Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Matteo
She's beautiful, even like this.
The thought hits me as I watch the surveillance footage for the third time, my fingers drumming against the steel table in my Manhattan warehouse.
On the screen, my men carry an unconscious woman from the SUV, her dark auburn hair spilling over strong arms like silk.
Even drugged and limp, there's something about her that commands attention. Something dangerous.
Alessia Moretti. Lorenzo's widow. The woman who started a war.
I check my watch. She's been out for a few hours. The sedative should be wearing off soon.
"Boss." Marco appears at my elbow, young and eager, still trying to prove himself worthy of the Romano name. "She's stirring."
I push back from the table and straighten my suit jacket. Armani, black as my reputation, tailored to perfection. Details matter in this business. Power is in the presentation as much as the action.
"Time we had a conversation."
The room where we're holding her is exactly what it needs to be.
Windowless, dark, with only the faintest light seeping in from under the door.
No decoration, no comfort, nothing to distract from the reality of her situation.
Just concrete walls, a single chair, and the kind of silence that makes people want to talk.
I position myself in the deepest shadows and wait, watching her slowly return to consciousness.
There is a single, dim lightbulb shining over her.
She's already awake, though she's trying to hide it.
Her breathing is too controlled, too measured for someone truly unconscious.
Smart, but I've seen enough people come around from drugs to know the difference.
I can see her testing her restraints carefully, the zip ties around her wrists, trying to piece together what happened. Her head must be pounding from the sedative—it always does—but she's fighting through it, thinking, calculating.
After three minutes of this charade, I decide to end it.
"Awake at last."
She jerks toward my voice, and I watch her strain her eyes trying to see me in the darkness. Her heart rate picks up—I can see it in the pulse jumping at her throat—but she doesn't cry out. Doesn't beg. Interesting.
"What's a woman like you doing in such a bad neighborhood?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral. The kind of tone that makes smart people nervous.
"My business is none of your concern," she snaps back, and I'm impressed that her voice barely shakes.
"Well-bred girls like you shouldn't wander into neighborhoods like that, principessa. It invites trouble."
"That still doesn't give you the right to kidnap me," she fires back, lifting her chin in defiance. “And my name is not principessa.”
I chuckle, genuinely amused. Most people in her position would be sobbing by now. "Bold words for someone tied up and alone."
I start moving, circling her in the darkness, my footsteps deliberate against the concrete. She tries to track the sound, turning her head to follow my voice, but in the complete blackness that surrounds her, she's blind.
Her vision adjusts when I walk out of the darkest shadow, her golden-brown eyes find me immediately. I'm standing just outside the circle of light, but she can make out enough. I watch her catalog details with quick intelligence—my height, my build, the expensive cut of my suit.
To my surprise, she doesn't cower. Instead, she lifts her chin in defiance, meeting my stare with more backbone than most men show me.
I step into the light, letting her see me clearly for the first time. The scar along my jaw catches the light, a reminder of the night my father died.
My tattoos are visible at my wrists, dark ink that speaks of a world she's only glimpsed from the protected heights of Moretti society. I know I carry myself with the controlled presence that has made grown men piss themselves.
Yet she doesn't look away.
I can see her mind working, trying to piece together what's happening. "How long was I unconscious?" she asks, her voice steady despite her situation.
"Long enough," I say simply.
Her eyes narrow as she processes this. "The Morettis will be looking for me. They'll tear Chicago apart—"
"They'll have to expand their search," I tell her, watching understanding dawn in her eyes. "Welcome to New York. My territory."
The color drains from her face as the implications sink in. The kind of operation this represents, the resources required to move someone across state lines without detection. Her breathing quickens slightly, but she fights to maintain composure. "Do you know who I am?" I ask.
She studies my face intently, looking for clues. "Should I?"
"Most people would say yes."
We stare at each other, me patient as death, her trying to put pieces together. I can practically see the wheels turning—Chicago to New York, the kind of operation this represents, the casual way I talk about territory.
Then recognition clicks, and her face goes pale.
"Romano," she breathes.
I smile, and it's not a nice expression. "Getting warmer."
"Matteo Romano." Her voice is barely a whisper now. "Il Diavolo."
"Clever girl."
"What do you want from me?" she asks, and I catch something breathless in her voice.
"You're the reason the Morettis declared war," I tell her, watching her face carefully for tells.
Her eyes widen with what looks like genuine shock. "I don't know what you mean…"
"Sure you do."
She's quiet for a moment, processing my words.
"I told them Lorenzo was murdered by unknown attackers.
If they declared war on you, that decision was theirs, not based on anything I said.
" I study her with the patience of a predator, weighing her words, looking for the lies underneath.
But there's something in her denial that rings true.
