Chapter 2 Matteo #2
"They don't care that you grade spelling tests, Clara." I keep my voice low. A heavy, dark rumble. "They only care that your last name is Reeves. You are leverage. You are a target."
She stares at me. The reality of the violence finally starts to sink through her stubbornness. Her soft, clean scent spikes with a sharp note of adrenaline.
"And what are you?" She challenges me. Her voice is quieter now. Steadier. "Are you going to torture me?"
"No." The word is absolute.
"Are you going to use me as bait?"
"Never." My jaw tightens. The very thought makes my blood boil.
"Then why am I here?" She gestures wildly to the opulent penthouse. The velvet sofas. The abstract art. The gleaming kitchen. "If I'm not a hostage and I'm not bait, what is my purpose in this cage?"
Because you are mine.
I don't say the words out loud. Not yet.
She isn't ready for the feral reality of my obsession.
She thinks this is a business transaction.
She thinks the million-dollar debt is the reason she is locked in this tower.
Let her think it. Let her focus her anger on the ledger instead of the man standing in front of her.
"You are collateral." I feed her the lie smoothly. "Until I verify the shipping logs your father provided. Until I dismantle the Bellanti armories. You stay here. You stay safe. That is the end of the negotiation."
"I am not a piece of furniture." She marches right back into my personal space.
The bravery on this woman is staggering.
She points a perfectly manicured finger at the center of my chest. She pokes the heavy muscle hidden beneath my tailored shirt.
"I don't sit in a corner and wait for men to finish their little turf wars. "
The contact is a live wire, sparking a raw, low-belly burn I haven't felt in decades. My hand moves before my brain can stop it.
I catch her wrist.
My massive, calloused fingers wrap completely around her delicate bones. I don't squeeze. I hold her. The contrast of my dark, scarred skin against her pale softness is a visual brand.
Clara gasps. She tries to yank her arm back. I hold firm.
"This isn't a little turf war." I pull her half an inch closer.
Enough to let her feel the brutal heat radiating off my body.
"This is a twenty-year blood feud. Men die every single day.
Your father handed you a death sentence.
I handed you a lifeline. You will take it. You will stay in this penthouse."
She stares up at me. Her wide eyes track the sharp lines of my face. She takes in the grey at my temples. The darkness in my stare. The absolute, unyielding stone of my posture.
"You're a bully." She whispers the insult. It lacks venom. It sounds almost breathless.
"I am a Costa." I release her wrist slowly. My thumb drags over her pulse point before I let completely go. "Bullying implies I want to hurt you. I don't. I want to keep you breathing."
She steps back, rubbing her wrist where my skin touched hers.
The defiance is still there, but the edges are softening.
She is a smart woman. She is doing the math.
She knows the streets of Chicago are a slaughterhouse right now.
She knows the heavy steel doors of this elevator are the only things standing between her and a shallow grave.
"Down the hall." I point toward the long corridor extending from the living room. "Last door on the left. Master suite. It has a lock on the inside. You can lock me out. You can barricade the door. You can do whatever you need to do to feel safe."
She looks down the dark hallway. She looks back at me.
"Where are you sleeping?" She asks. The suspicion is thick.
"I told you." I walk back toward the wet bar to grab my scotch. "I don't sleep."
"Everyone sleeps." She argues purely out of habit. The sassy teacher correcting the difficult student.
"Not me." I knock back the rest of the amber liquid. The burn is comforting. It matches the fire in my veins. "There is a guest room opposite yours. My clothes are in there. But I will be out here. On the couch. Or in the kitchen."
She studies me for a long moment. She is looking for the lie. She is looking for the hidden trapdoor in my logic. She won't find one. I am exactly what I appear to be. A massive, violent man entirely obsessed with keeping her safe.
"There's flour in the kitchen." She says it randomly. A sharp change of subject.
"Yes." I don't elaborate.
"You said there were no knives. But there is baking flour." She tilts her head. The curls tumble over her shoulder. "Commercial grade yeast. Huge bags of sugar. Stand mixers. Why does a mafia boss have a bakery in his safe house?"
"Underboss." I correct her again automatically. "And the kitchen is stocked because I requested it."
"You bake." The statement is flat out disbelief. She looks at my heavy, tattooed arms. She looks at the blackout tribal sleeve completely covering my left bicep. She looks at the scars on my knuckles. "You. You bake."
"It requires exact measurements." I explain clinically.
I refuse to give her the emotional truth.
I refuse to tell her that baking is the only thing that quiets the screaming war room in my skull.
Measuring flour. Kneading dough. Controlling the exact chemical reactions of yeast and heat.
It is the only place in my violent world where following the rules guarantees a perfect outcome.
"You bake." She repeats it. A tiny, incredulous smile tugs at the corner of her lips. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
I want to ruin that smile with my mouth. I want to devour it.
"Go to your room, Clara." My voice drops an octave. The animal instinct is screaming for release. I am losing the battle to remain civilized. "Before I change my mind about letting you lock the door."
Her smile vanishes. The reality of her situation crashes back down on her shoulders. She turns without another word.
She walks down the long hallway. Her boots make little sound on the plush carpet. She reaches the master suite. She steps inside.
The heavy oak door clicks shut.
The lock engages with a sharp, metallic snap.
I stand alone in the middle of the Il Corvo penthouse. The rain continues to assault the glass behind me. The city of Chicago glows like a bed of embers in the dark.
She thinks the locked door keeps her safe from me. She thinks the wood and the brass can stop a man who dismantles entire criminal syndicates for a living.
She doesn't understand the rules of this new world yet.
I walk toward the kitchen. The black marble island is empty. The ash wood bat still lies forgotten against the baseboards. I pick it up. I run my thumb over the worn grip tape. I can still smell her in the air. Chalkboard dust and fresh linen.
My cousin Dominic will call soon. Turi will want an update.
The entire Costa family will want to know why I pulled a million dollars out of the operational fund to buy the debt of a deadbeat gambler.
They will demand explanations. They will demand the shipping logs.
They will want to use Clara as a pawn on the board.
Let them try.
I toss the ash wood bat into the corner. It clatters loudly against the wall.
I walk over to the massive stainless steel refrigerator. I pull open the heavy door. Rows of butter. Gallons of milk. Dozens of eggs. The raw materials of control. The ingredients of temporary sanity.
I pull a block of butter from the shelf. I toss it onto the marble counter.
She is mine. The debt is just the paperwork. The collateral is the excuse.
The absolute truth is entirely primal. I looked at her, and my biology rewrote itself to include her in my survival.
The Bellantis will come for her. Arthur Reeves will eventually surface. The war will escalate.
I grab a massive metal mixing bowl from the lower cabinet. I slam it onto the black marble island.
I will slaughter every single man who steps foot within ten miles of this penthouse. I will paint the streets of the South Side red. I will sever Lorenzo Bellanti's head from his body, and I will bury the pieces where no one will ever find them.
I reach for the flour.
She is staying right here.