Chapter 1 Clara #2
Matteo picks up a heavy crystal tumbler. He pours two fingers of amber liquid from a square decanter. "You are not in a tower, Clara. You are in a highly secure facility. And your father did not sell you. He surrendered you. There is a distinct legal and operational difference."
A harsh, hysterical laugh tears out of my throat. "You are quoting legality to me? You run an illegal empire. You buy and sell shipping logs from the Bellantis to wage a turf war. Do not act like a businessman. You are a thug in a tailored shirt."
He stops pouring.
The silence returns, heavier and darker than before. He sets the decanter down. The clink of crystal against wood sounds deafening in the massive room.
He turns around. The glass of amber liquor rests in his right hand. His dark, brooding eyes pin me in place. The casual indifference vanishes instantly. A terrifying, focused intensity replaces it.
"A thug." He tests the word out. He takes a slow step toward me. "Arthur told you about the Bellanti logs. He told you about the million dollars. Did he tell you why the Bellantis want those logs back so badly?"
"I do not care about their logistics." I take a step back. The bat wavers in my grip.
"They move weapons," Matteo says, taking another slow step.
"They move untraceable firearms into the South Side.
They arm kids. They arm rivals. They destabilize the city for profit.
Your father found proof. He thought he could extort Galeazzo and the Bellanti underbosses.
He thought a million dollars would keep Lorenzo Bellanti himself quiet. "
He takes another step. The distance between us vanishes rapidly.
"Stay back," I warn, lifting the bat higher.
"The Bellantis do not pay blackmail, Clara. They execute." Matteo stops five feet away. "They were going to skin Arthur alive. They were going to burn your apartment to the ground with you inside it. Just to send a message to anyone else who ever thought about digging through their data."
Four feet.
"So I bought the debt," he continues. His voice drops an octave, becoming a dark, velvet threat. "I took the logs. I took the target off Arthur's back. And in exchange, I took you. Collateral. Until the data is decrypted and the million dollars is recovered from the Bellanti accounts."
Three feet.
I swing the bat.
I do not aim for his knee. I aim for his ribs. I put every ounce of terror, rage, and betrayal into the arc of the heavy ash wood. The bat slices through the air with a vicious swoosh.
He does not flinch.
His left hand snaps out. A blur of motion and dark ink. He catches the barrel of the bat mid-swing.
The impact sends a jarring shockwave up both my arms. My shoulders wrench forward. The bat stops completely, caught effortlessly in his massive, scarred palm. He holds the wood with absolute ease, as if I gently handed it to him instead of swinging it with the intent to break bone.
I yank backward. The bat does not budge a single inch.
"Good swing," he rumbles. The corner of his mouth ticks up the slightest fraction beneath his coarse beard. "Terrible follow-through."
He twists his wrist. Brutal torque rips the handle right out of my cramping hands. Friction burns my palms. He tosses the bat casually over his broad shoulder. It clatters loudly across the hardwood floor, rolling away into the dark shadows of the living room.
Disarmed. Defenseless.
I stumble backward. My spine hits the cold, unforgiving edge of the black marble kitchen island. Trapped.
Matteo closes the final gap. He steps entirely into my personal space. The sheer heat radiating off his massive body staggers me. He blocks my only exit with his heavy frame, reaching out to slide a single, calloused finger under my chin, tilting my face up toward his brooding stare.
He leans down. His face hovers mere inches from mine.
The scent of him washes over me. It is completely wrong. I expect the sharp bite of gunpowder. I expect blood and stale smoke. The signature, metallic cologne of a monster.
He smells like toasted flour.
The warm, comforting scent of baking bread mixes violently with the sharp, intoxicating bite of dark rum.
Beneath it all lingers the rich, earthy scent of warm skin.
The contradiction short-circuits my brain.
It makes absolutely no sense. The leader of a brutal syndicate smelling like a late-night bakery. It is maddeningly intoxicating.
A heavy, gravitational pull sinks deep into my stomach. The floor drops out from beneath me. The only thing tethering me to the earth is the terrifying man pinning me against the cold marble.
I stare up into his dark eyes. They focus entirely on my face.
They drop down to my lips, lingering there for a long, agonizing second.
They track down to the curve of my hips pressed desperately against the counter.
He studies my softness against the brutal reality of his world.
He looks at me with a primal hunger that has absolutely nothing to do with money or stolen shipping logs.
"Clara Reeves," he murmurs. The gravel in his voice drags violently along my nerve endings.
"Twenty-six. Third-grade teacher at Lincoln Elementary.
You drink cheap Pinot Grigio, you grade papers on Sunday mornings at a diner in Logan Square, and you have exactly six hundred and forty-two dollars in savings. Fifty-two in checking."
"You have been watching me." My voice is a breathless whisper. I hate the weakness vibrating in my vocal cords.
"I verify my investments. Before I bought your father's debt, I needed to know exactly what I was acquiring. You are remarkably ordinary, Clara. A civilian living a quiet, heavily subsidized life. Until Arthur handed you over."
"I am not an acquisition."
"You are right now." Disgust curls the edge of his upper lip when he mentions my father. "Arthur sold a teacher to the mob. Pathetic."
"Let me go."
"No." The word is absolute law. A steel door slamming shut and locking forever.
He leans closer. The coarse hair of his beard grazes the sensitive skin of my cheek. A sharp, involuntary gasp tears out of my throat at the sudden, abrasive contact.
"You belong to the Costa family now," Matteo says.
His breath runs hot against my ear. The dark rum scent intoxicates me up close, overriding my survival instincts.
"You belong to me. This penthouse is your entire world until I say otherwise.
You will not leave. You will not call anyone.
You will exist right here, where I can see you. "
He pulls back. His dark eyes burn with a feral, possessive intensity. My knees tremble uncontrollably against the cabinets.
"Understand?"
I swallow hard. Defiance burns bright under the suffocating layers of fear. "And if I fight you?"
A dark, dangerous smirk spreads slowly across his face. The heavy gold medallion resting against his chest gleams in the low ambient light.
"I hope you do, Clara. I really fucking hope you do."