Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Matteo
The Meridian Hotel looms ahead, its gilt facade dulled by years of New York winters. I don't walk in blind, of course. I’m not an idiot. Enzo and Rafael position themselves twenty paces apart, blending into the flow of polished businessmen and hotel staff like they belong here.
Enzo's ahead with his phone pressed to his ear, every inch the executive taking a call, but I catch the bulge under his jacket and the way his eyes sweep the lobby in calculated patterns.
Rafael lingers near the coffee bar, hands in his pockets, casual—but his right hand never strays more than two inches from his piece.
Dante waits by the revolving doors, his posture relaxed enough to pass for a businessman waiting for a colleague. But I know where his gun rests at his waist, know he's already mapped every exit, every potential threat in this lobby.
Good. If this goes wrong, they'll get me out or die trying.
The Beretta pressed against my spine offers cold comfort as I cross the marble floor. The plan is solid—timed check-ins with Enzo, breach points already identified, Luca tracking every sightline from the building across the street. If this turns into blood, I won't die cornered.
But as the elevator begins its climb and the floor numbers tick past three, then four, then five, my carefully constructed focus starts to fracture in ways I didn't anticipate.
My jaw aches from clenching. I force myself to relax it, roll my shoulders back, and try to focus on what's coming—Emilio's angles, his leverage points, the lies I'll need to maintain about Alessia's pregnancy.
Instead, all I can see is her face this morning when she grabbed my arm and begged me not to make Romeo cut off his finger, the way her eyes went wide with horror and disbelief.
The elevator continues climbing to floor eight, then nine, and my mind won't let go of what happened after—her back pressed against the wall in the corridor, my fingers inside her while Romeo's blood was still wet on the marble just a few feet away, the sound she made when she came that was raw and broken and furious all at once.
I need to focus on Emilio, on the meeting ahead, on staying alive through whatever trap he's planning, but my body won't cooperate.
Her scent still clings to my shirt collar.
I breathe it in without meaning to, and my body responds despite the circumstances.
The memory of her body beneath mine last night surfaces unbidden, the sound of her voice breaking when she whispered my name like it meant something.
Cristo.
Not now.
The elevator chimes—fifteenth floor.
I straighten my cuffs, force every thought of Alessia into a locked box in the back of my mind. She's the reason Emilio wants this meeting, the reason he thinks he has leverage. And she's the reason I came—because I need to know how much he really knows, how far he'll go to claim her.
The doors slide open.
Emilio waits by the window, whiskey already poured into crystal glasses. Gray streaks his hair now—age I'd hoped wouldn't touch him, years I wanted to steal. The distinguished elder statesman look, silver at the temples, expensive suit cut to hide the softness creeping into his frame.
But his eyes are the same. Cold and calculating.
My vision tunnels and every muscle in my body locks with the urge to cross this room and put a bullet between those eyes, to end it now without games or politics, just blood and justice and the satisfaction of watching the light leave his face after what he did to my father.
But that's not the plan, at least for now.
My hand drifts toward my spine where the Beretta waits, fingers itching for the grip, but I force them away and curl them into a fist at my side instead.
"Matteo." He smiles like we're old friends. "I'm pleased you agreed. For a moment, I thought you might lack the nerve."
The suite reeks of expensive whiskey and Emilio's cologne. Leather furniture. Crystal decanters. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing New York spread out below us like a kingdom waiting to be conquered.
Beautiful. And completely indefensible if this turns into a firefight.
I take the chair across from him without being invited. The leather creaks under my weight.
Emilio slides a glass of whiskey toward me. Amber liquid catching the afternoon light, expensive enough to taste like silk and smoke.
I don't touch it. Won't give him the satisfaction of accepting anything from his hands.
"You wanted words." My voice comes out level, controlled, even though my pulse hammers against my collar. "Speak them."
He studies me for a long moment, taking his time with his own drink. Making me wait. Power play I've seen a thousand times and used myself even more. The man who speaks first loses ground.
I let the silence stretch. I can wait all day if needed.
Finally, he sets his glass down with deliberate care. "You have something that belongs to me."
