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As I sat, I turned a glare toward Papà.
“What the fuck is going on?” I hissed.
Papà faced me with a frown that only made him look weak.
“This is a transaction,” Matteo responded for my papà, his tone low.
I spun my glare toward him, watching as he sliced into his supper like what he had just said was entirely normal. In our world, technically…it was.
“A transaction for what?” I spat.
Breathing a laugh, Matteo grinned slyly at me, meeting my gaze fully.
“I’m sorry, cara,” Papà whispered.
I twisted to look at him and reached for his arm, holding on as tightly as I could.
“What is going on? Please, Papà, just tell me.” I felt the sting of tears that I tried to blink away. “Who will look after Mamma? Annabella? Gisella?”
“I have hired staff to take care of your mamma and sisters,” Matteo answered for my papà again.
“Not everything can be bought,” I hissed and glared at him over my shoulder.
That stupid fucking smile spread across his face. “But you can be bought.”
Chapter Four
MATTEO
My bride sat stubbornly at my left for the remainder of our meal. She didn’t touch her beef bracoile, but her papà managed to get her to eat a bit of the panna cotta with lemon and cherries.
As my men were dismissed and all stood to leave, Marcella pushed away from the table and quickly followed her papà into the foyer.
Serafino Genovesi, my consigliere, stood to follow her, but I raised a hand to stop him. Marcella couldn’t get far. I rose and entered the foyer, watching as my fiancée held onto her papà’s arms.
She was begging him not to leave her.
“Please, Papà! Please take me with you! Take me home, please!”
“I can’t, cara,” Moretti replied coldly, refusing to look at his daughter.
He wasn’t a strong man. Brave, yes, but not strong. Moretti tried to remove Marcella’s hands from his arm, but she just gripped him tighter.
Moretti hadn’t told his daughter of our…exchange. That had been my idea. An idea I wasn’t entirely proud of now as I watched her cling to her papà, but it had been for the best. Had she known, it was entirely likely that Marcella would have done something to prevent the arrangement from even happening.
And I wasn’t going to let that happen. Not when this was a strategic movement as much as it was fuelled by my intense curiosity about the eldest Moretti daughter. She kept to herself, attended events on her papà’s arm, but she wasn’t as involved as some other made men’s daughters. As much as I knew about her, I craved more.
More of her, and less of the interaction in front of me. I was starting to feel uncomfortable, and I almost felt like this hadn’t been the right way to go about it.
Almost.
“I love you, Marcella,” Moretti sighed, and with a swift yank, he pulled his sleeve from his daughter and left her here.
With me. Where she now belonged, whether she liked it or not.
When our home was entirely empty of the guests I had invited, Marcella turned to stare at me with a rage that burned across my skin. The click of her heels against the marble echoed in the cold space as she marched her ass toward me, stopping inches away.
“You can’t do this,” she seethed.
