Chapter 4
Alessia
"No," I said.
Matteo's expression hardened. "Alessia."
"You don't have a single shred of proof." I fired back. "You didn't even bother to ask where I was, who I was with, or if I even knew about this. You just barged in here, grabbed me in front of my friends, and treated me like a damn criminal."
Serena shook her head, tears gathering beautifully on her lashes. "Matteo, please, just let it go," she whimpered. "I don't want to be the reason you two fight."
I let out a dry laugh. "Don't flatter yourself, Serena. There's nothing left to ruin."
Matteo stepped closer, his jaw tight. "Enough. Just apologize so we can end this drama."
I looked at the man I had loved for five years.
Once, I believed my character needed no defense with him. Now Serena could accuse me of anything, and he would supply the verdict before asking a single question.
"I won't admit to something I didn't do," I said. "And I have no interest in continuing this farce."
I walked out before either of them could answer.
I did not return to the farewell dinner. I paid the bill from the lobby, sent my friends a message, and went home.
The villa felt different when I entered. Not emptier. Finished.
Five years earlier, men from a rival family had opened fire outside a charity gala. Matteo had thrown himself between me and the bullets. I remembered pressing both hands to his wound, sobbing while blood ran between my fingers.
Even half-conscious, he had reached up to wipe my tears.
"Don't cry."
When I leaned in to check his bleeding, he suddenly grabbed the back of my neck. He pulled me down and kissed me hard—a desperate, bruising kiss that knocked the breath right out of me.
"I saved you," he had whispered. "Now you're mine."
I had surrendered willingly.
For five years, Matteo spoiled me like I was the center of his universe. When I admired a rare yellow diamond at an exhibition, it appeared on my vanity the next morning. When I told him lavender reminded me of Sicily, he planted a field of it at his estate.
He called me a gift from Cupid.
But gifts could be hidden. Gifts could be taken for granted. Gifts could be set aside whenever the past knocked on the door.
Serena's return had not destroyed us by itself. Matteo had done that one choice at a time.
I called a packing service and asked them to come before dawn.
While they worked, I went next door to Matteo's house. I placed his belongings in a small box, gathered every gift and photograph of mine I could find, and left his key on the dining table.
Then I went upstairs to the attic.
The old wall of photographs remained untouched: Matteo and Serena laughing on a yacht, Serena asleep against his shoulder, the two of them young enough to believe wanting something made it permanent.
I did not tear them down.
They were no longer my burden.
At my own front door, I remembered Matteo still had a key. I called him twice. Both calls were declined.
I did not try again. I called a locksmith.
By sunrise, my suitcases were in the car and the locks had been changed.
The decision waiting for me in Sicily was not as sudden as Matteo would later believe.
The Bellandi and Ferraro families had known each other for generations. Lorenzo Ferraro and I had grown up crossing paths at weddings, funerals, and summer gatherings. He had proposed months earlier—not as an order between families, but as a promise of an honest marriage if I ever chose it.
Back then, I had turned him down. Like an idiot, I was still holding out hope that Matteo would finally step up and stop treating me like his dirty little secret.
Until three weeks ago.
Finding those photos in the attic didn't just break my heart—it snapped me wide awake.
I called Lorenzo the very same night.
He didn't pry or ask for any complicated explanations. He only asked one thing: if I was finally ready to be his wife.
This time, my answer was yes.
The cathedral date had been held quietly while I settled my affairs in New York. No one outside our families knew. That was how Matteo remained ignorant until the last possible moment.
I boarded the Bellandi plane that morning without looking back.
Matteo returned to his house hours later and found his key on the table beside the box of his belongings.
He crossed the lawn to Alessia's villa, inserted his key, and discovered it no longer fit.
For the first time, unease cut through his certainty.
He called her. No answer.
He sent a message instead.
About last night, Serena says she won't hold it against you. Come home and apologize properly. I'll make it up to you. We can choose the yacht you wanted.
At the Cathedral of Monreale, my phone lit on the vanity while Papa waited to escort me down the aisle.
I read Matteo's message once.
Then I laughed, blocked his number, and slipped the phone into my bag.
Papa offered me his arm. "Ready?"
Through the open doors, I could see Lorenzo waiting beneath the gold mosaics. His gaze never left me, and there was no secrecy in it.
"Yes," I said. "I am."
Matteo stared at his unanswered messages until Adrian called.
"Did you see the photo I just sent?" He asked, his voice tight.
"What picture?"
"Lorenzo Ferraro is getting married in Sicily right now," Adrian choked out, the silence on the line turning deafening. "Matteo… Alessia is the bride!!"
