33. Matteo
33
MATTEO
D awn breaks over Manhattan like spilled blood, painting the skyline in shades of crimson and gold. From my study window, I watch the city awaken—delivery trucks rumbling down empty streets, early commuters hurrying with coffee cups clutched like lifelines, the steady pulse of a world unaware that power shifted last night. Every shadow seems deeper this morning, every light somehow harsher.
Or maybe that’s just what happens when you exile your brother. Again.
The Irish have already sent confirmation of Mario’s arrival in Boston, their message carrying thinly veiled threats about consequences and broken alliances. The words sit heavy in my inbox: Your brother’s reception will match the hospitality he was shown in New York.
The photo they attached shows Mario being escorted into O’Connor’s compound, his shoulder bandaged but his spine straight. Even wounded, even defeated, he carries himself like a DeLuca.
Let them fucking threaten. Right now, my focus is entirely on the sleeping woman in our bed upstairs.
My wife. My miracle. My match in every way that matters. Bella’s aim last night was perfect—precise enough to stop Mario without killing him. Just like her heart is strong enough to love me without fearing me.
Memories of last night assault me—Mario’s blood blooming across his suit, Bella’s steady hand with the rifle, the way Elena looked at my brother like he was something fascinating rather than lethal. The same way Sophia once looked at him, before everything went to hell. Before choices were made that still echo through generations.
I touch the turned-away photo on my desk, Giuseppe’s face hidden but his presence still haunting every decision. Like father, like sons—always choosing who to cast out, who to protect, who to love.
“The Families are waiting for your statement,” Antonio says from the doorway. His weathered face shows the strain of a sleepless night, his usually pristine suit slightly rumpled. Dark circles rim his eyes—he’s been up all night coordinating with our Boston contacts, monitoring Mario’s transport. “They want assurance that the threat is contained.”
“The threat is never contained,” I respond, turning from the window. The taste of copper lingers in my mouth, though I haven’t eaten since yesterday. “We just change how we fight it.”
“And how do we fight this one?” Antonio’s voice carries a note of caution I’ve rarely heard from him. After thirty years of service, very little rattles my consigliere. But Mario has always been different—a snake we can’t quite kill, a threat we can’t fully eliminate. A brother I can’t quite bring myself to destroy.
“By being stronger than they expect.” I move to my desk, pulling up property records on multiple screens. Maps of Brooklyn glow blue in the dim morning light, each marker representing a piece of Mario’s old territory. “I want it completely restructured. New businesses, new management, new everything. Leave the Irish nothing to work with.”
“Already in progress.” Antonio’s tablet lights up with plans, his fingers moving swiftly across the surface. He pauses, something like concern flickering across his features. “But Boss…there’s something else. Elena’s been asking questions. About Mario.”
My jaw clenches as I remember the way my brother looked at Bella’s best friend yesterday, that calculating interest I recognized too well. I’d once looked at Bella the same way—like a fascinating puzzle to solve, a weakness to exploit. But where my interest grew into love, Mario only knows how to destroy what he desires.
The anger in Elena’s eyes when I ordered her away concerns me more than her fascination. That kind of defiance in our world usually ends one of two ways—submission or destruction. And Elena has never been one to submit.
She’s like Bella in that way—danger hidden behind beauty.
“Increase her security detail,” I order. “Quietly. And get me everything on her contact with the Calabrese family. Especially Anthony.” His interest in Elena takes on new significance now. One more thread in this web of alliances and betrayals we’re all tangled in.
“You think they’re connected?” Surprise colors Antonio’s tone.
“I think nothing in our world happens by coincidence.” Mario’s words echo in my head—about Bella being “more interesting” than Sophia. The comparison makes something dark curl in my gut. Sophia was a pawn, a means to an end. But Bella? She’s a queen on this chessboard, powerful in her own right. If Mario sees similar potential in Elena… “And I think my brother’s already planning his next move.”
A soft knock interrupts us. Bianca enters, already dressed in leggings and an oversized NYU sweatshirt that makes her look more college student than high school student. I hate it.
But there’s tension in her shoulders, worry in her eyes that makes my pulse spike.
“Dad? Bella’s asking for you. She’s…” My daughter hesitates, and that small pause sends ice through my veins. Bianca never hesitates. Not unless something’s truly wrong. “She’s not feeling well.”
I’m moving before she finishes speaking, taking the stairs two at a time. Every worst-case scenario plays through my mind—complications from the pregnancy, delayed reaction to last night’s stress, Mario’s final act of revenge. My security training catalogs the minutes until my private doctor can arrive, the distance to the nearest hospital, the safest routes through morning traffic.
Each step feels too slow, memories of other losses threatening to overwhelm me. Not again. I can’t lose the woman I love. Can’t watch another family shatter like glass.
I find Bella in our bathroom, huddled over the toilet. Her dark hair spills around her shoulders, and her skin has taken on a sickly pallor that makes my heart clench. One of my shirts drowns her small frame.
“I’m fine,” she manages between waves of nausea, but I see the shadows under her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands. Yesterday took more from her than she’ll admit—the weight of the sniper rifle, the burden of choice, the constant strain of protecting our family. Our child.
“Come here, piccola .” I sit on the bathroom floor, pulling her between my legs so her back rests against my chest as relief pours through me. The marble is cold beneath us, but her body burns hot against mine. One hand splays protectively over her stomach while the other holds back her hair. Every breath she takes helps calm my racing heart. She’s here. She’s safe. They both are.
