Page 243 of Merciless Desires

The fact that I didn’t use her nickname would hopefully add the necessary urgency to my words.

“Why do you always yell at me in bathrooms?” she whispered, and the ridiculous question made me breathe a laugh.

“Don’t make this a thing.”

I stepped back, but Marcella reached for me, gripping the bottom of my suit jacket, her fingers far too close to the loose fucking eyeball I was carrying.

“I’m sorry.”

I sighed. “You don’t need to apologize. Maybe I should. I don’t know. I didn’t mean to yell. I just…”

I just what? I had no explanation to give her that she would like to hear. I couldn’t tell her about the fucking eye. Not yet, not until I knew more. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her who had found it. Eventually, I would. But not now.

“Were you worried?” Her question was delivered with one hell of a cheeky grin. She pointed at the toilet behind me. “What if I had fallen in?”

“I’m not fucking playing around.”

All humor left the room when Marcella sucked in a gasp. My hand was at her waist, digging in, and although I didn’t want to leave a mark on her, I didn’t want to let go.

I stared at her—probably glared, but I didn’t have anything else to say. Nothing that lingered on the tip of my tongue would do either of us any good.

I was either going to kiss her whether she wanted it or not or call her an idiot. So I stayed fucking silent and with one final squeeze on her waist, I stepped back and turned away.

“I’ll tell you when I leave, Matteo,” Marcella called from behind me.

I paused and turned my head but didn’t look at her. Just so she knew I heard her.

I then exited the bathroom, nodded at the men that had followed me, and searched the main floor of my home for my goddamn papà.

We needed to fucking talk.

Chapter Twelve

MARCELLA

Finding the courage to open the bathroom door after being yelled at by the man I was going to marry had taken me longer than I had thought it would.

I wasn’t sure I could face him after that, and I knew that I would somehow manage to disappoint him again over the course of this goddamn evening.

As I neared the door, it opened for me.

And a man stepped in.

“Marcella Moretti,” he stated, not needing to ask me who I was because he already knew. “I had hoped we would meet on different…terms.”

The man motioned to the tiled space around us. The door was pulled closed, and the man who knew me moved closer, grinning wickedly when I countered.

“Well-behaved,” he remarked, tilting his chin up. “A woman who does not speak unless addressed. Your papà has taught you well.”

When the silence stretched between us, his eyes narrowed.

“This is your invitation to speak, so I suggest you use it.”

“What would you like me to say?”

That response pleased him, if his slimy grin was any indication. “I want you to tell me why you think you are good enough for my son.”

Cazzo. This man was Matteo’s papà!?

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