Loving the Enemy

by Connelly, Clare

  “Calm down,” Gabe laughed, rough and hoarse sounding. Fiero joined in. “Don’t be paranoid. I love Alessia, but Christo, do you think I’d be so messed up I’d sleep with your ex-wife?”

  Massimo’s eyes shut for a moment. He was being ridiculous. “Of course not.” He knew that wasn’t the case.

  “I care about her. And I care about you.”

  The admission surprised Max. Not the sentiment – he knew how Gabe felt about him, but Gabe was, usually, a man of few words.

  “I just wonder if you’re not a bit like oil and water.”

  Fiero’s brows drew together. “What are you saying?”

  Gabe lifted his shoulders. “Your first marriage was a dismal failure. You were both burned by the way it ended.” Max rejected that. He’d been disappointed he hadn’t been able to make it work, and he’d been furious that Alessia had been cheating behind his back – or so he’d believed – but he hadn’t been burned. Why would Gabe say he had been?

  Fiero leaned closer. “And the way you are now – It seems like you’re still harbouring hurts from her infidelity.”

  “I told you, she didn’t cheat.”

  “Even the kiss –,”

  “No.” Massimo’s eyes swept shut. “That wasn’t her fault. None of it was.” When he opened his eyes, there was a bleakness in his expression. “But I was so angry.”

  “No shit,” Gabe poured another scotch, but didn’t drink from it. Instead, he cradled the glass thoughtfully in his hand.

  “I cut her out of my life without giving her a chance to explain.”

  Silence fell.

  “But it’s all forgotten now,” Fiero said finally. “You’ve obviously reunited.”

  Massimo grimaced in acknowledgement.

  The meaning was clear – reuniting didn’t mean all was forgiven and forgotten.

  Max shook his head. “For five years I have been so angry with her and she did nothing wrong.” He stared straight ahead, not seeing either brother. “It was all me. Every bit of blame lands at my feet.”

  Another protracted silence surrounded them. The happy, merry noises of the adjacent room seemed to be in an alternate galaxy.

  “When I learned the truth about Jack,” Fiero said eventually, referring to his young son. “I was furious with Elodie. How could she have had a child and not told me about him?” He shook his head with his own sense of self-recrimination. “It was easier to be angry than it was to look at my own faults, to see my own errors.”

  “We were all too hard on Elodie,” Max muttered.

  “You were hard on her out of a desire to protect me.”

  “We missed two years of Jack’s life,” Gabe pointed out, then backtracked. “Though you were a shit to her, so I can’t really blame Elodie.”

  Fiero laughed, a hollow sound. “I was. I was such a bastard, but looking back, I loved her so much – I just couldn’t make sense of what I was feeling.”

  Massimo envied Fiero that clarity of thought. If he loved Alessia, it would be easier to understand why his reactions were so all over the place. But this wasn’t about love. It was more complicated, and less satisfying.

  “None of us had a great example of happy, loving parents,” Fiero continued. “We’re all reinventing the wheel as we go. If you want my advice, it’s that you need to be honest with Alessia – even when it makes no sense to you. She’s smarter than you are. Tell her what’s bothering you and let her be the one to sort it out.”

  Massimo lifted one side of his lips, in what might have passed for silent agreement, but inwardly, he knew that wasn’t the answer. Maybe there wasn’t an answer, beyond time and patience. And just maybe even that wouldn’t be enough.

  * * *

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Midway through pushing a box back on top of a shelf in the attic, Alessia spun about, a guilty expression on her face. It died at the sight of Massimo though. The suit he wore was a dark navy blue, the shirt a crisp, snowy white that set off the gold of his tan, and in the pocket of his jacket there was a white pocket square. He looked untouchable and perfect. She hadn’t seen him the night before – he’d returned late, sometime after midnight. She’d feigned sleep in her own room, but she heard him pause at her door, felt his presence there, and held her breath – waiting, wanting, wishing he would push the door inwards and come to her.

