Chapter 2

Matteo picked Bianca up and headed for the doors. As he passed me, he stopped. A rare look of hesitation crossed his usually composed face.

"I'm sorry, Elena. Bianca's old injury is acting up. I need to get her to a doctor."

Bianca wrapped her arms around Matteo's neck and nestled against his chest.

"No, Don," she said, her voice hoarse. "You should stay and host. They need you here."

Matteo frowned and looked down at her. His deep voice had gone unusually soft. "Don't be silly. Someone else can host. You matter more."

He turned his head just long enough to tell a waiter to help me upstairs, then strode off with her in his arms, leaving a roomful of guests trading looks.

My stomach finally gave in, and I started dry heaving. The scent of the flowers only made the nausea worse, and I had to lean on the waiter just to stay on my feet.

"So that's Anthony Caruso's daughter? He was the family advisor back then. Such a shame he died in that ambush. I heard the Don's been looking out for her ever since, but engaged? Who saw that coming?"

"Seems like the Don cares more about Ms. Russo, doesn't it? Honestly, Ms. Russo looks more like the next Donna."

A crowd had gathered by the doorway, and I could hear them whispering. It broke my heart.

Matteo's footsteps had already faded away. Fighting back tears, I apologized to the guests, said good night, and let the waiter help me out.

Bianca mattered more than the ball, and the ball mattered more than me.

Maybe my high-and-mighty fiancé had never truly cared about me at all.

Maybe he'd only felt sorry for me because I'd lost my father?

I couldn't stop shaking, and I couldn't think straight.

I stayed curled up in my bedroom for a long time. Once I was away from the scent of the tuberoses, I slowly started feeling better.

I got up and swallowed some painkillers. Just then, my phone screen lit up.

Of all people, the text was from Enzo Greco, an old friend of my father's.

"Elena, I hope you're doing well. There's something I've kept to myself for a long time. It has to do with the ambush that killed your father. If you're willing, come to Boston, and we can talk in person."

My hand trembled, and my breathing quickened.

Uncle Enzo had been my father's driver. He'd never been a sworn member of the family, but he'd watched me grow up.

After we buried my father, he suddenly quit and moved to Boston, and I hadn't heard from him since.

Over the years, I'd gone through all my father's records—the family foundation's files, the rosters, his private letters. I'd searched them again and again and never found a thing.

I'd almost come to accept that my father had simply been hit by a stray bullet.

Having Matteo there had given me the courage to face life again.

Then another text from Uncle Enzo came through. "Don't tell the Don you're coming to see me. He won't let you come."

A few seconds later, as if he'd thought better of it, he unsent it.

But my heart was already pounding like a war drum.

Memories came flooding back, and it suddenly hit me. Matteo hadn't started showing me any "love" until after my father died.

Before that, we'd barely crossed paths, even within the family.

What was Matteo hiding from me? How much of what he felt for me was real?

I looked down at the engagement ring on my finger, then back at the message.

"Boston..." I whispered.

Was this... God pointing me in a new direction?