Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alessia
It’s been two days since the kiss in his room, and not a word has been spoken about it.
The silence is worse than any acknowledgment—like a secret coiled tight between us, humming beneath every glance and every brush of contact.
He hasn’t mentioned it, hasn’t touched me since, but the memory lingers in my body like a bruise I keep pressing to see if it still hurts.
Now, his hand rests at my back as we enter the dining room, and the contact feels intentional. To anyone else, it looks polite, guiding, but I feel like it’s a claim. His presence is iron at my side, steady and suffocating all at once, sharp enough that everyone in the room knows what I am: his.
The dining room itself could grace the pages of Architectural Digest—dark mahogany and crystal chandeliers, oil paintings of dead Romans staring down with solemn disapproval.
The table stretches long enough to host an army but tonight only seven of us take seats, the space both grand and oddly intimate.
The Romano men are already here. Luca sits upright, shoulders square, eyes cut from the same steel as his brother’s.
Enzo is more relaxed, though the sharpness in his gaze gives away his constant watchfulness.
Rafael looks like he hasn’t changed from work, his shirt faintly marred with dots I don’t want to identify as blood, while Dante leans back with the careless poise of someone who enjoys being the center of attention.
Marco stands against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight.
His anger is a shadow stretching across the room and I can feel his resentment still burning from the night I outmaneuvered him.
I don’t just dislike him because he guards me; I’ve watched the way he snaps at the maids, the way he sneers at anyone beneath him.
He wields cruelty like it’s power, and I loathe him for it.
And then there’s Isabella—Matteo’s sister, fire to his ice. In a pale dress with her hair loose around her shoulders, she’s watching me with a sharp protectiveness that makes me want to sit a little straighter.
“Gentlemen,” Matteo says as he takes the head of the table. His voice is warmer than I’ve ever heard it, as if for this brief moment he’s not Il Diavolo, but simply the eldest among brothers. “You remember Alessia.”
I meet each gaze directly. Matteo’s touch at my back steers me, subtle but commanding, until I choose a seat beside Isabella and I see her mouth curve just slightly in acknowledgment.
The servants glide in with silver trays, and soon the table is heavy with lamb, saffron risotto, bowls of olives glistening in oil.
The scents make my stomach tighten with hunger, but I realize quickly this isn’t a performance for my benefit.
For them, this is ritual—an ordinary meal among family and allies, and I can see in the way they speak with each other they are more than men working together. The only unusual element is me.
I raise my glass, letting the wine catch the chandelier light and give my hands something to do while the weight of their curiosity presses in. They’re not hostile, not exactly, but every glance I receive holds calculation. Wondering why I’m here, what it means, how much I matter.
And to be honest I don’t know.
Dante breaks the silence first, he was smirking before I even sat down, and I can feel his restless need to prod and entertain. His grin slides toward me, practiced and wicked. “So, Mrs. Moretti joins us at last. I was beginning to think Matteo meant to keep you locked away forever.”
I tilt my head, letting a small smile play on my lips. “I guess men like you enjoyed the chase.”
Dante’s grin sharpens. “Only when the prize is worth catching. Tell me, what does a Chicago socialite do for entertainment? Besides redecorating expensive bedrooms, of course.”
“Reading,” I answer smoothly. “Charity galas. Perfecting the art of looking fascinated while men explain things I already know.” I sip my wine and let my eyes slide over him before I look at Matteo whose intense gaze is glued on me. “Standard princess activities.”
Enzo chuckles. “Sounds like she’d fit in perfectly here.”
“What about here?” Dante says, leaning forward, eyes glinting.
“That depends entirely on what’s on offer,” I return, voice light, almost teasing, noticing that the more I speak with his friends, the angrier Matteo looks.
“Dangerous question in this house,” Rafael says, his tone wry. “We’re not exactly known for safe amusements.”
Matteo’s silence is keeping me on edge and I keep stealing glances.
“I’m beginning to think danger might be more interesting than safety,” I reply, raising my brows.
“Careful,” Dante warns, lowering his voice just enough to make it intimate. “Interesting things tend to create complicated situations.”
“And boring women end up forgotten,” I counter softly. “I know which I’d prefer.”
The table ripples with laughter—easy, warm, layered with amusement rather than menace. Even Luca, who has been silent until now, shakes his head with a faint look of disapproval that doesn’t quite hide his smirk.
The laughter still hangs in the air when Dante reaches for the wine bottle. I shift to refill my glass at the same time, and his fingers brush mine in the pass. The contact is fleeting, accidental enough to be dismissed, but enough that I wonder if Matteo will react.
My pulse stutters. I pull my hand back quickly, covering the slip by lifting the glass to my lips.
The response comes, low and steady, from the head of the table. “Touch her again, Dante, and you’ll find out just how permanent stains can be.”
The words aren’t shouted, but they land with lethal weight.
The air stills, and all eyes flick toward Matteo. His expression hasn’t changed—calm, almost bored—but the edge in his tone is sharp enough to draw blood.
Dante holds up both hands in mock surrender, though amusement dances in his eyes. “Relax, fratello. I was only being polite. Passing the wine, nothing more.”
“Polite looks different where I’m from,” Matteo replies. His eyes cut to Dante, then to me, and back again. “Keep it that way.”
For a beat, the table is silent. Then Isabella sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes as she breaks the tension. “Honestly. You’d think we were still teenagers, the way you posture. Can we eat before someone decides to draw swords?”
Her comment earns a ripple of laughter, even from Rafael, and the sharpness in the room eases again.
I find myself oddly warmed by the shift. For all their threats and dangerous edges, there’s something real in the way they banter—like this isn’t just a table of killers, but men who’ve bled and laughed together long enough to act like brothers.
