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When their plates were cleared and coffee ordered, she looked around with the appearance of nonchalance. ‘Do you know if there’s a restroom?’
‘Through there.’ He gestured to a double set of doors, bright red with portal windows.
‘Thanks,’ she murmured, reaching for her backpack casually, as though it were the most normal thing in the world, and excusing herself without a backwards glance. Her heart was racing so hard she thought it might give way as she slipped through the doors and into a corridor that had, she realised with relief, another door that led to a storeroom and then an alley.
Tears filled her eyes as she pushed through it and left the restaurant, her mind focused now on getting as far from Catarno as she possibly could.
But every step she took became harder and harder, heavier too, as if she were going in the wrong direction, wading through mud, pulling against elastic. Her lungs were burning with the force of breathing and her legs were shaking and as she pressed her back against a wall, waiting for her nerves to settle, she closed her eyes.
And saw him.
Benedetto, committed to memory perfectly, every inch of him, every beautiful, haunted, imperfect inch, and her heart stitched and her stomach rolled because the thought of never seeing him again was a torture she hadn’t fully understood. She’d known it would be hard, but not akin to giving up breath or water. She’d thought she could control this. She’d thought she could spend time with him and not start to trust him, not start to want more from him. And maybe she could, but she wasn’t ready to walk away from this yet.
‘Damn it,’ she muttered, dropping her head forward. What did that mean? She knew this would end. And soon—they were almost at Catarno. But she was running away again, and now she wasn’t so sure it was the right choice. Everything was messy and confused, and it was all because of Benedetto. He’d got into her head and under her skin.
At first, he didn’t think anything of it. He was more relaxed than he had been in years. Benedetto had always had an intensity about him, a wariness, courtesy of his father, and then their financial hardships. It was only a short time later he’d become a father, and that had probably been the only truly happy window of his life, a time when he’d gone from strength to strength professionally and had known, for the first time ever, uncomplicated, beautiful, easy love. He had loved his daughter with all of his heart, even when he would have said he didn’t have a heart in the sense of feeling love. His had been just an organ responsible for pumping blood through his body until he’d met Sasha. Then he’d known what people were talking about. He’d loved her with all of himself, had known he would die before he let harm befall her.
And he would have.
If giving his life could have spared hers, Benedetto would have fallen upon the first sword he could find. But there had been no helping Sasha. He’d tried.
From that moment on, he’d been simply existing. Work had challenged him, had revived him, had brought him slowly back to life, and he’d taken a form of pleasure from succeeding, from rebuilding his fortune to the point of being one of the wealthiest men in the world, a Diamond Club member, welcomed into the most exclusive private club there was.
But everything had been about success. Not happiness, not relaxation, not enjoyment.
With Amelia, though, he’d felt a thousand things, not all of them good. He’d been aware of his conscience, he’d felt guilt, he’d felt shame, he’d felt frustration, even anger. But he’d also felt pleasure and joy, delight in another person’s company. He’d felt things he couldn’t quantify nor explain. And now, sharing a meal with her in a restaurant, which was such a normal activity, he’d felt relaxed despite what lay ahead for her, despite his worries for her and desire to shield her from any harm.
He’d let his guard down completely.
Which was why he hadn’t noticed at first. He hadn’t realised that she’d taken her bag. Hadn’t been looking for anything out of the ordinary because he’d trusted her.
But just as he was starting to wonder why she was taking so long in the bathroom, his memory banged him over the head, reminding him of the image of her slipping through the door with the backpack over one shoulder. A backpack he hadn’t even contemplated withholding despite the fact it had her phone, wallet and camera in it.
Because he trusted her.
Because he thought she felt—what? What did he want her to feel?
Had she expressed, at any point, a level of acceptance about going home?
Wasn’t the opposite true? At every opportunity, whenever it came up, she insisted that it was wrong to go back. That she wouldn’t forgive him for his part in it. That she couldn’t face her family again.
He stood up quickly, reaching into his wallet, removing some money and throwing it onto the table before striding through the restaurant towards the doors to the restrooms.
The corridor was empty; a quick inspection of the stalls showed them to be likewise.
He felt as if he’d been stabbed in the chest.
He’d dropped his guard and Amelia had gone. Escaped. Left him.
Of course she had! He’d given her the perfect opportunity; could he blame her? The thought had even occurred to him but he’d dismissed it as ludicrous.
And if she wanted to avoid going home so badly, did he have any right whatsoever to chase her down again?
No.
He had no right.
He’d never had any right.
