Page 44 of Resisting the Bossy Billionaire

Behind his rails of shirts, he unlocked the hidden safe he kept his more expensive valuables in. He didn’t possess many of them. He’d never been one for status symbols. A handful of ridiculously expensive watches, a signet ring he always felt like a mafia boss wearing, a few pairs of diamond cufflinks too expensive to go into the cufflink drawer, and his grandmother’s engagement ring.

‘You’re the only one left who can use it,’ his grandfather had said when he’d given it to him over Christmas. Meaning Marcello was the only one of his grandchildren unmarried, something his mother, who’d abandoned any subtlety of her hope that Marcello remarry this past year, had no doubt put in his mind.

If he hadn’t respected his grandfather so greatly, and if he hadn’t understood his well-meant intention, Marcello would have reminded him that he was unmarried because he was divorced and that the scars from what he and Livia had been through meant he would never marry again.

The ghost of Livia’s voice echoed through the walls from the last time he’d seen her.

Then why did you come here?

He was still no closer to an answer. No closer, either, to understanding why he’d agreed to the keynote speech in Rome. He’d refused his brother’s four previous requests so why accept this one? Why put himself through the pain of returning to the city of his darkest days when he didn’t need to?

And why was he standing in his dressing room staring at a ring? He didn’t know why he’d felt compelled to look at it. Didn’t understand the hollowness of his mood or the brooding nature of his thoughts.

Exhaling through his nose, he locked the safe back up and moved his shirts back into place to cover it, then turned out the dressing room light and gazed at Victoria through the dim moonlight pouring through the windows. She’d turned over and huddled deeper into the duvet.

His next exhale was a fight against his own airwaves.

He’d let her sleep a little longer.

Showered, still trying to make sense of his thoughts and feelings, Marcello selected his suit, then rifled through his ties. The hot water had done him the world of good and washed away much of the strange mood that had clung to him. He’d figured out, too, what had caused it. It was all the talk and thoughts about Tommaso. The grief he usually kept compartmentalised had risen these last few days. Longer really. He’d thought about his son more in recent times than he usually ever allowed himself.

Victoria was still asleep.

He watched her from the bedroom door as he’d done a short while earlier from his dressing room, a fresh weight forming in his guts.

This would be the last time he saw her like this.

He closed his eyes and breathed out the pain.

It had to be this way.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

DREADLAYHEAVYin Victoria from the moment consciousness pulled her from sleep.

This was it. The day she destroyed her own happiness and threw away everything she’d worked for.

Stifling a whimper, she rolled over, seeking out Marcello. His side of the bed was empty.

Cuddling into his pillow, she squeezed her eyes shut and breathed in the remnants of his scent. She wanted desperately to make love to him one last time, before she detonated the bomb. Experience the blissful closeness one last time.

His robe was slung on the back of the armchair, and she wrapped herself in it before searching for him. His office and the living space below were both empty.

She tried to draw air into her tight lungs.

The dread spread into her limbs. She had to drag her legs back to the bedroom.

With still no sign of Marcello, she took a quick shower and tried her hardest not to think of standing under this very shower only hours ago with him, when they’d returned from the restaurant. Brushed her teeth trying not to remember how, only hours ago, Marcello had stood at the adjoining sink brushing his own teeth.

Christina had laundered her clothes for her again, and when Victoria tugged her grey cashmere sweater over her head and then straightened it over her stomach, there was a beat when she thought she glimpsed the pounding of her heart pushing through her chest.

The door opened.

Marcello strode into the bedroom carrying two cups of coffee. He was already dressed for the office in a white shirt, navy trousers and a matching waistcoat.

‘Good morning, Victoria,’ he said in greeting, as if he were already back in the work office and had beaten her in by ten minutes. He put her coffee on the table by the armchair, and stood with his own close to the door. Already creating a distance between them. Already showing that this was the point they returned to how things should have stayed.

Her heart twisted to see his tie. Its knot was too big. Marcello was always precise with his knots.

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