Page 53 of Ruined By Protection
"And you called me to handle it," Damiano adds unexpectedly, a rare smile playing at his lips. "Because you were too much of a gentleman to tell her to fuck off."
"I wasn't being a gentleman," I correct him. "I was being smart. Her father was on the oversight committee for the port authority. Last thing we needed was trouble there because I hurt her feelings."
"Always thinking of the family business," Damiano says with a nod of approval.
Hazel
I stare down at my plate, trying to focus on the arancini in front of me instead of the conversation ricocheting across the table. But it's impossible not to listen as Enzo teases Matteo about some redhead at the casino.
Redhead, legs for days, wouldn't take no for an answer?
My eyes flick up before I can stop myself. Matteo's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, the only sign that Enzo's words bother him. I shouldn't care. I have no right to care. But something hot and uncomfortable settles in my stomach as I imagine some gorgeous woman with endless legs throwing herself at him.
I take a sip of wine, hoping it will douse whatever this feeling is. Jealousy? No. That's ridiculous. I barely know this man. Well, I know his body intimately—every hard plane, every scar, the way his muscles flex under my fingertips—but I don't knowhim.
Matteo doesn't look my way. His focus remains on his wine glass, his expression unreadable except for the slight tension around his mouth.
I study him across the table, seeing what Lucrezia means. Even in this casual family setting Matteo radiates controlledpower. The crisp white shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up to expose strong forearms. His dark hair is slightly damp, curling at the edges as if he just showered. The shadow of stubble along his jaw makes him look villainous, as well as irresistibly attractive.
Remember when Matteo had that stalker?
Another woman. Of course. How many are there? I shouldn't be surprised. Men who look like Matteo—who kiss like Matteo—don't stay lonely for long. The thought of him with other women shouldn't bother me. I'm married, for God's sake. Well, technically. And escaping an abusive relationship. The last thing I should be worrying about is Matteo's romantic history.
CHAPTER 16
Hazel
Back in my room I close the door and lean against it, finally letting my shoulders slump. The dinner was exhausting in ways I hadn't anticipated. Between Matteo's smoldering presence and the conversation about his romantic exploits, my emotions are in chaos.
I reach behind to unzip the emerald dress, struggling with the zipper. My fingers tremble slightly as I tug it down. The weight of my situation settles on me—the lawyer, the phone call to my mom, and now this confusing jealousy over a man I have no claim to.
The dress pools at my feet, leaving me in just my bra and underwear. God, the bruises look more violent on my skin, not less. The initial dull blue has turned every tone of purplish black, edged with army green. My fingers travel gingerly over the marks, each one carries a vivid image playing in my head like a horror film of a woman facing peril. Is this what love means to a man? Or is what I inspire in him? I just don’t know anymore.
I step carefully out of the emerald silk pond and as I bend to pick it up, a brief tap at the door is immediately followed by it flying almost off its hinges.
Matteo stands in the doorway, his broad frame filling the space. His confused eyes lock with mine for a second before dropping to my exposed body.
I grab the dress from the floor then clutch it against my chest, but not before Matteo’s gaze catches the purple bruises lining my ribs, the obvious fingerprint marks on my upper arms.
His expression transforms. The confident, controlled man from dinner vanishes, replaced by something terrifying. His eyes darken, jaw clenches, features pulsing with rage while his entire body goes rigid. It's the look of a killer preparing to strike.
"What the fuck?" he growls, voice barely above a whisper.
I back up awkwardly until my legs hit the bed. "Matteo, you can’t just?—"
He's across the room in three strides, standing inches from me, his huge hands raised but not quite touching me. The cedar scent of his cologne envelops me. The warmth of him radiates against my skin, but his eyes are satan-cold with fury.
"Who did this to you?" His voice is diabolically quiet as his gaze examines and catalogs every mark on my body.
I clutch the dress tighter, trying to cover myself, but I don’t dare move from under his scrutiny. He's seen everything—Elliott's handprints, the bruises from being shoved against countertops, the marks from the belt.
"It doesn't matter." My voice comes out small, nothing like the strength I told myself to project. “It’s alright.”
"Doesn't matter? Allright?" His eyes snap to mine, blazing with an intensity that makes me shudder. "Someone put their hands on you. Someone hurt you." He reaches out, fingers hovering over a particularly nasty bruise on my shoulder without touching it. "Your husband?"
The word hangs between us. I look away, and that's answer enough.
"Cazzo," he swears, running a hand through his hair. "That bastard did this to you?"
