Page 252 of Merciless Desires

I stepped out of the car first and helped Marcella out, sweeping her under my arm. I held her hip and guided her toward the slick black doors of my mamma’s most recent mansion.

Genovesi knocked, nodding at the made men that opened the door and guided us into the sunken den where my papà was smoking and sipping whiskey.

Why the fuck was he here? This supper was supposed to be with Mamma only. Did that mean papà’s wife or whoever the hell he’d brought to the engagement party would be here as well?

“Matteo,” he drawled, his gaze locked on the quivering woman at my side. “You’re late.” He placed his tumbler down and blotted out his cigarette, standing. “Bring her to me.”

Che cazzo, why did he have to act like this? His legs fucking worked perfectly fine.

Marcella slipped from my grasp and crossed the space toward my papà. His brow hiked and he reached for her, drawing her in to kiss her cheeks. When he placed his hand on her lower back, just grazing the swell of her ass, rage blazed through me, but I stayed completely still.

He was testing me. I hoped.

My papà held Marcella at arm’s length and quizzed her. In Italian. About me. His thumb was rubbing back and forth on her left forearm, an action he wanted me to see. He could have her if he wanted her, he was making that known.

“Go get your mamma.”

The command was aimed at me, but delivered to Marcella. He wouldn’t look away from her. He wanted me to trust him with my fiancée alone? Fat fucking chance.

But I’d do as he said. Marcella wouldn’t fall for his honey trap.

With a nod, I left the room, trying not to react as the made men were dismissed as well. I couldn’t react. I couldn’t let my papà know that I might actually grow to care about Marcella, an affection greater than lust.

It would be my weakness, and my papà would use that against me in any way that he could.

Mamma was in her bedroom sitting at a white and gold vanity table. She noticed me in the mirror and smiled softly, turning in her seat.

“Matteo,” she called gently, drawing me to her.

“Mamma.” I kissed both of her cheeks and helped her stand. “How have you been?”

Mamma swatted away my hands. “I’m fine, Matteo. You have more to worry about than your mamma. You have a wife.”

“But she hasn’t recently had surgery,” I reminded her.

Mamma grimaced. “You worry more than your papà.”

Because I actually cared about her. She may have been a stranger during my childhood, but she’d only ever shown me kindness. I owed her the same in return.

I chose not to reply, not to agree with the obvious, and changed the subject. “This could have waited.”

“I want to meet her.”

“She’s not going anywhere. You need to rest.”

Mamma had been on bed rest for four weeks after her hysterectomy. Her wound wasn’t healed, and I would have preferred that she stayed in bed until it was.

“I’ll rest later. Where is she?”

I didn’t reply, and Mamma sighed. I held my elbow out to her, and although she hesitated, she surprisingly accepted the assistance. Slowly, I guided her downstairs and into the den where my papà was sitting tightly next to Marcella on the uncomfortable couch.

He didn’t bother to peer up when we entered the space, but Marcella did. She stood and smoothed out her crimson dress and flicked soft curls over her exposed shoulder. Pressing her blood-red lips together, Marcella waited for me to address her before she moved.

“Mamma, this is Marcella Moretti.”

“Moretti?” Mamma said quickly and peered up at me. “Mirella Moretti?”

Marcella nodded. Well, I guessed that was why all of the Moretti girls’ names ended in ella.

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