  And in the morning, she’d hated herself for that weakness.

  “Looking for something,” Alessia forced her gaze back to the box.

  “Christo, you shouldn’t be doing that.” He was right behind her, his hands on her thighs, steadying her where she stood on top of a dining chair. But she’d been fine before he’d arrived – perfectly stable – and now her legs felt decidedly wobbly.

  “I’m okay.” Her voice was low and husky.

  “What do you need? I can get it for you.”

  She jerked her gaze downwards, her eyes landing on his autocratic face, his dark hair, and something squeezed hard inside of her. She forced herself to ignore it.

  “I…” Great. She couldn’t form a sentence. He was so close, his touch so distracting. Frustrated, she shook her head. “Christmas. It’s almost Christmas and there are no decorations.”

  His expression showed confusion. “We decorate at Villa Fortune.” A sense of guilt assailed him – why hadn’t he taken her the night before? Everyone in his family loved her – as his conversation with Gabe and Fiero had reminded him.

  Her heart did a little loop the loop. At some point, she’d have to go back there. It was a place she’d always loved – as a child, it had been so full of warmth and noise, a beautiful family home that filled her with happiness, but now? Despite the fact she remained close with the other Montebellos, and knew they’d always welcome her, they were still Massimo’s family. Going there as his wife would require her to act a part, and the idea of playing happy families with this man felt dangerous and wrong. The idea of lying to Yaya! She’d done it once, except it hadn’t really been a lie because she’d thought she loved her husband, so for her, playing the part of the doting newly wed was easy. But now the stars had fallen from her eyes – there was no getting away from the brittle falsity of this marriage. She shook her head a little, forcing herself back to the present.

  “I know there are some decorations here though. I bought them…” the words trailed off into silence. Last time. There was so much in that admission, so much remembering and nostalgia, so much pain. It hadn’t been much – just a few ornaments, though each had been imbued with the weight of all her childish hopes. “These were the decorations I bought for our first Christmas together,” she’d imagined telling her children in future years, without realising there would be no future Christmasses shared.

  “I remember.” A throaty admission. “Let me look.”

  “It’s fine. I can reach.” She moved her gaze back to the top of the shelf. “I know I put them here somewhere. I could have sworn they were in that box.”

  “Alessia, do not make me lift you down.”

  Her eyes widened as she stared down at him, her skin pricking with curiosity. Danger bells sounded but she stayed where she was, a wry smile twisting her lips. “I think you’d find that a lot harder than you might have six months ago.”

  His expression shifted, as if to say ‘challenge accepted’, and then his strong hands were pressing to her hips, lifting her off the chair as though she weighed nothing. He slid her downwards, her curves pressed to his body so she was breathless and light-headed by the time her feet hit the ground. Her eyes stayed locked to his, her lips parted as breath after breath burst from her body.

  Neither spoke. Neither moved. His expression was impossible to decipher, his eyes roaming her face, his lungs shifting with every breath he took.

  Oh, how she wanted to lift up and kiss him! It took all of her willpower to remind herself of her resolution. They might have slept together a few nights ago but that had been a mistake.

  She took a step ba
ck, jabbing her leg on the chair by accident. She spun away before he could see her reaction.

  “I’m sure they’re up there.” It broke the spell. He lifted his gaze to the top of the cupboard, his eyes roaming the boxes.

  “Si,” he agreed, turning around and taking in the room. Much of what was stored here was personal files his assistant required him to keep for taxation purposes, as well as some old family heirlooms. It made sense that Alessia had stashed the Christmas decorations here, though he’d found it strange she’d chosen the morning after Christmas to pack the tree away. At Villa Fortune, the tree was still sparkling with festive merriment and ancient lights well into January, usually.

  “Let me look.” He climbed up onto the chair, scanning the boxes.

  “I’ve checked most of those.”

  “Most…” he pushed the boxes aside to reveal one right at the back, too far back for someone of Alessia’s height to properly see. “But not all.” He reached forward, his fingertips wrapping around the edges as he brought it forward. Sure enough, her elegant cursive script on the side read, Decorations and Lights.

