Chapter 8 Matteo #2
I am a brutal man. I am forty-four years old.
I have spent my entire adult life executing orders, crushing skulls, and drowning in the trauma of my father's murder.
Clara is sunshine. She is chalkboard dust and fresh linen.
She is a civilian who grades spelling tests and bakes cookies.
She does not belong in a world where men blow up buildings for leverage.
I want to lock her in the biometric closet and swallow the key. I want to cage her in my bed and keep her isolated from the rot of Chicago.
But I love her.
The truth slams into my skull right as the elevator doors part.
I love her.
It is feral, instantaneous, and permanent. I love her enough to burn the chain.
I step out into the massive, silent living area. The penthouse is dim. I walk down the hall. I stop outside the office door. I knock twice.
The deadbolt clicks. Clara opens the door. She is still clutching the thick wool throw around her shoulders, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. Her hair is messy. Her eyes are sharp.
"You're back," she says, her voice cautious. She scans my clean shirt, then looks down at the silver tray in my hands. The ashes are still smoking slightly. "What is that?"
I walk past her, heading toward the kitchen. The kitchen is my sanctuary. The place where I bake bread in the middle of the night to silence the dead. It is the only place I can have this conversation.
She follows me. She climbs onto one of the tall barstools at the marble island.
I set the silver tray down on the counter between us.
"When you arrived here," I start, my voice low, completely devoid of its usual demanding edge. "I told you that your father sold you. I told you that his debt was a million dollars, and because he handed over the stolen Bellanti logs, your life was forfeit. I claimed you as collateral."
Clara stares at the tray. "I remember. You were very clear about owning me."
"I lied."
Her head snaps up. "What?"
"I don't own you by contract." I push the silver tray an inch closer to her. "That is your father's promissory note. The contract that bound you to the Costa syndicate. I bought it from the family treasury five minutes ago. Then I burned it."
Clara's mouth parts. She looks at the ashes, then back at my face. "You... you paid a million dollars?"
"One point two," I correct smoothly. "With interest."
"You paid over a million dollars for me?" she whispers, her voice cracking.
"I bought the debt to destroy it. You owe the Costa family nothing.
You owe me nothing." I grip the edge of the marble counter, my massive knuckles straining against the stone.
I force myself to say the next words, even though they physically tear my chest apart.
"You are not collateral, Clara. You are a free woman.
You are clear of your father's mess. Arthur Reeves is dead to you. His sins no longer touch your name."
She sits completely frozen. The sassy, defiant teacher is gone. She is staring at me like I have just rewritten the laws of gravity.
"Why?" she asks softly. "Why would you do that? You had me trapped here. You had all the leverage. You told me yesterday that you were keeping me in this cage."
"Because you are not a transaction," I state fiercely. "You are not a poker chip to be traded by cowards. When I look at you, my mind goes quiet. When I touch you, the last twenty years of blood and grief vanish. I will not taint what this is with a dirty ledger."
I point toward the private elevator. My arm shakes. Just pointing at the exit requires every ounce of discipline I possess.
"The perimeter is clear," I tell her, my voice gravelly and raw.
"I have men downstairs ready to drive you wherever you want to go.
I will provide a new identity, a new bank account, a new life in any state you choose.
The Bellantis will never find you. You can walk out those doors right now, Clara. You are free."
The silence in the kitchen is deafening.
I stare at her. My feral instincts are screaming at me to grab her, to drag her into the bedroom, to claim her so thoroughly she forgets the word 'leave'. My possessive rage is boiling under my skin. I am giving her the door, but if she actually takes it, I will rip this city down to the bedrock.
Clara looks at the elevator. She looks at the silver tray of ashes. Then she looks at me.
She slides off the barstool.
My chest caves in. She is going to the door. She is leaving. The quiet in my head fractures, the paranoia threatening to roar back to life.
But Clara does not walk toward the hallway. She walks around the marble island. She steps directly into my space, her soft curves pressing against my solid frame. She looks up at me, tilting her chin in that sassy, defiant way that drives me absolutely insane.
