Chapter 31 The Guilt Between the Lines
Valentina
Several days had passed, and somehow, I’d become Alessio’s unofficial shadow. Morning walks through the garden. Afternoon espresso in the sunroom. Chess by firelight, where he’d pretend not to notice when I let him win.
He was sharp. Witty. Disarmingly observant. And in the quiet spaces between conversation, when we didn’t need words to fill the air, I felt something I hadn’t expected:
Peace.
It should’ve made things easier. Instead, it made everything harder.
Because every time he laughed at one of my sarcastic comments…
Every time he waved off a servant like we were just two old friends talking life over lemon cake…
Every time he looked at me with eyes that held nothing but pride…
…I felt it.
That damn ache in my chest. The sting of guilt. Because no matter how much I liked Alessio Genovese—no matter how much I respected him—it didn’t change the truth.
I wasn’t here for him. I was here for the man who’d murdered my family.
Matteo Genovese.
The man who looked at me like I was becoming real to him. Like I was some prize he was beginning to want beyond his plans. The man I was going to destroy.
Even if it broke Alessio’s heart in the process. I shoved the thought down like a bitter pill, chasing it with a sip of espresso as Alessio waved from the garden bench.
“Come on, girl,” he called. “You’re young, you’re limber, you should be walking circles around me.”
I smiled and pushed off the railing, tucking my hair behind my ear as I joined him.
“You’re lucky I like you, old man. Otherwise, I’d be inside right now with a croissant and zero regrets.”
He chuckled, patting the seat beside him. “And miss out on this beautiful morning?”
“No,” I said softly, sitting down. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
But I was already counting how many more like this we’d get before the game shifted. Before everything cracked. Because the clock was ticking.
And no amount of warm sunlight or easy laughter could soften the truth:
This wasn’t his story. It was mine.
And it would end the way I planned it—
Even if I had to pretend I didn’t care who got hurt. The peace didn’t last long.
By early afternoon, I was back in stilettos and lip gloss, sitting across from Matteo in the conference room with her.
Audrey.
Same too-tight blazer that barely qualified as a jacket. Same plunging neckline that screamed hire me, fuck me, ruin your fiancée’s life. Same breathy, overcompensating laugh every time Matteo so much as exhaled.
“And for the reception entrance,” she purred, trailing her manicured nail down her notepad, “I was thinking fog machines, spark fountains, maybe even a champagne tower as you walk in? It’s dramatic, but elegant.”
“I think a simple entrance would feel more authentic,” I offered, voice calm but clipped.
Audrey didn’t even look at me. Didn’t blink. Didn’t pause. Didn’t acknowledge.
“Oh, Matteo,” she practically moaned his name, “should we have a jazz trio or stick with the string quartet? You have such exquisite taste—I trust you to choose.”
I blinked slowly, willing myself not to stab her with her own overpriced pen. He didn’t stop her. Didn’t even glance at me as she practically crawled into his lap under the guise of a seating chart.
By the time we wrapped the meeting—after finalizing the rehearsal dinner menu and mapping out the guest list down to the last unnecessary cousin—I was vibrating with tension.
As soon as we stepped into the hall outside his office, I turned sharply. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Matteo arched a brow. “Excuse me?”
“You just let her drool all over you like I’m not even there.”
“It’s her job to be accommodating—”
“Oh please,” I snapped, stepping into his space. “That wasn’t accommodating. That was auditioning for mistress of the year while I’m sitting right there. She’s disrespecting me in front of you, and you’re letting it happen.”
“She doesn’t matter.”
“She does if she keeps acting like I don’t exist.”
He crossed his arms, jaw ticking. “You’re getting worked up over nothing.”
“No, Matteo,” I hissed. “This isn’t nothing. This is our wedding, and you’re letting some desperate wedding Barbie treat me like I’m invisible.”
His eyes flashed, but he didn’t raise his voice. “You handled it.”
“Damn right I did. But next time I won’t be so polite about it.”
He stared at me for a beat. Then—
“You want me to fire her?”
I didn’t blink. “No. I want you to tell her—in front of me—exactly who I am and what my place is. And I want you to act like this isn’t just some business arrangement you’re being forced into.”
Silence crackled between us.
And then, low and even, he said, “You want me to act like I’m in love with you?”
I didn’t look away. “That’s what you told me, remember? I was to play the part to sell it, well we are about to have every one you’ve ever known with eyes boring through us so you better start acting the part as well.”
Matteo turned without another word and disappeared into his office, the heavy door shutting behind him with a quiet finality that somehow felt louder than a slam.
I exhaled through my nose, jaw clenched, heels clicking angrily as I pivoted toward my suite. I needed out of these shoes. Out of this dress. Out of this charade—if only for a moment.
But the second I rounded the corner—
“Ah, Valentina.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. Alessio. Just standing there like some kind of tuxedoed phantom, hands clasped loosely behind his back, sharp eyes glittering like he’d been waiting.
Oh shit. Had he seen us? Worse—had he heard us?
I pasted on a smile that felt about as real as Audrey’s tits. “Alessio! I didn’t see you there.”
“So I gathered,” he said smoothly, taking a step toward me. “I saw you and Matteo. Arguing.”
I froze. There it was. The trap. The judgment. The ancient mafia hammer about to fall. But then he tilted his head, studying me with a curious warmth instead of suspicion.
“Everything alright?” he asked, voice calm. Concerned, even. “You two seemed… tense.”
I forced a small laugh. “We were just… discussing some wedding details.”
He raised a single eyebrow like he wasn’t buying a damn word of that.
So I shrugged. “I don’t do fake very well. And apparently I’m allergic to being disrespected.”
Something flickered behind his eyes—approval? amusement?
“Good,” he said. “Because well it shows that you two are not picture perfect, I would be worried if you were. But also because if you were the kind of woman to smile sweetly while letting yourself be treated like an accessory, I’d have serious doubts about you.”
I blinked.
He gave a slow, knowing nod. “This family… it needs someone with teeth.”
And with that, he patted my arm gently, like a lion proud of a fellow predator.
“Come with me, my dear. I have something for you.”