  “Ah huh!” He pulled the box off the top shelf in the same motion he stepped down, his eyes lifting to hers as he opened the top. He’d thought she would be happy, but instead, there was a sudden wariness in her features, a sadness trapped in the depths of her eyes. “Not what you wanted?”

  She shook her head and reached out, taking the box from him. “It is. Thank you.”

  He didn’t relinquish his hold on the box. “Alessia? What is it?”

  She grimaced. “Just…memories.” She blinked rapidly and turned away from him, but that did little to ease the feeling in his chest. Guilt. Sorrow. Responsibility. Their first marriage had been a mistake. She’d been miserable. He wouldn’t let that happen again.

  “Do you have a tree?”

  “I’ll go to the markets tomorrow.”

  “They’re still selling them around the corner,” he surprised them both by saying. “Why don’t we walk around and choose one.”

  “Oh,” panic flared in her eyes. “Don’t be silly. I didn’t mean to involve you in this.”

  “In putting up a tree?”

  She nodded quickly. “It was just an idea that came to me earlier today. I thought it would be quick and easy but then I couldn’t find the ornaments and…”

  “You don’t have a tree.”

  “I’ll get one tomorrow.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Is there a reason you don’t want to go with me now?”

  She bit down on her lip, considering that. Was there? It felt too intimate, and it was all fake.

  “Come on,” he said gently, lifting a hand and curling his hand over her cheek. “It’s not a big deal.”

  It wasn’t a big deal – none of this was. He’d gone through the motions during their first marriage, being polite, civil, taking her to Villa Fortune for their family dinners, including her as needed, but none of it had meant anything to him. It had never been a ‘big deal’. This was no different to that.

  Why couldn’t they find a way to be friends, at least? For the sake of their baby. She didn’t intend to raise her child in a warzone, nor did she particularly want to live in a frosty, cold relationship with Massimo. They had to be able to chart a middle ground. Perhaps this was the start of that?

  She just had to be very, very careful to remember that it was all a façade. None of it was real, even when it felt real, and even if one day she found herself desperately wanting it to be real.

  Chapter Ten

  “I DON’T REMEMBER ANY of these.” He palmed one of the delicate glass baubles, handing it to her. Her smile was wistful as she looked at it.

  “I’m not surprised.” She placed the ornament on a branch, the fragrance of pine needles tickling her nose. She didn’t catch his frown. It was gone by the time she turned back to take another ornament. He paused, midway through lifting it from the box.

  “I don’t put up a tree. Usually.”

  “I gathered.” She fixed the ornament in place, catching his quizzical expression. “Why is that?”

  “We always have Christmas at Villa Fortune.” He lifted his broad shoulders in a shrug. “I never saw the point of making a mess here.”

  Alessia shook her head a little wistfully. “It is messy.” She reached for another ornament at the same time he did. Their fingers brushed and warmth spread through her slowly but completely, impossible to ignore. She swallowed, taking a different ornament and moving to the other side of the tree to hang it.

  “My mom loved Christmas.” She was surprised by the admission; surprised because she rarely spoke about her mother with anyone. “Towards the end, when she couldn’t leave the bed, dad and I set up a tree in her room.” A film of tears threatened. She tried to resist them, but something about the act of hanging decorations brought emotions dangerously close to the surface.

  Max’s eyes caught hers, showing sympathy and understanding. “She was sick for a long time.”

  “A long time,” Alessia agreed.

  He handed her another ornament, a small silver heart she’d bought on a whim, as she’d been leaving the store five years earlier. She ran her fingers over the silk ribbon, then hung it quickly.

  “I often thought her illness might have led you to study medicine.”

  She nodded slowly. “You’re right. I learned a lot over the years. Helping her doctors, monitoring her at night.” She reached for a dainty silver bell and hooked it on a low-hanging branch, crouching down to do so. “But the thing I learned that really stuck with me is how sometimes, even with all the modern medicine in the world, it’s just not enough.”

