My stomach grumbles, and I remember I didn’t eat anything yesterday. After Alistair distracted me with his lovemaking, I fell asleep in his arms.

“Is there any food in this house?” he asks.

“Probably not.”

“Are you up for a trip into town?” He nudges my neck with his nose while pressing his erection against my butt.

I arch my back, twisting my neck so I can kiss him.

It’s sweet and unhurried. He runs his hand down my belly until he finds my aching spot. With deft fingers, he parts my folds, then begins to play with my bundle of nerves. He has me panting in seconds, and I rejoice in the fact that he’s not being an insensitive jerk for me wanting sex. Yesterday, I made it obvious that’s what I need, a distraction from the overwhelming sadness that’s swirling in my chest.

Letting go of my lips, he places sweet kisses on my neck while he inserts a finger inside me. He doesn’t rub his erection against me; in fact, he’s lying completely still besides his hand and mouth. He inserts another finger at the same time he applies pressure on my clit with his thumb. The pleasure builds faster than lightning, making my head spin. I close my eyes, curling my fingers around the tangled sheets before I cry out. Alistair increases his pace, milking my orgasm to the max, and it takes me a couple minutes to get back down to earth.

He kisses my shoulder before I turn to him. Caressing my cheek with his fingers, he stares at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. My shattered heart begins to beat faster as it tries to reconcile the feeling of elation with grief.

“Thanks for coming,” I say.

“Goldi, I would go to hell to find you. To be honest, I’ve never been more scared in my life.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I saw you asleep by that tree on the side of the road, I thought the worst had happened.”

I frown. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry. I don’t even remember falling asleep. I guess exhaustion just took over.”

“Please promise me you’ll never do something like that again.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “I couldn’t bear to stay in my parents’ house after what happened. After what my mother told me.”

“Let’s not talk about her.”

I open my eyes again. “No, I want to. I have to get this off my chest.” I pause, needing to take a deep breath first. “Max is my brother.”

Alistair stares at me speechless for a couple of seconds before he furrows his eyebrows. “How?”

“It’s awful. His father raped my mother, and I’m the result. Dad never knew the truth, but that explains why she hates me so much.”

Alistair pulls me against his chest. “I’m so sorry, Chiara. Where is he now? The scumbag, I mean?”

“In jail for beating Max within an inch of his life.”

“Jesus.”

“I’m fucked up, Alistair. Are you sure you want me around?”

He laughs against my hair, but it’s a sound without humor. “You’re not fucked up, my love. I am.”

He must be thinking about his friend Jamie and his reckless past. I touch Alistair’s face, wanting to offer him comfort. It’s not enough—those scars will never vanish completely—but I’ll try my best to make the burden easier for him as long as he’ll let me.

He grabs my hand, turning it around to place a soft kiss on my palm.

“I didn’t mean to make it about me. I’m sorry,” he says.

“Please don’t apologize. Misery loves company.”

My stomach decides it’s been ignored long enough and growls even louder.

“Okay, let’s hop into the shower and go find something to eat,” Alistair says.

“Together?”

“If you want to.”

I grin. “Yes, I need help reaching some hard places.”

49

Alistair

We headed back to Milan yesterday, and I checked us into a hotel. Knowing something bad had happened between Chiara and her mother, Max brought her clothes to us. He didn’t linger, and it didn’t take a genius to see the guy was battling his own problems. With red eyes and a scruff, he looked nothing like the young man I met before.

I noticed how tense Chiara got when Max gave her a hug, how she watched him with guilt in her eyes. Not that she has anything to feel guilty about.

The wake and the funeral aren’t being held in Milan but at a family property in Lake Como. When Chiara mentioned the Moretti name had weight, I didn’t realize they were that important. It makes it even more appealing to the media that a member of one of the most prominent families in Italy was part of a huge financial scandal. No doubt the entire family will be under scrutiny now.

Heads turn when Chiara and I walk in together at the lakefront mansion. I clench my jaw and place a protective hand on her lower back. People stare and talk about us, not even bothering to whisper. Chiara’s spine is taut, so I lace our hands together, squeezing lightly. She turns to me and smiles a little, her eyes dimmed by sadness.

Due to the manner in which her father died, the coffin is sealed shut. Chiara makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat when we get near it, but she stops halfway toward the front row.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

“I don’t think I can do this.”

“Maybe we should go outside for some fresh air.”

“Yes.”

I guide us to the double doors I spotted earlier. The path leads to a garden that seems to wrap around the house. A few people are milling about, mostly more interested in smoking than the scenic view of the lake.

“Oh God,” Chiara whispers so low, I almost don’t hear it.

I follow her gaze. A young couple is veering our way, both dressed to the nines and sporting an arrogant expression on their faces.

“Chiara, I see you finally decided to show up,” the woman says.

“Be nice, Paola,” her companion chimes in.

Ah, so this is the infamous cousin, which means the guy with her must be Pietro.