Not Afraid of the Mafia Heir’s Threat Chapter 11
Lorenzo sounded certain.
But underneath it was a plea.
And for some reason, that only filled me with a cold, hollow pity.
My hand was suddenly gripped tight under the table.
Matteo looked at me with quiet warmth.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to say it. “It wasn’t Gianna.”
“It wasn’t the competition either.”
“Lorenzo, back then, you had a hundred different ways to make me give first place to Gianna.”
“But you chose the ugliest one possible just to break my pride.”
There was a sharp clatter.
The cup slipped from Lorenzo’s hand.
Scalding coffee splashed across him, soaking his clothes.
He didn’t even seem to feel it.
Didn’t move.
After a pause, I added, “Lorenzo, you rotted from the inside out.”
The music in the café stopped.
I stood up and said nothing more.
Matteo followed me immediately, his easygoing smile returning as he called out, “Sera, wait up.”
Then he seemed to remember something, turned back, and looked straight at Lorenzo. “Oh, right. Forgot to introduce myself.”
“Matteo Ricci. Of the Ricci family in Milan.”
For a split second, something in Lorenzo’s expression shifted.
Matteo gave a cheerful little, “Ah,” then added, “And yes, my wife and I met as fellow patients.”
“No wonder you couldn’t dig that up. Don’t beat yourself up too much.”
I waited for him by the door.
Watching Matteo run toward me, I suddenly thought of two years earlier.
I had just picked up my medication at the hospital and was about to leave when Matteo, deep in the throes of a manic episode, slammed straight into me.
He had made this low, broken sound in his throat, like a wounded animal.
No one had stepped in to help him.
He’d been strapped down, humiliated, half out of his mind.
I had looked at him and thought, I know exactly what that feels like.
The only difference was that the ropes wrapped around me couldn’t be seen.
Maybe that was why I reached out.
Maybe that was why I touched his hair and said softly, “Don’t be scared. It’ll get better.”
And somehow, he had gone still.
After that, everything else had happened naturally.
The only real surprise was that one night, two medicated disasters got drunk, started talking wildly about marriage, and actually went to City Hall and got the paperwork done.
Matteo waved a hand in front of my face.
Looking pitiful on purpose, he asked, “Sera, you’ve been in a daze since we left. Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts about keeping me around.”
I came back to myself and felt my mouth curve before I could stop it. “No.”
“I want you. Just you.”
Matteo flushed slightly, clearing his throat as he looked away.
“Don’t say things like that out in the open,” he mumbled, his grip on my fingers tightening.
“Save that for when we get home.”
I…
I decided not to respond to that at all.
The plane trees had turned gold.
Leaves kept falling around us, bright and beautiful, while people stopped all over the street to take pictures and laugh with each other.
Then a photographer rushed over, eager and breathless. “Photos for the two of you?”
“I guarantee they’ll come out gorgeous. I do retouching too!”
Matteo stepped in front of me at once, voice cool. “No thanks. My wife doesn’t like having her picture taken.”
I slipped my arm through his.
The moon was beautiful that night.
Smiling, I said quietly, “I want to.”
The photographer lit up and hurried off to get his equipment.
But Matteo didn’t move.
I stepped into his arms and tipped my face up at him.
His eyes were red.
I hesitated. “You don’t want to?”
Matteo sniffed hard, then declared proudly, “Of course I do! Why wouldn’t I?”
“We’re taking them. Openly. Proudly.”
He grabbed my hand and marched forward with complete conviction.
Behind us, the dry leaves crackled underfoot.
At the edge of my vision, I caught sight of Lorenzo lingering a short distance away, hesitating.
In the end, he turned and left.
I smiled brightly at the camera.
And with time, the right and wrong of it all became unmistakably clear.
Lorenzo finally backed off.
When Matteo and I held a proper wedding reception later, he even sent a gift through his mother.
It was a brand-new saint medal.
His mother looked as elegant as ever.
Only now there was more exhaustion at the corners of her eyes.
She pressed a thick wedding envelope into my hand and said gently, “Lorenzo wanted to come himself.”
“But there was a storm near St. Anthony’s, and the roads got slick.”
“He twisted his ankle. Doctor says he’ll be laid up for six months.”
Matteo squeezed my hand and stared darkly at the saint medal.
I smiled politely. “In that case, Lorenzo probably needs it more than I do.”
“Thank you, though. I’ll keep the gift money.”
She sighed, but in the end she took the medal back.
Matteo’s mouth twitched, barely holding back a smile.
I smiled too.
And from that point on, we were happy.