Page 42 of Mafia King: Matteo
Behind Mr. Grey is a tall man in his forties who remains inside the foyer with his back to the front door.
“This is Gio. He’ll wait outside in the car now that we’ve all met.” He turns his strong neck, which I’ve bitten, and nods for Gio to excuse himself.
This is too formal. I’m flustered. This is out of control. I’m vulnerable. I enter a flight-or-fight survival mode. I have to get out of here before the room caves in.
I’m about to escape when Mr. Grey grabs my hand and passes the roughness of his grip off as an introduction.
“I’m Matteo Borrelli. Call me Matteo.” He announces this as if he’s the newest king in the city. Maybe he is. My father is already kissing his ass. What has my father done? He’s a wolf father let into our home.
Matteo and I lock eyes.
This is war.
He used me to get to my father. Does Dad have something Matteo wants?
My mother claps her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Let’s have a drink.”
Father grabs the bottles from the adjoining dining room. Mom collects the glasses. She pads behind him like he has her on a leash. It’s as if they’ve rehearsed tonight.
I’m worried about the arrogance displayed on Matteo’s stern face. His features softened when he looked at me.
What does he want from us? Is this a doomsday movie I recently watched where all the electric cars drive themselves into dumps as if they are possessed?
It was a surreal movie experience I didn’t care for, but I found myself in my own altered reality, unfolding before my eyes in real-time.
Matteo extends his arm, indicating that I should go first.
How chivalrous. It’s the least he can do, I suppose. All I want to do is mutter obscenities at him to protest his presence. I know now is not the time, and I keep my lips sealed.
We adjourn to the formal living room that is only used on holidays when we entertain family and close friends. If Alexsei Sidovo, the Russian Don, were here, this is where we’d sit.
Oddly, Sidovo isn’t here. What are we doing?
I sit cautiously on the edge of a cushioned chair, built for looks rather than function or comfort. The only thing making me more uncomfortable is Matteo’s virile presence.
He makes no secret of the fact that he’s taking in my body. He started with my legs, and now he’s lifting his gaze to my lips. Then our eyes meet. I defy him as I look at my mom and mumble something insignificant about the weather.
The drinks are handed out, and Dad stands and proposes a toast.
I look at my father with veiled eyes. What the fuck is going on?
“Matteo, we want to thank you for your generous offer to marry our daughter. We wish you both a long life of happiness.”
What the fuck?
Matteo stands, and they touch glasses. Dad isn’t smiling.
This isn’t what he envisioned for me. I was supposed to marry a Russian and strengthen the bloodline. I never considered being married off to the enemy.
My jaw drops. My mother’s expression gives nothing away. She’s had a lifetime to perfect her poker face. After years of tolerating her husband’s drunkenness and verbal abuse, she is a shell of the person I remember as a child.
Our men can put a glossy spin on our lives, but it’s not always pretty behind the public eye. Maybe this is why I’m a rebel.
Everything promised has been a lie. I’m hurt that my father did not speak to me first. Mom is broken. Maybe that’s my future. I will be broken, too.
I’m dying to text Izzy for details, but I discover I’m stuck. My father keeps a watchful eye on me. He would not hesitate to embarrass me if I stepped out of line, and given the fact that his current look could kill a spider, I couldn’t move an inch if I wanted to. Without my phone, I am helpless. It’s hanging with my coat in the foyer.
And if looks could kill, Matteo would be dead.