Belongs, like Alessia's a car he lent out and now wants returned.
My jaw tightens before I can stop it. "Is that what you call her? Something?"
Emilio takes a slow sip of whiskey, savoring it. "She is my daughter-in-law and my late son's wife." He sets the glass down, rotates it once on the table. "And she carries my grandchild. That makes her our family’s possession."
There it is, the real play—not about Alessia at all but about power and perception and the endless chess game we all play where appearing weak is more dangerous than actually being weak.
I lean back in my chair, mirroring his casual posture even though my pulse hammers.
"Your son was a piece of shit who beat his wife bloody. Some legacy to claim."
His fingers tighten on the glass—just for a heartbeat, barely visible. But I see it and know his facade is cracking.
"Lorenzo had his flaws." Emilio's voice stays smooth, but something cold flickers behind his eyes. "But he was my blood. And the child Alessia carries is my blood. That transcends whatever... complications... existed in their marriage."
Complications, like broken ribs and split lips were just minor inconveniences that didn't matter as long as the family name continued.
Adrenaline floods my system and my fingers start to drum against my thigh before I catch myself and force them still.
"And what is it you want, exactly?" I ask.
"To bring her home." He spreads his hands like he's offering me the world. "Where she'll be cared for. Protected. Where she belongs."
"Protected." The word scrapes out. "By the family that stood by while Lorenzo used her as a punching bag?"
"My son is dead, Matteo." His voice hardens, the smooth mask slipping just slightly. "Murdered. And now the woman carrying his child—my grandchild—lives under your roof. With the man responsible for making her my son’s widow." He leans forward. "How does that look to the families watching us?"
There it is. The real play. Not about Alessia at all—about power, perception, the endless chess game we all play.
"It looks," I say slowly, "like I'm protecting a pregnant widow from the family that failed her. It looks like mercy."
"It looks like you're keeping leverage." His smile sharpens. "And we both know mercy isn't in your nature, Romano. You're your father's son—ruthless, calculating. You don't take in strays out of kindness. So, let's dispense with the pretense."
He refills his glass, the crystal decanter heavy in his hand. "Eight figures, Matteo. Enough to let you expand into the East Coast overnight. Enough to double your territory, triple your income. That's a generous trade for one woman."
I shake my head slowly. "If it had been about your money, Emilio, I wouldn't have walked through that door. You know that."
His eyes narrow, measuring me. Recalculating. "Then why did you come?"
"To hear how far you're willing to crawl for her," I answer. "And laugh in your face when I refuse to give her back."
Emilio leans back, lifting his glass in something that might be a salute. "When she gives birth, that child deserves to grow up knowing where he came from. Knowing his grandfather."
"And if she doesn't want that?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
"She will." His tone stays casual, but there's something in his eyes that makes my skin crawl. Certainty that feels rehearsed. "Women adapt. Especially when the welfare of their children is at stake."
I study him, filing away the slip. He's not as certain about the pregnancy as he pretends. These are words meant to test my reaction, to see what I know.
Before I can reply, my phone vibrates twice in my pocket. Enzo's signal. Position confirmed. My men are in place.
"I'll give you one chance to end this war peacefully," Emilio continues.
He leans forward now, elbows on his knees, the picture of reasonable negotiation.
"Bring Alessia to me, and I'll make you a richer man than your father ever dreamed.
Refuse," his smile sharpens, "and you'll bleed resources until your empire rots beneath you.
Income streams dried up one by one until you're begging me for scraps. "
"You're assuming I need your permission to…"
I don’t finish my words because just then the window explodes.
Glass erupts inward and I'm already diving behind the couch before my brain catches up to what's happening. The first bullet tears through the space where my head was half a second ago. Automatic fire hammers the air—sound so loud it becomes pressure against my eardrums, against my chest.
Bullets chew through the upholstery and stuffing explodes around me like snow, wood splinters flying in every direction.
One round passes so close to my skull I feel the heat of it, the air displacement sharp against my temple.
My hand finds the Beretta at my spine. I flick the safety off and my breathing steadies despite the adrenaline trying to drown everything else.
Training takes over. Count the shots. Identify positions. Return fire.