She did it to punish me—because of what I did to her. Because I put her aside...put her out of my life.
That was the reason—the only reason.
Emotion reared up in him—savage, powerful. Fuelling the memories surging through his head. Impelling him from the room, from the apartment.
To one destination only.
* * *
Carla swayed, her body racked with pain. Her mind more so. Twenty-four hours—had it really been only twenty-four hours? Twenty-four hours since she had collapsed into the blessed oblivion that had blotted out the horrors of the afternoon before?
She clenched her hands, feeling her painted nails digging into her palms. She welcomed the pain. She deserved it. Deserved it for being the cretinous, contemptible fool that she had been.
To think I could get him to marry me! To salve my shattered pride! To let me outstare the world—outstare the man who threw me aside as if I was less than nothing to him!
Mortification filled her—and self-contempt. And bitter, bitter remorse.
She deserved what Vito had done to her. Deserved his refusal to be blackmailed into saving her stupid, stupid face. Deserved everything.
She trailed into the kitchen, filled the kettle. She would drink tea and force herself to eat, despite the sickness in her stomach.
The future stretched ahead of her—empty and bleak.
She would leave Rome. She must. And her mother would be leaving too. No doors would be open to her now—Lucia Viscari would ensure that. For who would receive a woman who had sold her own husband’s legacy—half the entire company—to his business rival, just to punish the man who had jilted her daughter at the altar? No, Marlene would leave for Spain and she would go with her. What else could she do?
The doorbell jangled, making her start. Dear God, not her mother again, surely? She had left only a few hours earlier, her fury at Vito’s behaviour venomous, her vengeance upon him ruthless.
Carla had tried to stop her.
‘Do you blame him, Mum? Do you? I behaved despicably to him! None of this was his fault, and yet I made him take the fall for it! And if you sell those shares to Nic Falcone you will have behaved as badly! Sell them to Vito—like he’s implored you to do ever since Guido died!’
But Marlene had been deaf to Carla’s pleas. Driven by maternal rage at her daughter’s humiliation. There had been nothing Carla could do.
The doorbell came again—insistent now.
She put the kettle down, trailed to the door. Opened it.
Cesare walked in.
Shock, like a seismic wave in slow motion, detonated within Carla, hollowing her out, draining the breath from her body. Faintness drummed at her and she clung to the door frame for support.
He took it from her, closed it. Turned to her.
There was a blaze in his eyes. A black fire.
‘Get out.’ Her voice was faint, and very far away.
He ignored her, walked past her into her sitting room. His eyes came back to her as she stepped inside. She clutched her dressing gown to her, as if it might support her.
‘I said get out,’ she said again.
He looked at her. That black fire was still in his eyes. ‘Were you really going to marry him? Did you truly intend to go through with it?’
‘Yes!’ she answered, her voice a searing hiss.
Emotion was knifing inside her. To see Cesare here, in her apartment, a handful of metres away from her...
His mouth tightened like the line of a whip. ‘They can’t decide, the gossips, quite what happened yesterday. Whether he threw you over or you him.’ He paused. ‘So which was it?’