Page 6 of Stolen Queen

“You have a new necklace on. Did you make that one too?” he asks.

I freeze, my fingers toying at the delicate pendant at my throat. New feelings emerge. Feelings of surprise and also pleasure that he remembered I make my own jewelry. I haven’t seen him in several months. Our conversation then had been brief. And yet he remembers. Matteo had actually paid attention to me.

"I… uh… yes.”

Matteo's smile widens. "It’s beautiful."

Again, my heart hammers as I stare into his amazing eyes. Perhaps that’s what draws me in. He’s dark-haired like his cousins, but unlike the D'Amatos' hazel eyes, Matteo’s are a striking blue.

“Thank you for noticing.” I’m smiling like a silly schoolgirl.

"I notice more than people think," he says, his blue eyes twinkling.

Warmth spreads through my chest. It's been so long since anyone has shown genuine interest in me, in what I like to do. I want to hug him, to thank him for seeing me.

“Ava!" My father's sharp voice cuts through the moment.

I flinch, the warmth instantly replaced by a chill. "Yes, Father.”

My father glances at Elio. “Don’t worry, Elio. She doesn’t waste her days on childish hobbies anymore.”

I look down, remembering how after the dinner months ago at the D’Amatos’, when Matteo first noticed my necklace, my father came home and had all my jewelry supplies thrown away. He’d been angry that I’d given the impression that I was a lazy girl when I was supposed to appear like a dutiful wife, devoid of hobbies except for wanting to please my husband.

When I look up, Matteo’s gaze is on my father and it’s full of heat. Almost as if he’s angry at my father.

Elio sits across from him, his jaw clenched, eyes hard as flint. "I'll get straight to the point, Vincenzo. Lazaro will not be marrying Ava."

I suck in a breath, both happy and disappointed. Happy because I’m afraid to become a wife and disappointed because marrying Lazaro was my passport to leaving my family.

I grip my fork tightly, trying to keep my face neutral even as my mind races. What does this mean for me?

Father's eyes narrow dangerously. "And why is that, Elio? Are you going back on our agreement? Again?"

"Circumstances have changed," Elio replies coolly. "Lazaro is… not in a position to marry anyone right now."

My heart sinks even more as I realize what this will mean. Father will probably send me to New York now, to one of his old associates. The thought of being shipped off to some stranger, far from everything I've ever known, makes my stomach churn.

Father's face darkens with anger and his fist slams down on the table. The glasses rattle, and I flinch involuntarily.

"You dare come into my home and break our agreement?" he snarls at Elio. "The D'Amatos' word means nothing, it seems."

I hold my breath. I want to disappear, to sink into my chair and vanish from this nightmare.

Matteo leans toward me, his shoulder lightly pressing against mine before he straightens. I glance at him, wondering what he’s doing. His gaze is brief, but in his eyes I see compassion.

Lana, with her usual dismissal of men’s anger, says, “Lazaro's… temperament makes him unsuitable for marriage right now. It wouldn't be safe for Ava?—"

"Safe?" Father spits. "You think I care about safe? I care about the alliance your father promised me. I expect it to be kept."

Father turns his cold gaze on me, and I shrink back. He glares then at Elio. "You’ve fucked me over more than I should have put up with already. Ava will marry into the D'Amato family, as agreed.”

"No.” Elio glances at me and his expression softens, as if he doesn’t like how this might make me feel. “I’m sorry about this, Vincenzo, and I can assure you that we’re prepared to move forward with this alliance, but not through marriage.”

As the argument rages on around me, I slip inside myself, retreating into the corners of my mind where I can escape the reality of my life. But there’s no missing the heated exchange going on around me. I catch snippets of their conversation—"unsuitable" and "temperamental"—all words used to describe Lazaro. Or “innocent” and “too young,” used to describe me without actually addressing me. It is as if I am not even in the room. I glance at my mother, whose head is bowed. Resentment builds that she doesn’t advocate for me, protect me or my sisters.

My chest tightens as a familiar frustration wells up inside. How many times have I been here before, sitting silently while my father debates my worth, my future, my very existence with the D’Amatos? Each meeting with them seems to end the same way—my being deemed unsuitable in some fashion or another.

I want to scream, to stand up and demand they acknowledge me as a person, not just a bargaining chip. I yearn for recognition, for independence. I want to make my own choices, to pursue my own passions.

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