17. Matteo
Matteo
Nightclub lights flash in bursts of color, pulsing with the beat that vibrates through the floor. It’s a far cry from the polished ballroom where our night began. Neon signs replace the chandeliers, and speakers that rattle your ribs replace the string quartet.
Azra is the most carefree I’ve seen her.
It’s understandable. Not having her every move scrutinized by Antonio peeled a ton of weight off her shoulders. For the past two hours, she’s laughed, drunk, and danced with a handful of girls I recognize but can’t put a name to each face.
Don’t misunderstand me. Nico would break my jaw if I so much as breathed wrong near the redhead in the middle of the pack.
He swears he’s just looking out for her, claiming it’s a well-known role of the boyfriend of a deceased sibling. I know he’s full of shit.
He and Alora tiptoed around their feelings for months before Allegra inserted herself into their story, but since he arrives at my side, his smirk lazy and carefree, I’ll bookmark that story for another day.
“You look like Papa told you he’s tearing down the lemon groves,” Nico says, hands in his pockets, voice annoyingly calm.
I wish he were lying. The second the gala doors closed behind Antonio, the tension in my shoulders coiled tighter. I should feel victorious. Antonio scampering away from the table like a kicked dog should’ve been satisfying, but all I felt was a storm brewing under my skin.
Needing to cling to someone I can control, I flip my conversation with Nico on its head. “I know what you did.”
Nico blinks in feigned confusion. “What I did?”
“Don’t play dumb.” My voice brims with danger. “You set me up because you knew I’d get hooked after just one taste.”
“I did no such thing.” He swishes his tongue around his mouth, loosening up his next words.
“It was Giovanni’s plan. I just followed along.
” He takes in my twitching jaw and clenched fists before dragging a hand through his hair.
“I didn’t think it would actually work. The version of you I know would never face trouble fucking a woman and walking away. You’ve done it a thousand times.”
“We didn’t fuck,” I mutter without thinking. “And this isn’t a thousand times.”
Nico stares at me as though I’m a circus freak, so it’s only right that I continue unhinging his jaw.
“It’s… different.”
“Different how?”
When I remain quiet, too lost to form words, he studies me intently, eyes narrowing slightly.
“If you’re struggling, maybe Azra means more to you than you think she does,” he says a short time later.
A harsh, humorless sound rattles in my chest. “Or maybe you’re projecting.”
My reply hits him harder than my fist ever could. Remorse flickers in his expression, and his jaw tightens. Nico has been in love with Alora for years and has done absolutely nothing about it. He just watches her from afar with quiet longing and pathetic restraint.
I don’t believe I can do the same with Azra.
After a beat, Nico murmurs, “Might have to listen to Giovanni’s advice more often.
She’s lighter on her feet tonight.” He nods toward Azra, who’s still burning off the calories of her three-course meal.
“Like all the dead weight she’s been carrying finally slipped off.
” I don’t need his wink to understand what he’s implying, but he gives it to me anyway.
“Any idea of the cause of her newfound freedom?”
I don’t brag, which is unusual for me.
I usually overshare, and Nico knows it.
“You’re so fucked.”
I throw my fist into his stomach, winding him. “Shut the fuck up and let a man enjoy the splendor in front of him.” His smile is too smug, so I act like the brat middle child I am. “Alora is aging like fine wine.”
That wipes the smile off his face. “Behave, fuckface, or I’ll make Boris prove his muscles aren’t for show.”
I only direct my eyes to Boris, the massive Samoan bouncer, for a fleeting second before he wilts like a picked flower.
“Make sure he brings a tank. I don’t want to carry all your security to the dumping ground in one sitting. I’ve got plans.”
Before Nico can respond, a staff member taps his shoulder, her expression urgent. Nico sighs, mutters something about never getting a night off, slaps my shoulder in farewell, then disappears into an office at the side of the bar.
I return to my seat. It, like every other table in this nightclub, has a prime view of the dance floor. Influencers, models, actors, and preppy trust fund boys mingle with everyday folk, seeking a taste of a place everyone whispers about. This isn’t just a nightclub. It’s a kingdom.
There are three levels, each dedicated to its own crowd. The first floor is for the tourists who want to say they were here. They dance, drink, and post selfies for their followers.
The second floor is where the real money goes. Athletes, CEOs, and actors come here to be seen and to associate with those they believe are worth their time.
And on the third floor, the floor we’re on, the world’s worst decision-makers make their choices.
Proof? I don’t discourage Azra from participating in whatever scheme Alora is plotting when she whispers something in her ear.
Azra’s eyes flick to mine, and her face scrunches in panic for a nanosecond before she throws back her head and laughs.
Watching her now feels like I am witnessing a transformation I shouldn’t be privileged to see.
Her hair catches the light as she spins with her newfound friends, her smile bright and unguarded. She’s too young for the world she’s stepped into and the weight she carried before we arrived at the club.
Too young for me.
Yet I can’t look away.
I slump back in the booth and cross my arms, eyes locked on Azra. I tell myself I’m here because Antonio prowls clubs like this every weekend, and the quicker I help Azra make him jealous, the sooner I’ll be free from this ridiculous arrangement.
But that’s a lie.
I’m here because something about her pulls at me in a manner I don’t understand.
In a way I don’t like.
Again, Azra throws back her head and laughs at something one of the girls says. The sound doesn’t reach me over the music, but I hear it anyway. A warm and dangerous spark.
