Page 30 of House of Lies

But that won’t be possible unless I tell her the truth.

CHAPTER 20

Caelia

I think Mattia stood me up. He instructed Domenico to take me to this fancy restaurant where I had been waiting for almost half an hour. I was told he had an important business dinner, and I was to attend. As a distraction. As a pretty butterfly with clipped wings in a glass box on display. But I’m done waiting. He’s not here, and neither is his business partner. Standing up, I grab my purse and head toward the exit. I’m not delusional enough to think that I will get very far. I’m sure Domenico is still around, watching every breath I take. I need a ride home, and I’m not that stupid to attempt to escape tonight.

“Is everything all right, Mrs. Benedetti?” The maître d’, a gentleman old enough to be my father, asks me. His eyes are kind and almost concerned. I’m sure he wants to avoid any bad press for the restaurant and is not worried about me.

“Yes, thank you. Everything’s fine. I need some fresh air.”

He nods, opening the door for me. I get out in the chilly air of the night. Sweat sticks to my body, making me shiver. I stare in the distance for a few seconds at the heavy traffic in New York beyond the parking lot, at people laughing and chatting, the lights blinding me. I’m still afraid that anything I might say or do will set Mattia off, so I put some effort into this. I’m wearing a long black dress with a one-shoulder long sleeve. It has a high-side split on my left leg. It made me feel beautiful for a few seconds—such a stupid feeling. I curled my hair and applied some make-up. Why did I bother?

I take out my phone, ready to call Domenico, and tell him I know he’s lurking in the shadows and it’s time to take me to the mansion. As I dial, a loud motorcycle sneaks through the incoming traffic, turning right into the parking lot. It parks a few feet away from me. I lift my gaze, watching the man riding it. He’s wearing a black suit and tie, brown boots, and a dark helmet. The last thing I need is to get myself in trouble for staring at a stranger, so I pretend to be busy on my phone.

“Going anywhere, Wildfire?”

Frowning, I look back up. Mattia removed his helmet and now is slowly pulling the leather gloves from his tattooed hands. I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry, and my heart is beating too fast. I didn’t know my husband owned a motorcycle, let alone that he knew how to ride one. I try to lock the reminder of who he is in a dark corner of my mind and wonder how things could be different if this were our first encounter. If I were a single woman being stood up at a restaurant, he’d turn up to save the night. It’s the only thing allowing me to admit that he’s attractive.

“I’m sorry,” I smile. “Do I know you?”

I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’ve never played games with him, and he never allowed me to. When he grins, I see the hint of his dimples.

“I don’t think we’ve met, but you look stunning, Miss. How about dinner?”

Mattia throws his long legs off the motorcycle, placing the helmet on the seat. He takes a second to adjust his jacket before stepping closer to me. I feel like the earth quivers under my feet.

“It’s Mrs.,” I correct him. “And I don’t think my husband would like that.”

“Fuck your husband.” The dimples are on full display now.

Say it louder, Mattia.

A shiver runs down my spine when he approaches me, taking my hand. He lowers his head, bringing it to his warm lips. He doesn’t allow himself to smile often enough to reveal the sight of his dimples. It’s foolish that this is all it takes to keep me playing this game. A part of me that needs to be silenced wishes to see those dimples again. They make him look younger. Careless. They soften his features, fooling me into thinking I could come to care about this version of him.

“I don’t think he’d like that either.” I laugh, my hand molding into his. He rubs small circles on my wrist before intertwining his fingers with mine. “And you look like you’re married too.” I point to the ring on his finger.

It’s painfully similar to mine, but it bears a different meaning. It means nothing to him, while for me, it’s a death sentence.

“You’re right. And my wife is stunning.”

I still don’t know how to handle his compliments, and I’ve heard loads recently. He tells me I’m beautiful, that he can’t take his eyes away from me, and that he wants to worship my body. And I allow him. It makes my life easier.

“Then what are you doing here?”

“My wife also hates me,” he adds.

He’s not wrong.

“Maybe she’ll forgive you one day.”

The hell she will.

“No, she won’t.” He shakes his head, a dark expression crossing his face.

He places one palm on my lower back, the other at the back of my head, pulling me closer. He stares into my eyes before his mouth overpowers mine, forcing me to part my lips. My tongue has a mind of its own. He never kisses me with mercy. It’s always ruthless, taking possession of my mouth, claiming what he thinks it’s his. Crossing my arms around his neck, I moan. I should be ashamed of myself, but shame isn't something I can afford. I do what I have to do to survive. It’s all part of the ruse.

“Hi.” His lips curl in a smile on mine. “I’m sorry I’m late. I got caught up in something.”

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