my plan. Treating him mean is certainly keeping him interested.

Before I can exit, I realize the limousine is moving.

“Where are we going?” I clutch the seat as the city lights smear past the tinted windows. “I have prior arrangements.”

Antonio’s mouth forms something that’s not quite a smile. “With Matteo?”

Just hearing his name stings like a thousand bees.

Since talking is above me, I nod.

Antonio’s tone is casual but deliberately cruel. “Hate to tell you, but the party started before you got there. He’s been playing tonsil hockey with the woman he arrived with for over an hour.”

His snicker knocks the air out of me. I can’t speak or think. I can’t do anything except replay the image of Matteo with that blonde.

The jealousy inside me burns so intensely that I feel physically sick.

I spend the entire drive striving to suppress the anger that rises in waves. On repeat, I remind myself that this is all part of the game, that Matteo can do whatever he wants with whomever he wants. I have no right to feel anything about it, but the logic does little to ease the pain in my chest.

By the time the limo pulls up in front of a small pastry shop tucked between two shuttered boutiques, my anger has dulled. However, it is no less painful. When Antonio slips out and signals for me to follow, I do. Partly because I’m too tired to argue, but mostly because I need a distraction.

“We can talk here,” he says, leading me inside. “In private.”

Softly lit and cozy, the shop has a warm atmosphere. The smell of sugar and espresso fills the air, transporting me back to yesterday and the bakery across from the bridal shop.

The pain of the memory is so intense that I have to swallow hard.

Antonio acts like a gentleman—another unfamiliarity. He orders two large slices of cake before sliding the bigger one toward me. His gesture is so deliberate that I can’t help wondering if he saw Matteo and me at the bakery yesterday.

Is he copying something he thinks worked?

Needing to keep my hands busy, I dig the fork into the cake and veer a sizeable chunk toward my mouth. Antonio watches me with an intensity that prickles my skin.

It isn’t in a good way.

I inhale chocolate flakes into my lungs when he whispers, “I missed you.” He smiles as if I am choked up over his confession. That’s not me. I’m trying not to die from suffocation. “I didn’t realize what I had until it was too late.”

His words should carry weight. Trigger a response. They should besignificant.

They don’t.

It’s not because I think he’s lying—though he probably is—but because I can’t concentrate on anything he’s saying since something outside the window has caught my attention.

A motorcycle sits in the shadow of a streetlight. The engine is running, and a helmet covers the motorcyclist’s face, but his build is unmistakable.

I would recognize it anywhere.

Matteo is here.

Watching.