Or maybe she's just a very good actress.
"Someone so small and gentle shouldn't cause such problems," I murmur, moving closer.
I reach out slowly, making sure she can see the movement coming. Her eyes track my hand but she doesn't pull away when I trace one finger along her cheek. Her skin is soft, unmarked by the kind of violence that shapes people like me.
"Don't touch me," she says, jerking her head away from my touch.
But I don't stop. I let my finger trail along her jawline, curious to see what she'll do.
Quick as a snake, her teeth close on my finger—hard, sharp, aiming for bone. I pull back just in time, genuinely impressed by her speed and viciousness.
I laugh, I can't help it. When was the last time someone tried to bite me? "There she is. I was wondering when the real Alessia Moretti would show up."
The sound of my laughter makes fury blaze in her eyes. "You think this is funny?"
"I think you're far more interesting than I expected."
"Interesting enough to let me go?" she shoots back.
"Interesting enough to keep you alive."
Her jaw tightens. "How generous."
"I can be." I circle her chair slowly, and her head turns to follow my movement, cataloging every step. "Tell me about your husband's enemies."
"I wouldn't know. Lorenzo didn't discuss business with me."
"Of course not. Good wives don't ask questions." I pause behind her chair, and her shoulders tense. "But smart wives listen."
"Maybe I’m not that smart.” Her shoulders lift in a small shrug, but her eyes cut away, lashes lowering as if to hide something she doesn’t want me to read. Her fingers curl tight against the armrest, betraying nerves her voice tries to disguise.
"Oh, but you are." I move back into her line of sight. "Smart enough to survive four months of marriage to Lorenzo Moretti. That takes considerable skill."
Something flickers across her face—too quick to read, but not quick enough to hide.
"You're fishing," she says.
"I'm conversing."
A sound from the darkness makes her eyes dart toward the shadows where my men wait—shapes she can sense but not see. Her breathing changes, just slightly, as she counts the invisible presences surrounding us.
I see the moment it truly hits her. Her knuckles go white around the arms of the chair, her breath stutters, and her throat works in a hard swallow she can’t quite finish.
Her pupils dilate, eyes darting to the shadowed corners, as if she’s counting threats she can’t see.
Her composure slips in that fraction of a second, enough to show she’s realized the truth: this isn’t some street kidnapping — she’s sitting in the grip of power itself.
Before I can push further, the door opens. Light spills in from the hallway, and Enzo enters first, lean and deadly, his serpent tattoo visible in the dim light. Behind him comes my brother Luca, younger, softer-featured, but carrying the Romano name with quiet authority.
"Matteo," Luca says, and something in his tone tells me we have a problem. I glance between my men and the woman tied to the chair. She's watching this exchange with curious eyes; no doubt cataloging names and faces and power dynamics even in her helpless state.
I'm about to leave when she speaks up.
"Are you planning to keep me tied up forever?"
The question is pure defiance, thrown at me like a challenge. Not a plea from a broken woman but a demand from someone who refuses to accept defeat. Even now, even helpless, she's trying to seize some small measure of control.
I turn back to her fully, and for a moment, I feel something almost like admiration for her unbreakable spirit.
"You belong to me now, principessa," I tell her, letting the Italian endearment carry both promise and threat. "What happens to you will be decided by me alone."
I leave her in the chair. The door shuts behind me, the lock snapping into place.
Luca and Enzo are waiting in the hallway, faces tight.
“The head injury isn’t serious,” Enzo reports, rolling up his sleeves, serpent tattoo catching the light. “No fracture, no bleeding. She’ll have a headache, but nothing lasting.”
A hostage with a broken mind is useless and we both know that. Relief flickers through me, though I bury it.
Luca shifts uneasily, the way he always has before delivering bad news. “We searched her belongings. Purse, keys, phone. The usual. But there was also an envelope from the Chicago Family Health Center. Pregnancy test results. Positive. Ten weeks old.”
I take this in without surprise. Of course, she’s pregnant. It explains everything—their desperation, Emilio’s recklessness. A widow carrying the Moretti heir is worth starting a war over.
“Expected,” I say flatly. “Emilio wouldn’t spill blood over a barren widow. The child makes her invaluable.”
That should be the end of it. Yet something gnaws at me. That clinic—wrong part of town, the kind of place the Morettis would never send their women. And her denials during interrogation… not fearful.
“I want Dr. Reeves to confirm the pregnancy,” I decide. My tone leaves no room for argument. “If we’re going to use her as leverage, I need certainty. I don’t deal in assumptions.”
Both men nod, and I turn away, already thinking about my next move.
War isn’t won on luck. It’s won on information. And Alessia Moretti’s truth is about to become mine.