Fatal Alliances [✓]

epilogue

EPILOGUE: MATEO | 1 YEAR LATER

I DREW BACK FROM THE OVEN WITH THE HOT TRAY IN MY HAND and felt a slim hand slap the side of my forearm. Fingertips encased around my bicep, manicured pastel nails sinking in —accentuated by the champagne diamond that sat snug. It prompted me to smirk down at the tiny scrawl of my initials on the thumb nail, that could only be seen if analysed closely enough.

"You're supposed to wear oven gloves!"

"It's not a big deal."

"It is! What if you burn your hands off?"

"Then I'll get new hands, Mal."

"Have you heard him, Baba? This is what I have to put up with."

"My fingers feel suffocated in them. It's a tight fit."

"Really? They're custom made oven mitts, prick!"

The disbelief in my fiancée's tone made me chuckle as she slipped away and returned to the screen of her phone where she was connected on a video call with her father. He sat on the other end in his leather arm-chair, with his glasses perched at the top of his nose and tried not to smile as much as he wanted to.

Although I had only met him once —I already liked the man and I was surprised that he had warmed up to me. He had grumbled under his breath when he'd first met me, but was satisfied when he realised his daughter was quite serious about me.

I snapped out of my trance and greeted Baba quickly on the phone and promised him that I would bring his daughter to him soon. Then I ushered the staff out of the vast and picturesque kitchen and down the even bigger lounge area with the final dish that I still held —the amatriciana chicken traybake was steaming hot, cooked up by my own hands and secret ingredients that Ken Hibashi emailed me —a recipe attached written by my own mother in broken Greek and English.

Cooking was therapeutic and I was a fast learner, away from the confines of my island, I could unwind here for a few weeks, with nothing particularly harrowing or heavy to deal with. Just food and sex wherever possible —the Jacuzzi, the bedroom, the kitchen counter-tops, even out on the balcony and the damn elevator.

Through the living area, the terrace came to view, prepared for an evening of al fresco dining, it overlooked the spectacular hillside that our new build villa supplied, with unparalleled lake view dwelling —the long walnut table finally chock full, carefully personalised with name cards and sparkling cutlery as the catering staff moved around.

I had brought the property here in Lake Como, which overlooked Bellagio and it's panoramic views, many years ago, had escaped here for seclusion on occasion when I wasn't seeking solace on Greek islands that my mother had loved, and now I could embrace the brazen beauty of such places with the one person who promised to calm the molten depths of me pining for retribution and wrath.