"You are an idiot," she says clearly.
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"You think you can burn a piece of paper, throw a million dollars at your cousin, and act like a martyr?
" She pokes her small finger hard into the center of my heavy chest. "You think you can show me the most broken, vulnerable parts of your soul, let me hold you in the dark, and then point me to the elevator? "
"Clara—"
"Shut up, Matteo." She steps closer, eliminating the last fraction of space between us.
Her familiar, soothing scent wraps around my senses, grounding me instantly.
"You told me yesterday that I belong to you.
You dragged me onto this counter and completely ruined me for any other man.
You slaughtered five hitmen to keep me safe.
You think I care about a promissory note? "
My jaw locks. Heat crawls up my neck. "You have a choice."
"I made my choice the second I walked into this kitchen at two in the morning and saw a massive, terrifying mafia underboss baking focaccia," she fires back.
"You don't get to push me away just because you decided to have a moral epiphany.
I don't care about the money. I don't care about the contract. I am staying here."
She reaches up. Her small hands grip the thick gold chain resting against my collarbone. She uses it to pull my massive frame down slightly, forcing me to look directly into her eyes.
"I am not your collateral," Clara whispers fiercely. "I am your woman. Say it."
Possessive, territorial dominance erupts through my veins. The restraint shatters. I wrap my heavy arms around her waist, lifting her entirely off the floor. She gasps as I crush her against my chest.
"Mine," I growl into the soft skin of her throat. "You are my woman. You are staying in my cage. You are never walking out that door."
"Good," she breathes, tangling her fingers into the thick, coarse hair at the nape of my neck. "Because if you try to put me in a car, I'll take that baseball bat to your kneecaps."
A rough, dark laugh rips out of my chest. It is a sound I have not made in twenty years. It is genuine. It is hers.
I carry her back to the barstool, sitting her down on the marble. I bracket her hips with my massive hands, keeping her trapped exactly where she belongs. The silver tray of ashes sits forgotten. The Arthur Reeves debt is dead.
She traces the line of my jaw, her touch light and grounding. "The shipping logs," she says softly, her tone shifting from defiant to deeply serious. "You gave them to Dominic."
"Yes."
"The Bellantis will retaliate. The war is going to escalate."
"It is already escalating," I tell her honestly. "They tried to breach my restaurant. They tried to take you. There is no negotiation left. We will burn their ports. We will systematically dismantle their operations until there is nothing left but dirt."
Clara does not flinch at the violence in my words. She accepts the darkness. She accepts the brutal reality of my existence.
"Will you be safe?" she asks, searching my eyes.
"I am a Costa," I answer smoothly. "I am the nightmare they check under their beds for. Nothing kills me, Clara. Especially not now. I have too much to come home to."
She smiles, a soft, beautiful expression that punches straight through my armor. "You better come home. You still owe me a baking lesson."
I lean down, pressing my lips firmly against her forehead. The gesture is a vow. It is a permanent mark of my protection. "Every night. Whatever you want."
I pull back and look around the pristine, commercial-grade kitchen. The flour bins. The marble counters. This place was my asylum. Now, it is our fortress.
"Are you hungry?" I ask her, my voice gruff with lingering emotion.
Clara laughs, a bright, chiming sound that bounces off the steel appliances. "It is four in the morning, Matteo. We just survived a mafia hit, you burned a million dollars, and you want to know if I'm hungry?"
"I need to keep my hands busy," I admit, staring at the soft curve of her lips. "If I don't start kneading dough right now, I am going to throw you over my shoulder, carry you into the bedroom, and not let you out for a week."
Her eyes widen slightly, a flush of heat creeping up her neck. She bites her lower lip, considering the threat.
"Start baking," she says, her voice suddenly breathy. "Before I change my mind about the bedroom."
I turn toward the pantry. My mind is clear. The rain is gone. The morgue is gone. The war outside these walls will rage, but inside this penthouse, I have secured my absolute victory.
She is mine.