Page 172 of Modern Romance June 2025 5-8

‘I don’t think we gave this enough time.’

He let out a bitter laugh for no one to hear. Some last-ditch attempt to slake his insatiable lust for her, perhaps. No more. Surely no more.

‘Do you love me?’

It was a question that was still rattling around his brain three days later as he wandered aimlessly from his office into the kitchen in search of the whisky. He’d completed the damn paperwork for Judge Carmondy, answering asinine questions likeWould you agree with the statement that you have given your all to your marriage?andDo you recognise that the failings are of equal measure or do you feel otherwise?which Antonio was half convinced had been asked solely for the purposes of annoying him.

The American deal with the Chinese had gone through. And he couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d told Maria about the outcome of the assessment and tried to be enthused as she’d thanked him, and when she’d talked about making plans for their wedding he’d told her to go ahead. He’d do whatever was needed.

Agata looked up at him and scowled.

‘C’è qualche problema?’he demanded.

‘No, signor, nessun problema,’she said, and left the room muttering about him turning into a neanderthal.

He rubbed at what had been stubble a few days ago and was now the beginnings of a beard. He might keep it. It was easier, after all, than shaving every morning. He reached for a glass and filled it with ice.

‘We’re out of whisky,’ he shouted after Agata.

‘Lo so!’she yelled back.

Antonio frowned, wondering why his housekeeper had become so intractable all of a sudden. If she’d known they were out of whisky, why hadn’t she bought a new bottle?

He put the empty one on the counter and opened the wine fridge to extract a bottle.

‘It’s a little early for that, isn’t it?’

He closed his eyes and slowly closed the fridge door.

‘CiaoMamma,’ he said, forcing a smile to his lips.

‘Don’tCiao Mammame,’ she replied, coming to clip him round the back of the head and pull him into a hug at the same time. Usually, he had his wits about him and would have successfully navigated his way out of both, but he was being unusually slow at the moment.

His mother had a package in her hand that she put on the table.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, aiming for congenial rather than the petulance he felt the full force of at the moment.

‘You haven’t been answering my calls.’

‘For a day—’

‘Forthreedays. And I know I didn’t raise you to be that disrespectful, you ungrateful brat.’

‘Mamma—’

Her hands bracketed his face as she angled it to peer at him, cutting off his complaint.

‘You don’t need any more to drink,’ she decided for him, and released him, only to put the wine back in the fridge and the empty whisky bottle in the bin. ‘Open that while I fix you something to drink,’ she ordered.

He peered at the package. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. It was on the side table when I came in.’

He looked at the address and noticed that it had come from England. The return address, South West London.

Ivy.

Even while he calculated the risks of opening this in front of his mother, his fingers had already slipped beneath the seal and torn open the package.

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