Page 38 of Cage of Thorns and Blood

I decide to take a quick look around upstairs first. I saw the family bathroom, his bedroom, and the attached bath. I didn't see any of the other rooms, though. I'm curious as to what his old room looks like now. We spent time in there whenever his father and uncle were out and we could sneak some alone time. I wonder if he still has the same sports posters on the walls. Probably not.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I follow the hallway to what used to be his room and pause outside. I put my hand on the door and get the strongest sense of DeJa’Vu. For a moment it's as if I'm back in my teenage body, and I will open the door and find a younger Matteo in there, waiting for me.

Dani California or something by the Red Hot Chilli Peppers would be playing, whereas I preferred Kelly Clarkson back then. His room would smell of his aftershave and feel full of hope. My room smelt of Happy by Clinique but felt heavy at times with despair.

I loved coming here once upon a time. Now, here I am again.

I push open the door, my heart picking up speed. Instead of a memory box, I find myself looking into a generic guest room. At first disappointment hits me, but then really follows swift on its heels. I don't think I was ready to see the room as it used to be. It would be too much of a head fuck.

I wander into the room and head over to the dresser, taking a look at the ornaments placed there. They are rather beautiful, but they aren't Matteo’s taste. It's as if he's living in a show home, and somehow that hurts my feelings for him. It's stupid for me to care when he clearly doesn't, but this place is like a rental that he’s stuck in permanently.

Bored of this nicely decorated but soulless guest room, I explore the other rooms. When I get to the room that used to be Matteo’s sisters, I push it open and am surprised to see that it still has much of her stuff in there. I wonder if she likes to come home and have her room as it was. I can't imagine anything worse than still having my teenage room preserved for me at my parents’ home.

There’s an array of perfume on the dresser. Some makeup scattered around by the mirror too. It seems as if she may come home often. I lift the lid off a couple of the bottles and inhale. One of them is gorgeous, and I photograph the bottle so I look for it the next time I’m at the mall.

Knowing that I am overstepping by being far too nosy, I open the closet door. There's only a few outfits hanging in here, certainly not enough for someone to use every day. Most of the clothes seem rather formal, and I wonder if she only comes back here now and again for certain events. Maybe that's why there's the perfume and makeup.

There's a small, narrow staircase that leads to a top floor, which used to house a converted loft space. I head up there next, and find a huge gym. Of course, there's no space in the garage for a gym because it's full of Matteo’s flashy cars, so I suppose this is the only place in the house for it. It's a massive space, and he has some high-end equipment.

There is a small gym in the basement of my apartment building, but it's not very big at all, and it always smells of sweat, which puts me off. There’s always some big guy in there too, grunting and groaning as he lifts weights too heavy for him to maintain his form while doing so. I wonder if Matteo does that, or if he’s sensible and sticks to weights he can lift safely. He doesn't strike me as the sort of insecure guy who would lift things beyond his ability. Although he has some very expensive cars, and a fair few sporty ones, none of them are very flashy. With the kind of money he has, he could easily affordable a Bugatti or a Lamborghini but neither take up space in his garage. In fact, most of the sports cars are classics, and vintage machines. I like that. I can’t stand the kind of insecurity it takes to drive a brand new Lambo.

This house is discreet and tasteful now. His car collection is clearly about what he likes, not what he thinks will impress. I head down to his room and nosy through his closet. Yes, as I thought, lots of expensive clothing made with beautiful fabrics, but none of it screams designer. There are no labels, no logos. He’s a man confident in who he is and his place in the world. Did that come about since his family supposedly became more legitimate? I wonder what it must be like to carry such confidence.

Everyone thinks I do. Nico, my father, and even my mother believe that I am a supremely confident woman. Anyone meeting me for the first time absolutely believes that. I've been told many times that my confidence makes me intimidating. Deep down, though, underneath that veneer, there is nothing but an insecure young girl.

I know I'm beautiful, but what does that matter truly? Beauty fades. Always. I'm getting older now, and I can see the ageing process begin on my features. Beauty means nothing ultimately, because in the end it is only fleeting. What else do I have in my life? I don't have a job , and I don't have any amazing skills. My friendship group is incredibly small, and my family isn’t the loving kind that make you feel warm and welcome. What do I have underneath this surface?

Some days I don't know who I am. I've spent so long wanting nothing more than to be recognized by my blood that I don't know what I actually want for myself anymore. The realization is a heavy one. I've spent years relishing being a thorn in the side of my family, and where has it got me?

I live alone in an apartment building, and I go to the gym most days, and I go to the mall once or twice a week, and the rest of the time I tend to be lonely and bored unless I’m seeing Jilly or chatting with Carol.

Sick of my internal pity show, I close the closet and head downstairs, grabbing my glass of champagne from where I left it on the windowsill. I think I might go into the den to watch a movie, but as I approach it, I realize the door to the study is wide open.

I pause and look at that tempting invitation.

I'm sure that Matteo’s instructions to explore, if I so wish to, did not include his private study. Yet, he did tell me to explore, and he has left the door open. Surely, it's his fault if I go in there and I'm not supposed to be? How am I supposed to know what parts of the house are out of bounds? Especially if the door is ajar and practically inviting people to step over the threshold.

This is going to be easier than I thought. Mamma wanted me to find out information if I could, and here I am on the precipice of his private business space.

I walk into the room and realize immediately that this is the one space that might truly be Matteo’s. We came in here a couple of times when I was a teenager, and it was all heavy oak, walnut inlay desks, and creaking old green leather chairs. It's an entirely different space now, and it doesn't match the rest of the house.

The far wall, which the desk stands in front of, is painted a dark teal. The color of the wall serves to highlight the faded, worn wood of the desk in front. It’s more a giant slab of smoothed wood on top of criss-crossed legs. It looks like something found washed up on the beach and turned into a desk, but it’s undeniably cool. Behind it is a leather chair in faded tan leather. It looks comfortable and well worn. There’s a sofa in a matching shade on the wall to my right. A bookshelf and some works of abstract art on the wall finish the décor.

I notice the desk has a closed laptop on it and papers in two trays. There are also papers on the desk. I walk over and casually glance at them, but something about the words on the top paper catches my eye. Picking it up, I read it quickly, and then I take a seat on the leather sofa and read it again.

My heart sinks as I read it.

Not because of what is on the paper but because of what it means.

This innocuous piece of paper states, in quite clear and unambiguous terms, that two of the Mancini’s biggest companies are failing. In fact, it’s a chain of emails back and forth, and one of them explicitly mentions that if they can’t refinance they will be ripe for a hostile take over.

Call me naïve, but I don’t believe for one damn second that Matteo would ever leave something sensitive like this lying around. Not for the staff to walk in and read.

The implications are heavy on my soul.

There’s a small marble shelf running along the back wall, and there are heavy crystal glasses and decanters on it. I make myself a straight up scotch, then return to the leather sofa.

I tap my lips as I think. Firstly, there’s the handy relative ensconced within Mamma and Babbo’s house. She allegedly hates her family and is happily feeding information to their greatest enemies. Then there’s the fact that he dines alone every week at a place where I could easily go meet him.

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