Page 17 of Arranged Marriage By the Bratva

Chuckling, I beat her to the door handle, flattening my hand against the door, startling Elena for a quick second, her ripe lips inviting me to possess them again. “What if I want you again?” I tease with a lopsided smile, placing my other hand on the other side of the door so she’s blocked.

I think she has no escape, but she’s small enough to duck under my arm, and before she can say anything, there’s a knock at the door, giving her the time to sneak further away from me.

“Come in!” Elena calls out, frustrating me as I note the sheer relief in her voice. Margorie, my maid for over a decade, enters with a cleaning trolley and a cordial smile.

“Good morning,” she greets as Elena smiles at her warmly.

“Good morning, Marjorie.”

“Mrs. Orlov, you have a guest awaiting your arrival.”

Elena nods. “Ah yes, invite him inside the house. I called him.”

A shot of adrenaline shoots down my spine, my fists curling up. “What guest?” I bark. “Who is he?”

Elena stares back at me, a smug smile on her pretty face as she storms out with me trailing fast behind her. Who the hell has she decided to let inside our home? Stalking after her as she heads to the staircase, I shake my head. I’m the wrong man to make jealous.

Anger is brewing to an all-time high as I fly down the stairs after her, the face of a man I loathe staring back at me. Matteo. Her fucking minder who I know wants to fuck her. I’m sure of it. He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing; Elena just doesn’t realize it yet.

His clean-cut image and concern for her doesn’t fool me one bit. I stop once I reach the bottom of the stairs, steam flying out of my nostrils.

“Buongiorno, Matteo,” she greets as he kisses both her cheeks.

“Buongiorno, Elena. Stai bene?” Matteo asks. Of course she’s doing well, you prick. Go home and fuck right off back to Italy. This is my fucking house and the man is not even acknowledging me.

“Sto bene. Faccio del mio meglio.”

You’re more than okay, Elena. Especially last night when you were begging me for more.

“Hai fatto amicizia qui?” Matteo asks, his cheesy grin continuing to irritate me. I don’t know if Elena has had time to make American friends. She hasn’t mentioned anything to me, but I’d like to hear her answer.

“Un po’. Ma principalmente per lavoro,” she replies, a sadness underpinning her tone, my jealousy spiking.

Yes. Your friends are for business, Elena. It’s not fucking playtime. It’s a business arrangement… now inclusive of benefits. Her eyes don’t light up for me like they do for him, and it’s pissing me off.

I cut in, undone by all the small talk, directing my temper towards Elena. “What’s he doing here?”

“He’s helping us, Nikk. Matteo’s here in the US because he helped arrange the shipment of Sicilian lemons for the Bratva beverage business.”

Fucking sure. He’s here for more than that. Matteo sticks out his hand by way of greeting, but if I could crush every bone in his hand, I would. “Matteo. No need for the handshake.”

“Oh, I’m just trying to be courteous. You have a nice home,” he remarks dryly, but his body language doesn’t match up. Crossing my arms, I stand beside Elena, letting him know that she’s mine, not his.

“I do. How long are you going to be here?” I spit out, Matteo ignoring me completely and addressing Elena instead. There’s something about him that doesn’t sit well with me. He’s too close to Elena, and technicially he’s not a Mancini.

“È sempre così stronzo?” Matteo asks, his thick eyebrows rising as Elena shrugs her petite shoulders, my soul burning. The man has the fucking nerve to call me an asshole in Italian. If I’m an asshole he is a sleazy wannabe Italian gangsta.

“Sì, lo sono. Fai attenzione,” I interject smoothly, my mouth upturning into a smile. Elena and Matteo both turn to me in abject shock, their mouths dropping open.

“What? You didn’t know I spoke?” I question, feigning innocence. Elena’s face shines with embarrassment. She’s lucky I didn’t tell him I would shoot him in the face, but we do have a peace treaty between families, and if I execute him, it would bring about an all-out war. I’m not quite ready for that. Not until I get what I want—that is.

“Y-you never told me you know Italian,” she says slowly as I find her underestimation of me incredibly cute and naive—just as she has been all along.

“No. I guess it never came up in conversation. Matteo, you might want to display a little more courtesy and not call me an asshole in my own home. And Elena,” I advise coldly, “you might want to keep your complaints to a minimum with your girlfriends.”

Steam is virtually coming out of her ears, but I don’t care, observing them both carefully. Matteo takes the leap, clearing his throat. “I want to check on Elena’s well-being and make sure she’s okay as I’m sure you can understand. She’s far away from her loved ones.”

“Trust me. Elena is well taken care of here. She’s now the CEO of Fresh Start, our Bratva charity foundation, and she’s doing an excellent job,” I tell him, even though I’m not obliged to tell him anything, but a small twinge inside my cold heart doesn’t like the fact Elena thinks I’m an asshole.

---