Page 31 of Let Vengeance Be Mine

“I asked him to test it, the meat smelt funny.” I prove I’ve got his back and smile before burying my head back into the Pregnancy and Birth magazine Matteo brought home for me, yesterday.

“You think everything smells funny, these days.” He steps closer, taking the magazine out of my hands and studying the article I’m reading about yoga.

“Shall I have Anita make you up something else?” He narrows his eyes on me, as he dismisses Demitri with his hand.

“No, I’m fine. I’m really not hungry.” I know it isn’t what he’ll want to hear but it's the truth, and I really can’t stomach anything else after the huge breakfast he had me eat.

“You may not be, but the baby needs to be fed.” He sits beside me and strokes his hand over my stomach.

“Does it look like I’m starving him? I’ve gotten huge. Nothing fits anymore, my belly pokes out of the bottom of all my tops.” I look down at myself and pout.

“I’ve noticed, and I love it.” Matteo slides his hand a little lower and strokes the bare skin, that my tee keeps riding up over.

“I’ll have Anita get you some more clothes. There's a designer my mom knows who specializes in maternity wear, all the celebrities wear her.”

“Don’t you think that's a little overkill for me, just to slob around the house? It’s not like I’ll be going anywhere. I could just start wearing your sweats.” I laugh, then stop myself when I notice how Matteo suddenly looks guilty. He sits forward on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees, and I can tell there's something he isn’t telling me.

“What is it?” I slouch back and attempt to drag the tee, I’m wearing, down to cover my stomach, again.

“It hurts me too,” he confesses, scrubbing his hand over his face. “There’s nothing I want more, than to walk you out that door and show off to the world how beautiful you look, right now.”

“Matteo, I wasn’t–”

“You weren’t, but it's true. This is no life for you, and yet it’s the only one I can offer. Your dad hired a private investigator about a month ago. He ain’t buying what you're telling him,” he confesses, and suddenly everything starts to make sense. He’s been even more tense than usual these past few weeks.

“And you didn’t tell me about this? Matteo, I spoke to him just last week. He was frustrated, but he believed me.”

“He’s got my name on a list of suspects. All of them, people who they think may want to hurt you,” he continues and when I sit back up, straight, and stare at him in shock, he looks even more guilty.

“And how many people are on that list?” I ask, unsure if I’m more shocked or scared to hear that.

“There were seven, now there's three.” He turns his head so he’s facing me, and I can tell by the look on his face that he’s the reason it's shorter.

“Did you? Is that where you’ve been disappearing to?”

“Yes,” he confirms, unapologetically.

“Matteo, they were just names on a list, I never felt threatened out there until…” I stop myself from continuing when I realize how bad it would sound.

“Until me,” Matteo finishes my sentence for me, looking really hurt.

“I’m not gonna sit here and pretend you haven’t changed me. I think we can both agree that's obvious. But, away from you and away from him,” his eyes fall down to my stomach. “I’m still that ruthless bastard who dragged you away from the life you knew, and chained you in my basement.” He presses a tight kiss on my cheek as he stands up.

“Eat the other half of that sandwich, Aria,” he orders before walking away.

* * *

I wake up to use the bathroom, and when I notice Matteo isn’t there I instantly wonder if he’s out taking another name off that list. He’s been off ever since the discussion we had at lunchtime, and there is no doubt in my mind that someone out there will be suffering the rage he feels. It took me by surprise to hear that there are so many people out there who might want to hurt me but, then, I’ve always been a little delusional. It’s easy to forget that you're a crime lord's daughter when you don’t feel like anybody's daughter, at all.

I finish peeing and when I go to get back in bed my tummy actually growls at me. I realize that, for the first time in months, I haven’t got that nasty, metallic taste in my mouth, anymore. In fact, I actually have a hunger for something. I just can’t quite figure out what that something is. I lie staring at the ceiling for a few more minutes, worrying about where Matteo could be, right now. And when I come to the conclusion that I’m not gonna figure it out lying here and that my hunger isn’t going anywhere, I get out of bed, throw on the vest that's far too small for me, along with a pair of Matteo’s gym shorts and creep downstairs toward the kitchen.

It's strange that I feel so excited about actually being hungry; I keep the lights off so I don’t wake any of Matteo’s staff and head straight to the refrigerator. My eyes roam over the shelves looking for whatever it is my tastebuds want.

Since I’ve been pregnant Matteo has had Anita ensure there is plenty of different foods available, in the hope that there will come a time when I actually fancy something. I’ll bet he’ll be gutted not to be here to witness, for himself, how I intend to take full advantage of that fact.

I notice the bowl of lasagne that I figure is what I left at the dinner table, earlier. I’d managed to persuade Matteo that the salad and four new potatoes, I’d eaten, had filled me, and as tasty as Anita’s home cooking is, it’s not what I’m looking for, now. I find the punnet of strawberries and pull them out. Popping one in my mouth as I place them on the counter, and search for more things that appeal to me. I figure whipped cream will come in useful and I check the coast is clear before I take that out, shake it and spray it directly into my mouth. The satisfaction it brings makes me smile, and after I’ve gotten myself a little collection of random things to experiment with, I hoist my ass up onto the kitchen counter and start to tuck in, using the glow from the open refrigerator door. Strange ideas for the food in front of me start to combine themselves in my head, and I can’t resist dipping my fingers into the pickle jar and pulling one out. The smell doesn’t make my stomach roll the way I thought it might. I take the whipped cream and cover the tip of it, and just as I'm about to test if the theory in my head, that tells me it would be delicious, is right, the room slowly lights up. Looking out the front window I see the car headlights pull onto the drive and stare down, at the mess I've made, in panic.

“Shit.”

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