“Some donna I am,” she mutters, leaning back into me. Her body trembles slightly, though whether from sickness or exhaustion, I’m not sure. “Can’t even keep breakfast down.”
“You’re exactly the donna I need.” I press my lips to her temple, tasting salt on her skin. My heart still hasn’t quite settled from the panic of moments ago. The fear of losing her—of losing them both—sits like ice in my chest. “Strong enough to wound my brother, wise enough not to kill him, brave enough to carry our child in this dangerous world.”
She relaxes slightly against me, her body molding to mine like she was made to fit there. The persistent shaking begins to ease as I run my hand up and down her arm. But even through her exhaustion, her mind never stops working. Never stops protecting.
“Speaking of dangerous…I can’t stop thinking about Elena’s face when she watched Mario leave. The way she looked at him…”
“I know.” My arms tighten around her instinctively. The memory of Elena’s fascinated expression, so like Sophia’s once was, makes something cold settle in my chest. How many times will I watch this pattern repeat? How many women will my brother destroy before he’s satisfied? “Antonio’s handling it.”
“Like you handled me?” There’s a smile in her voice despite her discomfort. “Watching from afar, protecting without revealing yourself?”
“That was different.” How can she compare us?
“Was it?” She turns in my embrace, and even pale and shaking, she takes my breath away. Those artist’s eyes see too much, understand too well. “Or did you recognize something in me that you needed? Like Elena might see something in Mario?”
The parallel makes my blood run cold. Because she’s right—I’d watched her for years, drawn to her strength and artistry, her ability to straddle both worlds even as she tried her best to reject this world. If Mario sees similar qualities in Elena…
“He’s dangerous,” I say finally, the words tasting like ash. “More dangerous than I ever was.”
“Because he has nothing left to lose?” Her fingers trace my jaw with an artist’s precision. “Or because he finally sees something worth fighting for?”
Before I can respond, her body jerks as another wave of nausea hits. She pushes away from me, turning back to the toilet. I hold her through it, murmuring soft Italian endearments against her hair. Each heave feels like a knife in my chest—this fierce woman reduced to vulnerability because she carries our child.
When it passes, she says quietly, “We can’t control who they choose to love. Elena or Bianca or this little one.” Her hand covers mine over our child. “We can only be there when they need us. Like my father was for me.”
“Your father led you straight to me,” I remind her with a slight smile.
“No.” She kisses me softly, and I taste the truth in her words. “He just made sure I was strong enough to choose my own path. And it led me here anyway.”
The bathroom door creaks open to reveal Bianca with a cup of peppermint tea. The sharp, clean scent cuts through the sour air of sickness. She takes in our position on the floor without comment, simply sliding down to sit beside us. In this moment, she looks so much like me it hurts—that same protective instinct, that same ability to mask emotion.
“The Families are demanding a meeting,” Bianca reports, handing Bella the tea. Steam curls up between them, fragrant and soothing. “They want to know what happens next.”
I study my unlikely family—my daughter who carries my heart, my brave wife growing our child beneath her heart, both of them stronger than anyone could have predicted. Both of them worth everything I’ve sacrificed, everything I’ll still have to sacrifice.
“What happens next,” I say softly, “is we protect what matters. Everything else is just details.”
Bella’s hand finds mine as Bianca leans against us both. The weight of both my girls grounds me, reminds me what I’m fighting for. Outside, the city awakens to a new reality—one where the DeLuca family is stronger than ever, bound by choice rather than blood.
But in the back of my mind, Mario’s words echo like a warning: “Family is such a fragile thing, isn’t it? So easily…broken.” The way he looked at Elena, the secrets still buried in our past, the baby growing beneath my hand—so many vulnerabilities, so many ways this happiness could shatter.
The Irish will move against us eventually. Elena’s fascination with Mario could lead to complications. And somewhere in Boston, my brother plans his next move, patient as a snake waiting to strike.
I press a kiss to Bella’s temple, breathing in her jasmine scent beneath the lingering traces of sickness. “You should rest today. Both of you.” My hand spreads wider over where our child grows, still amazed that something so precious could come from my darkness.
“We’re fine,” Bella insists, rolling her eyes, but she doesn’t resist when I help her stand. “Just normal pregnancy stuff.”
“Nothing about this pregnancy will be normal,” Bianca says, her voice carrying that DeLuca steel. “Not with the Irish making threats, Elena asking dangerous questions, and Mario…” She trails off, but we all hear the unspoken concerns.
“Which is why we adapt,” I say, guiding Bella back to our bed. “We strengthen our defenses, watch our vulnerabilities, protect what matters most.”
“And Elena?” Bella asks as I tuck her under the covers. “She won’t just let this go, Matteo. I know her.”
“Then we make sure she understands the stakes.” But even as I say it, I remember how fascination can override self-preservation. How love—or what we think is love—can blind us to danger. “Like I said, Antonio’s increasing her security. Beyond that…”
“Beyond that, she makes her own choices,” Bella finishes. “Like I did.”
“And look how well that turned out,” Bianca quips, but there’s real affection in her voice now when she looks at her stepmother.
A different kind of family, built from broken pieces and careful choices. Not what Giuseppe would have wanted, but stronger for it. Better.
Let the Irish plot. Let Elena chase dangerous fascinations. Let the Families demand their answers.
Right now, I almost believe we’re invincible. That love really can conquer blood feuds and old wounds. That choice matters more than genetics.
But Mario’s last words echo in my mind, a shadow across the morning light: “Family is such a fragile thing, isn’t it? So easily…broken.”