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Damn it. Why had he talked to her, treated her like that?

Allegra. The woman who was going to help Lucio. The woman meant to be his wife. He hadn’t forgotten. He could never forget the moment when he’d realized, when he’d known that she’d left. And she hadn’t bothered to say goodbye, to explain.

Nothing but a note.

That moment was burned into his memory, into his very soul. It felt as much a part of him as his family, his job, his every ambition or fear. He’d carried it around with him for seven years; he wasn’t about to let it go.

Yet, for Lucio’s sake, he had to. He had to try.

When he’d decided to seek Allegra out, to hire her, he’d convinced himself that the past didn’t matter. She didn’t matter.

There was no reason to care what she’d done, who she’d been with, who she’d loved. He’d been married, of all things; he could hardly accuse her for taking a lover. She was twenty-six years old and she had every right to find romance, love, sex , with someone else.

Someone other than him.

Yet the reality of it had been much harder to bear than the mere possibility.

It wasn’t the idea of another man touching her that wounded, Stefano realized with profound bitterness, although that certainly stung. It was the fact that Allegra had chosen—had preferred— someone else. She’d walked away from him to seek solace in another’s arms, and nothing— nothing— could change that.

Even worse, perhaps, was the cold, hard knowledge that he’d done the same thing. And failed.

The only solace he’d found was in knowing he’d made a mistake, and doing his best to rectify it. Giving Gabriella her life, her freedom back had been a relief for both of them.

Stefano dragged in a long, laborious breath and set his tumbler down. He walked slowly from the room, up the stairs to Allegra’s bedroom.

He didn’t try the knob; he had a feeling it would be locked and he didn’t want to find out. He placed his palm flat on the door, leaned his forehead against the smooth wood. All was silent, but he spoke anyway.

‘Allegra.’

He thought he heard a tiny sniff, a little gasp. He continued. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said or done what I did downstairs. It was wrong of me. I …’ He paused, his throat closing against the clamour of things he felt but didn’t know how to say. ‘Goodnight,’ he finally managed, and walked slowly down the corridor to his own empty bedroom.

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