The Don's Forbidden Heir

The Fiancée

It happened two days later in the upstairs gallery.

They were long portraits of severe-looking Moretti men who seemed to watch as Elara walked the length of the room, but she stopped abruptly when the sound of clicking heels drew near.

The woman who appeared before her was the opposite of everything Elara tried not to be. She was tall, elegant, and her cream silk blouse and tailored black pants obviously cost more than Elara’s monthly rent. Her dark hair flows over one shoulder in perfect waves. She looks impossibly good, all put together, but her lips are a thin line as she studies Elara.

“So you are the little bastard,” she says.

“I beg your pardon?” Elara asks, arching a brow.

“Isabella Rossi. Matteo’s fiancée,” the woman replies. “And you are the dirty little secret he’s dragged all the way from Queens. How charming of you to visit his father’s home.”

Elara stiffens her spine. “I didn’t ask to be here.”

“No one does.” Isabella’s gaze sweeps over her, taking in her sweater and jeans with distaste. “But you do, just the same. Dining at their table, sleeping in their house, sucking up to my future husband.”

Elara’s stomach turns. “I take self-defence lessons from him. That’s all.”

Isabella laughs, but there’s no humour in it. “Of course. Because Matteo is so very thorough in his lessons. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, sweetheart. And the way you look back. Don’t waste my time pretending otherwise.”

Elara felt the heat rise to her cheeks; she wished she could sink into the floor. “There is nothing to pretend.”

“Good.” Isabella’s smile narrowed. “Because Matteo is my future husband. Our engagement was made years ago, and the families have already tied their legacies together. You are at best a nuisance and at worst a liability to everything I’ve worked for. So I suggest you stay out of my way, little sister, or I will make sure to remind Matteo precisely how unwelcoming his new bride truly is.”

Elara narrows her eyes at the pettiness in Isabella’s voice. Little sister? That was not exactly a term of endearment.

“Threaten me again, and I’ll tell Matteo precisely how warm his future bride is,” Elara shoots back.

Isabella’s smile is almost pretty, but the anger in her eyes is not. “Matteo does what is expected of him. He will marry me and give me the son his father wants. You, little sister, are an annoyance he will soon forget about entirely. Remember that the next time you have him on your knees in the training room.”

Isabella turns on her heel, leaving Elara alone in the gallery with the sound of her heels echoing away like a countdown.

It took Elara until the following afternoon to see Matteo again. She was wandering the library, trying to appear busy, when he appeared behind her and shut the door with a soft click before leaning against it.

“I heard you met Isabella.”

Elara looks up and meets his gaze. “She introduced herself.”

“She is territorial,” Matteo replies.

“Is that so?” Elara raises a brow. “Does she know that she has nothing to be territorial about?”

Matteo pushes himself off the door and comes forward, slow and deliberate. He stops right in front of the chair she sits in, but instead of looking at her, he stares right over her head.

“Is there something wrong?” he asks finally.

Elara swallows hard. She should say no, something, anything that would stop the tension between them from growing thicker with every heartbeat, but she couldn’t seem to make her mouth form the words.

It’s not that she loves him or that there is even anything grand or monumental about her feelings for him. It’s just that she can’t remember a single time when she was this attracted to someone, not even when she was younger and full of dreams and fantasies.

Matteo’s gaze drops to her lips for the briefest second before he seems to realise what he is doing and straightens his spine.

“Dinner’s at eight.”

He says nothing as he looks around the room before snapping his fingers. “Wear the dress. My father pointed it out to me already.”

With that, he leaves, leaving Elara completely dumbfounded.

She looks down at the book still in her lap, only realising that she hadn’t actually been reading it when Isabella’s voice still haunts her ears. And somewhere underneath it all, the memory of Matteo’s near-touch is still seething.

It was becoming more difficult to deny with every passing day.

It wasn’t just her.

The tension had a face and a name.

Now it just wanted to take a bite.