  When she turned to him – on autopilot – it was to find him looking at her with something on his face that caught her breath in her throat. “Yes,” he agreed, blinking, as if only just realising he was staring. “When Gianfelice died,” he said, referring to his beloved grandfather, “It was almost impossible to grasp. How could someone with so much…presence…simply cease to exist? Honestly, he was such a behemoth, I thought he’d never die.”

  Alessia’s smile was nostalgic. “He was a behemoth. The thing is, people don’t ever really die.” She held her hand out for another ornament. Misunderstanding, he put his own in hers and pulled her gently to her feet. She didn’t correct him. Their bodies brushed close together. The pine needles shifted, releasing more of their beautiful, festive scent into the air.

  “Gianfelice is so much a part of you.” She pressed a hand to his heart. “Everything he taught you is in here. Everything he showed you is inside of you, in how you live your life and the decisions you make.” She lifted her gaze to his face, an analytical frown on her own. “And you have his eyes.”

  Max stared down at her as though seeing Alessia for the first time. “Do I?”

  She lifted a hand to his face, running a finger to the side of one eye, swallowing hard. “He had such kind eyes.”

  “You think my eyes are kind?”

  She dropped her hand away, but he moved their bodies closer catching her in the circle of his arms. “I think you have his eyes,” she said with a small smile.

  “And you have your mother’s smile.”

  Her eyes widened. “I loved her smile.”

  “Yours is just like it.”

  She closed her eyes then, breathing in deeply, wrapping the truth deep inside of her. He was right; she didn’t know why she hadn’t really noticed it before.

  “At the funeral –,”

  “Your mother’s?”

  “Gianfelice’s.” She corrected. “You were so…sad. I wanted to say this to you then, but…”

  “I barely spoke to you,” he recalled with shame. It hadn’t been long after their divorce, and the sting of her supposed infidelity had still embarrassed him, and angered him. He’d noticed she was there, and while his brothers had all gone to her, Massimo had watched from a distance, nodding at her once to acknowledge her, without getting close enough to speak
.

  “You were angry.”

  “Yes.”

  “I understood.”

  “You shouldn’t have had to understand. Why didn’t you tell me the truth about your innocence back then?”

  “What would it have achieved?”

  “Well, for one thing, I wouldn’t have spent the next five years imagining who you’d had sex with during our marriage.”

  “I didn’t have sex with anyone during our marriage,” she reminded him pointedly.

  It was an attempt at a joke, but he didn’t so much as smile. “I know that now. But then? Yes. I was angry.”

  “I know.” She made a small movement, to pull away? Or get closer? She couldn’t tell and his hands were clamped, vice-like, behind her back. “I wanted you to be angry; that was the point. I wanted you to show me that you were capable of feeling anything for me – even if it was anger. I wanted to fight with you, I wanted you to shout at me, to scream, to call me names – anything to show me that you knew I was alive.”

  His eyes swept shut, his thick, black lashes two perfect crescents against his cheeks.

  “Not showing how I feel doesn’t mean I don’t feel.” He opened his eyes, looking directly at her. “I guess that’s a hangover from my childhood.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When we were sent away from our parents, it was hard. But we didn’t show that – not to Gianfelice. He didn’t tolerate tears. We were so little, and one day we were living at home, the next we were at Villa Fortune, our parents having surrendered any custodial rights to us.”

  “I’ve never understood why they did that.”

  “As a child, I didn’t either. They were drug addicts, party-animals, you name it, they did it. Gianfelice felt we would be safer being raised with them. Sometimes I think he did it for Yaya, because she never got over the grief of losing their daughter, and he wanted to fill the house up with children again.” He shook his head. “It was, objectively speaking, the right decision. Our parents weren’t capable of parenting. We were safe with Gianfelice. But I think we all became, to some extent, masters at hiding how we feel.”