A Hunger for the Forbidden - By Maisey Yates Page 0,2

billowed around her as she ran. She only looked behind her once. Wide, frightened eyes meeting his.

“Alessia!” He couldn’t stop himself. Her name burst from his lips, and his body burst from its position in the pews. And he was running, too. “Alessia!”

The roar of the congregation drowned out his words. But still he ran. People were standing now, filing into the aisle, blocking his path. The faces of the crowd were a blur, he wasn’t aware of who he touched, who he moved out of his way, in his pursuit of the bride.

When he finally burst through the exterior doors of the basilica, Alessia was getting into the backseat of the limo that was waiting to carry her and her groom away after the ceremony, trying to get her massive skirt and train into the vehicle with her. When she saw him, everything in her face changed. A hope in her eyes that grabbed him deep in his chest and twisted his heart. Hard.

“Matteo.”

“What are you doing, Alessia?”

“I have to go,” she said, her eyes focused behind him now, fearful. Fearful of her father, he knew. He was gripped then by a sudden need to erase her fears. To keep her from ever needing to be afraid again.

“Where?” he asked, his voice rough.

“The airport. Meet me.”

“Alessia …”

“Matteo, please. I’ll wait.” She shut the door to the limo and the car pulled out of the parking lot, just as her father exited the church.

“You!” Antonioni turned on him. “What have you done?”

And Alessandro appeared behind him, his eyes blazing with fury. “Yes, cousin, what have you done?”

Alessia’s hands shook as she handed the cash to the woman at the clothing shop. She’d never been permitted to go into a store like this. Her father thought this sort of place, with mass-produced garments, was common. Not for a Battaglia. But the jeans, T-shirt and trainers she’d found suited her purpose because they were common. Because any woman would wear them. Because a Battaglia would not. As if the Battaglias had the money to put on the show they did. Her father borrowed what he had to in order to maintain the fiction that their power was as infinite as it ever was. His position as Minister for the Trade and Housing department might net him a certain amount of power, power that was easily and happily manipulated, but it didn’t keep the same flow of money that had come from her grandfather’s rather more seedy organization.

The shopgirl looked at her curiously, and Alessia knew why. A shivering bride, sans groom, in a small tourist shop still wearing her gown and veil was a strange sight indeed.

“May I use the changing room?” she asked once her items were paid for.

She felt slightly sick using her father’s money to escape, sicker still over the way she’d gotten it. She must have been quite the sight in the bank, in her wedding gown, demanding a cash advance against a card with her father’s name on it.

“I’m a Battaglia,” she’d said, employing all the self-importance she’d ever heard come from Antonioni. “Of course it’s all right for me to access my family money.”

Cash was essential, because she knew better than to leave a paper trail. Having a family who had, rather famously, been on the wrong side of the law was helpful in that regard at least. As had her lifelong observation of how utter confidence could get you things you shouldn’t be allowed to have. The money in her purse being a prime example.

“Of course,” the cashier said.

Alessia scurried into the changing room and started tugging off the gown, the hideous, suffocating gown. The one chosen by her father because it was so traditional. The virgin bride in white.

If he only knew.

She contorted her arm behind her and tugged at the tab of the zip, stepping out of the dress, punching the crinoline down and stepping out of the pile of fabric. She slipped the jeans on and tugged the stretchy black top over her head.

She emerged from the room a moment later, using the rubber bands she’d purchased to restrain her long, thick hair. Then she slipped on the trainers, ruing her lack of socks for a moment, then straightened.

And she breathed. Feeling more like herself again. Like Alessia. “Thank you,” she said to the cashier. “Keep the dress. Sell it if you like.”

She dashed out of the store and onto the busy streets, finally able to breathe. Finally.

She’d ditched the limo at