Chapter 19
Three men sit in a Bar…
Matteo’s consciousness clawed its way back from the abyss, dragged up by the sharp sting of cold concrete beneath his cheek and the dull throb of pain radiating from his skull. His mouth was dry, his limbs heavy, and when he tried to move, he found resistance; thick ropes biting into his wrists and ankles, binding him to the rigid frame of a chair. A groan escaped him as the world came into slow, agonizing focus.
A dim overhead light buzzed faintly, casting weak illumination over cracked concrete walls. The air was damp, thick with the scent of mildew and something metallic. Blood, maybe.
A low curse to his right had him turning his head, or at least, attempting to. His muscles ached, stiff from whatever drug had been slipped into their drinks. Aldo was beside him, slumped forward slightly but very much awake, his fingers flexing against his restraints as if testing their give.
And then there was the third occupant of the room.
“Finally awake,” Russo muttered, his voice carrying a note of dry amusement. He was tied to a chair just like them, his suit rumpled, dried blood crusting at the corner of his mouth. He rolled his shoulders as much as his bindings allowed and exhaled through his nose. “Took you long enough.”
Matteo’s head throbbed as he forced himself to sit straighter. His vision was still adjusting, but he could make out the way Russo’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
Aldo’s glare could have burned through steel. “What the fuck is this?” he growled, his voice rough with the remnants of unconsciousness.
Russo tilted his head, his smirk deepening. “Well, if you’d actually been paying attention instead of letting your dicks lead you around, maybe you’d have figured out sooner that Vittorio was never on your side.” He let the words hang for a moment before shaking his head with exaggerated disappointment. “But no, instead, you two idiots dragged me right into his hands.”
Matteo’s stomach twisted. His mind was racing now, the implications of Russo’s words clicking into place. He should have known. He had known; somewhere deep in his gut, the feeling had been there. The toast. The drink. The fact that Vittorio’s office had been untouched while the rest of the villa had burned.
Before either he or Aldo could respond, the sound of a heavy iron bolt scraping open made them all stiffen. The door groaned as it swung inward, and the dim light caught the gleam of polished boots as four men strode inside.
They weren’t just any men. They were enforcers; professionals, the kind that didn’t ask twice before breaking bones. Each one was armed, but they didn’t need their guns to make an impression. Their presence alone was enough to send a cold wave of foreboding down Matteo’s spine.
Russo exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He didn’t look surprised. If anything, there was something almost resigned in his expression as his gaze flickered to Matteo and Aldo. “See you in hell,” he muttered.
One of the men cracked his knuckles, a slow, deliberate sound in the thick silence. Another pulled a knife from his belt, letting the dim light glint off the blade as he twirled it between his fingers.
Matteo’s pulse pounded in his ears. He wasn’t na?ve. He knew exactly why they were here. This wasn’t just about killing them; it was about information. They wanted details about their operations, their allies back in America. Their families.
And Matteo knew one thing for certain: he wouldn’t give them a damn thing.
But surviving this?
That was another matter entirely.
???
The first blow landed with a sickening crack.
Aldo flinched, his entire body straining against the ropes that bound him to the chair. He had seen torture before, inflicted it himself when necessary, but watching it happen to Matteo was something else entirely. It was a special kind of agony, one that burned in his chest and clawed at his throat.
Matteo let out a sharp grunt as the punch sent his head snapping to the side, blood dripping from his split lip onto the cold concrete floor. His breaths came ragged, but he held himself upright, his eyes dark with defiance as he glared at their captors.
Russo, tied up beside them, exhaled a dry laugh despite his own bruises.
"They really wanna know about your family, Moretti," he rasped, shifting slightly in his chair. "Must be a real fucking honor."
Matteo ignored him, his gaze locked onto the man standing in front of him, the one who had delivered the blow. He was older, hardened, with dead eyes that held no hesitation. The others flanked him, waiting, weapons glinting in the dim light of the concrete room.
"Tell us what we want to know," the man ordered, flexing his fingers. "Your family's operations in America. Your contacts. Their weak spots. The Morettis have been untouchable for too long. That changes now."
Matteo smirked, blood staining his teeth. "You think I'm just going to hand my family over?" He spat onto the floor between them. "Go to hell."
The next strike was worse. A sharp, gloved fist to his ribs that had him gasping for breath. Aldo lunged forward in his restraints, his muscles bulging, eyes wild with rage.
"Bastardi!" he roared. "You want information? Come at me! Leave him the fuck alone!"
One of the men chuckled, stepping forward to backhand Aldo across the face with the butt of his gun. The crack of impact echoed in the small space, but Aldo barely reacted, his glare murderous.
"You're not our concern, De Luca," the leader sneered. "The Morettis, though? They're a dynasty. A problem. And we're going to dismantle them piece by piece."
Matteo coughed, each breath sending agony lancing through his ribs. He could feel a bruise forming, maybe worse, but he didn't let them see the pain. His voice was hoarse but steady. "Then you're wasting your time. Even if I did talk, you’d be dead before you could use any of it."
The leader’s lips curled into a slow, cruel smile. "Oh, we’ll see about that."
He nodded to one of the other men, who stepped forward, a knife glinting in his grip. Matteo stiffened as the cold steel pressed against his forearm. Aldo’s voice was raw, desperate.
"Stop! You want information? Take me instead!"
The knife bit into Matteo’s skin. He clenched his jaw, refusing to make a sound even as blood trickled down his arm. Aldo was struggling so violently now that the chair beneath him scraped against the floor.
"Matteo!" Aldo’s voice broke. "Don’t do this; just tell them something, anything..."
Matteo lifted his head, meeting Aldo’s panicked gaze. Despite the pain, despite everything, his lips curled into a small, defiant smirk.
"No," he murmured. "Moretti don't break."
The knife pressed deeper.
Aldo's scream was raw enough to shake the walls.