A Hunger for the Forbidden - By Maisey Yates Page 0,14
him, past him and down the hall.
He nearly laughed at the haughty look on her face. In fact, he found he wanted to, but wasn’t capable of it. It stuck in his throat, his control too tight to let it out.
He walked past her, to the door of the suite, and took a key card out of his wallet, tapping it against the reader. “My key opens all of them.”
“Careful, caro, that sounds like a bad euphemism.” She shot him a deadly look before entering the suite.
“So prickly, Alessia.”
“I told you you didn’t know me.”
“Then help me get to know you.”
“You first, Matteo.”
He straightened. “I’m Matteo Corretti, oldest son of Benito Corretti. I’m sure you know all about him. My criminal father who died in a fire, locked in an endless rivalry with his brother, Carlo. You ought to know about him, too, as you were going to marry Carlo’s son. I run the hotel arm of my family corporation, and I deal with my own privately owned line of boutique hotels, one of which you’re standing in.”
She crossed her arms and cocked her hip out to the side. “I think I read that in your online bio. And it’s nothing I don’t already know.”
“That’s all there is to know.”
She didn’t believe that. Not for a moment. She knew there was more to him than that. Knew it because she’d seen it. Seen his blind rage as he’d done everything in his power to protect her from a fate she didn’t even like to imagine.
But he didn’t speak of it. So neither did she.
“Tell me about you,” he said.
“Alessia Battaglia, Pisces, oldest daughter of Antonioni. My father is a politician who does under-the-table dealings with organized-crime families. It’s the thing that keeps him in power. But it doesn’t make him rich. It’s why he needs the Correttis.” She returned his style of disclosure neatly, tartly.
“The Correttis are no longer in the organized-crime business. In that regard, my cousins, my brothers and I have done well, no matter our personal feelings for each other.”
“You might not be criminals but you are rich. That’s why you’re so attractive. In my father’s estimation at least.”
“Attractive enough to trade us his daughter.”
She nodded. She looked tired suddenly. Defeated. He didn’t like that. He would rather have her spitting venom at him.
“You could walk away, Alessia,” he said. “Even now you could. I cannot keep you here. Your father cannot hold you. You’re twenty-seven. You have the freedom to do whatever you like. Hell, you could do it on my dime since I’ll be supporting my child regardless of what you do.”
He didn’t know why he was saying it, why he was giving her the out. But part of him wished she would take it. Wished she would leave him alone, take her beauty, the temptation, the ache that seemed to lodge in his chest whenever she was around, with her. The danger she presented to the walls of protection he’d built around his life.
She didn’t say anything. She didn’t move. She was frozen to the spot, her lips parted slightly, her breath shallow, fast.
“Alessia, you have the freedom to walk out that door if you want. Right now.”
He took a step toward her, compelled, driven by something he didn’t understand. Didn’t want to understand. The beast in him was roaring now and he wanted it to shut up. Wanted his control back.
He’d had a handle on it again. Had moved forward from the events of his past. Until Alessia had come back into his life, and at the moment all he wanted was for her to be gone, and for his life to go back to the way it had been.
He cupped her chin, tilted her face up so that her eyes met his. “I am not holding you here. I am not your father and I am not your jailer.”
Dark eyes met his, the steel in them shocking. “No, you aren’t. But you are the father of my baby. Our baby. I’m not going to walk away, Matteo. If you want an out, you’ll have to take it yourself. Don’t think that I will. I’m strong enough to face this. To try to make this work.”
“It would be better if you would.”
“Do you really think that?”
“You think I will be a hands-on father? That I will somehow … be an influence in our child’s life?” The very thought made him sick. What could he offer a child but a legacy of violence and