I don’t do warm. I also don’t do danger unless I’m the one causing it.
Yet she’s a threat I can’t put a bullet in.
Her hips sway with the beat, her hands in the air, women and men circling her like a pack. She’s glowing and alive, untouched by the shadows that cling to men like me.
A guy with a sleezy smile and a backward cap approaches her, his steps too confident and eager. When he leans into Azra’s side, she stiffens slightly but doesn’t pull away. She’s polite—too polite—and it tightens my jaw.
I’m out of the booth before I realize I’ve moved.
The crowd parts around me without me needing to ask. They always do. The way I carry the Caruso name with the pride it deserves ensures they know better than to get in my way.
Azra hasn’t noticed me yet. She’s still smiling and being kind while striving to exist in a world that doesn’t deserve her softness.
The guy touches her arm, and something in me snaps.
I’m beside her in a breath, one hand closing around her wrist while the other circles the stranger’s throat. My hold on Azra’s arm isn’t firm. Only tight enough for her to look up at me. I can’t say the same about my clutch on the man’s throat. He’s pale, on the brink of passing out.
Azra’s eyes widen with confusion and something else I can’t name.
“Matteo?” Her nose crinkles as she silently pleads for me to free the man from my hold, her gaze as pleading as Boris’s.
I release him, but not without a push that sends him crashing into the empty DJ booth.
I ignore his disbelieving gawk. He’s irrelevant. A gnat buzzing too close to a flame. I keep my focus solely on the person rocketing my itch to kill to the outer sphere of space.
“You’re done here,” I say, voice low.
Azra’s brows knit. “I’m not done dancing yet.”
“I’m telling you you’re done.”
She pulls her hand away from my grasp, chin lifting. “You don’t get to decide when I’m done.”
If I were Giovanni or Dante, she’d be right.
Since I’m not, I gesture with my head toward the exit.
“It’s time to go.”
“Why?” she demands.
Because you look too alive. Because you look free. Because watching you dance makes my chest ache in a manner that is foreign to me.
I don’t have an answer I’m willing to say out loud, so I say the only thing that resembles some kind of normalcy.
“Because I said so.”
Her eyes flash with anger. “You don’t own me.”
“No, I don’t,” I snap out, unable to stop myself. “But I’m starting to think I want to.”
That’s the most dangerous thought I’ve ever had, but instead of filling Azra’s eyes with panic, they brighten like I handed her the keys to the castle.
With a smile that could summon an immortal to heaven’s gate, she cranes her head to the right and subtly nods.
The douche pressing his lips to her ear only moments ago returns her head bob before he switches the club music to a sultry number I’m confident married men fuck to.
In less than a heartbeat, the girls exchange a mischievous look before they quickly leave the dance floor in perfect synchronization.
As they rush toward tables scattered around the back area, Azra pushes me into a booth near the stage and then climbs onto the table with what anyone but me would call practiced ease.
Suddenly, half the nightclub patrons who aren’t here to dance leap to their feet, eager to get a close view of the impromptu performance.
The only table that doesn’t get swarmed is mine.
I’m not known for monogamy, but not a man in this town, and several beyond, are brave enough to test my thoughts on sharing.
Azra’s dress sparkles under the overhead lights, her hair swinging with each seductive sway of her hips. Her dance routine is erotically teasing, and unlike my little brother, I slouch back and enjoy the show.
Alora barely gets thirty seconds into her routine before Nico reappears, grabs her by the waist, and pulls her down with a glare that could melt steel. As he walks her out of the packed club, muttering obscenities under his breath, Alora’s fists slam into his back.
Since these types of shenanigans are a regular occurrence for them, I stay where I am and let Azra dance.
No man dares to glance in her direction. They now know the temper that arrives with my jealousy, so they know better. My completely unhinged response to the DJ checking the song Azra wanted to play allows me to sit back and enjoy her wild, unrestrained side break free from the cocoon.
Although dancing tipsy on a tabletop isn’t a rite of passage, it’ll reclaim some of the rebellion her sheltered, rules-driven life didn’t permit.
Azra mentioned at the start of our night that she’s never drunk alcohol.
I learn that freedom is limited one minute into her performance. When she raises her arms to trace arcs through the air, her level of intoxication strikes like a bullet. She stumbles forward, forcing me to my feet before she falls.
After catching her in my arms, I draw her in close to my body.
“I’m fine,” she insists, breathless, leaning heavily into me.
“You’re drunk,” I reply, weaving through the patrons crowding the tables that Alora’s friends still grace.
Azra blinks up at me, eyes bright but unfocused. “I didn’t think those cocktails would hit this fast. How can fluffy pink drinks be so hard-hitting?”
As I merge out the back door into the cool night air of the alleyway, her head rests against my shoulder, warm and trusting. Music fades behind us, replaced with the distant buzz of the sleepy city.
One of my family’s fleet of SUVs is idling in the alleyway. They always are.
When the driver spots my approach, he skedaddles around the hood to open the back passenger door for me.
Azra shifts in my arms, her fingers curling under my jacket as I help her into the SUV. Once she’s buckled in, I climb in beside her and close the door.
The city lights blur past the windows as the driver takes the quickest route.
“Matteo?” Azra whispers a short time later.
“Yeah?”
Her smile is soft, sleepy, and unguarded. “Tonight was fun.”
Somehow, that simple sentence knocks me on my ass harder than anything else tonight, and for once, it has me plotting something far more dangerous than revenge.