Still, I can feel Matteo’s gaze burn into me from across the table. It’s not just possession; it’s warning, layered with something I can’t quite name. His protection may shield me, but it’s also a chain I can never forget.
I set my fork down carefully, I look up meeting his eyes. I don’t look away, don’t soften the defiance in my stare. Heat prickles under my skin, and I know it’s not from fear, but from the strange, borrowed power of standing toe-to-toe with the Devil himself and not flinching.
And for the briefest moment, I see it in his expression—a flicker of pride, almost admiration, before the mask slides back into place.
The meal winds down with easier chatter.
Enzo tells a dry story about Rafael losing a bet in Naples; Isabella interrupts with scathing commentary that makes Luca almost choke on his wine; Dante keeps grinning like he’s enjoying the whole circus.
Even Matteo is smiling more than I have ever seen him.
When they finally rise, it isn’t the sharp dispersal of a council breaking, but the natural drift of men who’ve spent years together.
Enzo leaves with a clap to Rafael’s shoulder, murmuring something that makes him chuckle.
Luca pauses to squeeze Isabella’s hand before disappearing down the hall.
Dante lingers, offering me one last wink before Matteo’s stare drives him out.
The others drift away, their voices fading into the vast hall, until it’s just Matteo and me in the cavernous dining room. He rises from the head of the table, slowly, like a king dismissing the remnants of his court.
“Back to your room.”
My gaze wanders down the hall as I stand, catching on the carved oak door I’d noticed earlier. A sliver of warm light seeps from the crack, faint but insistent. Something about it pulls at me, sharper than instinct.
I point before I can stop myself. “That room. What is it?”
His eyes follow my gesture, narrowing slightly. “Why?”
“Because it looks interesting,” I say, lifting my chin. “And because I’m bored of staring at the same walls. If you expect me to stay locked away like some expensive ornament, you could at least allow me some distraction.”
For a long moment, I think he’ll refuse. Then his jaw tightens, and with clipped finality: “Five minutes.”
Victory hums low in my chest.
He pushes the doors open, and the scent hits me first—leather, old paper, cedar polished by years of care. The library is vast, two stories high, a cathedral of books. Rolling ladders gleam in the low light, shelves stretching upward until they seem to merge with the ceiling beams.
I step inside reverently, fingertips brushing cracked leather spines. Titles in Italian, French, Latin, English. Even Russian and Arabic. My heart twists with something dangerously close to joy.
“You’ve read all these?” I ask.
“Many,” Matteo replies. His voice is softer here, echoing in the hush. “The rest are… waiting.”
I smile faintly, pulling a worn copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales from the shelf. “Fairy tales.”
He arches a brow. “Surprised?”
“Yes.” I thumb through the delicate pages, illustrations faded from years of touch.
“I love fairytales. Other girls had dolls. I had stories—wolves and witches and clever girls who saved themselves. My mother used to read to me before bed. Later, when she died and no one cared if I slept or not, I’d hide under the covers with a flashlight, whispering the words to myself. Stories were safer than people.”
For a moment, something flickers in his eyes like an almost imperceptible shift.
“My father gave me no fairy tales,” he says at last. His tone is flat, but the edges cut deep. “Only rules.”
“And punishments, I can imagine,” I murmur.
His gaze sharpens. “Lessons. That’s what he called them.”
I study him in the low light, my eyes drawn again to the scar that slices along his jaw. The raised line catches the shadows, stark against skin otherwise too perfect. It suits him, this reminder of violence survived, and I wonder what “lesson” carved it there.
“Lessons leave marks,” I say quietly. “On the body, or the soul. Sometimes both.”
For the first time, he doesn’t shut me out. He doesn’t answer, either, but the silence feels less like a wall and more like… permission.
I let it hang, then glance back at the book in my hands. “What was your favorite?”
“Bluebeard.”
Of course. A tale of secrets and forbidden doors, of wives who vanished because they dared to ask questions.
“Not very romantic.”
“Romance is for children. Adults deal in truth.”
“And what truth does Bluebeard teach?”
“That some doors should never be opened. Some secrets are worth killing to protect.”
We’re closer now, though neither of us moved. The air between us feels charged, thick with unspoken things. His eyes hold mine, steady and searching, as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle only I can provide.
“What secrets are you protecting, Alessia?” His voice is low, roughened by something I can’t name.
My heart hammers against my ribs. "I could ask you the same question."
"You could."
"But you won’t give me an answer, will you?"
Something that might be admiration flickers in his expression before it's replaced by something darker.
Then he says, "Tell me about Lorenzo."
The air shatters. My lungs squeeze tight. I snap the book closed, clutching it to my chest. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because he doesn't deserve my words."
His eyes narrow. "You told his family I was behind his death. Why lie?"
I meet his stare, steady despite the panic fluttering beneath. "I didn't blame you specifically. I didn't know which of his enemies finally put him in the ground. There were plenty."
The room shrinks around us, shadows lengthening, his presence crowding. He steps closer, not touching, but close enough that I can feel the weight of him.
His voice lowers, precise, cutting. "Be careful, Alessia. You think you're clever, but you're walking blindfolded into fire."
My grip tightens on the book, knuckles white. Defiance is all I have left. "Then maybe I'll burn."
For a moment, his eyes flash with anger, intrigue, hunger all tangled together. Then he turns, shoulders rigid, and walks out to the door. “Time’s up, principessa”
I walk out, heading back to my room without turning back but I can feel his heat behind me making me crave things I shouldn’t.
When I get to the hallway, I see Marco in his post standing like a statue. I turn to see if Matteo is behind me because I don’t feel him anymore. No one is there. I go into my room and I hear two clicks at the door knob, and only then do I breathe again.