Chapter 23
“Your move, O’Malley.”
Her whispered words echo in my head as I read the email from the administration board.
Dawn is only just starting to spill over the hills, and Adele André will be waking up to find she’s out of a job.
Not dead—though I did toy with that idea—but removed from Lily’s life all the same.
Suspended, pending a formal investigation into “unprofessional conduct and inappropriate comments.”
Amazing how quickly a career can vanish when the right strings get pulled.
I shut my phone and lean into the balcony’s cold stone rail. My bandaged knuckles still itch, but I don’t pay it any mind. Below me, Italy wakes in gold hues.
Objectively, it’s beautiful. The olive trees, the terracotta rooftops, the morning sun spilling like liquid gold across the hills. But none of it matters. I’m a racehorse with blinders on, every ounce of my focus locked on her and the footage that kept me up half the night.
Hunched over her sketchbook, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hair falling in a loose curtain around her face.
Every line a deliberate, fierce stroke across the page, like she was trying to stake a claim on a world that keeps trying to tell her no.
The way she moves, leaning into the page, oblivious to everything else, makes my chest tighten.
My hands clench against the railing without realising it, knuckles burning under the bandages, as I recall the look on her face as she called Cora and Abbie.
No one gets to tell her she can’t. Not some bitter academic prattling about “practicality.” Not someone who doesn't even know her. And certainly not me.
The door to my room creaks open behind me—measured footsteps, the scent of expensive cologne. I don’t need to turn to know it’s Salvatore creeping up on me.
“Matthew.” Antonio’s voice slips into the quiet like silk. “Long night?”
I keep my gaze on the horizon. He already knows damn well I’ve spent the last week since I landed here attending more than my fair share of bullshit meetings in the name of getting to know my new ‘family’ while also still answering to my actual family.
If this is any kind of indicator of what the next six months will look like, just shoot me now and save us all the hassle.
He comes to stand beside me, immaculate as always. Even at this hour, his suit looks freshly pressed, his cufflinks catching the sunrise—tiny gold skulls atop a cross that look like they’re smiling.
“I thought,” he says lightly, though there’s nothing light in his eyes, “you could use a distraction.”
My jaw tightens. “I’m fine.”
His smile curves, slow and deliberate, the kind of smile that hides teeth. “Why settle for fine when excellence is just around the corner, hmm?”
Before I can argue, his hand settles on my shoulder—gentle in touch, heavy with unspoken command. Heat seeps through the fabric of my shirt, the weight of it making my pulse stumble.
“Come,” he orders, voice low enough that it feels like a secret. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to show you.”
And with no excuse left to cling to, I let him guide me out to one of the waiting cars, each step feeling like a choice I didn’t quite make.
By the time I register the tinted windows and the low thrum of bass bleeding through concrete walls, it’s too late to fake an excuse to head back.
The club breathes around us—lights strobing pink and red, leather booths glistening under neon, chrome poles slicing through the haze of perfume and sweat.
Outside, the city is just stirring awake. Inside, time doesn’t exist. It’s a myth. A pulse, a heartbeat that hammers against my ribs, dragging me deeper into this world of heat and noise and danger.
Antonio moves through it like he owns the air itself.
No hesitation. Eyes glued to the stage. He cuts a path straight to one of the curved booths at the front, the best vantage point in the house.
With a small flourish, he unbuttons his suit jacket and cocks his head at me, a gesture equal parts host and command.
I swallow hard, forcing down the urge to flee, the unease crawling over my skin like ants.
I slide in beside him, keeping my gaze fixed on the bottles lined neatly behind the bar, the harsh glare of the lights above, the black-and-white tiles underfoot—anywhere but the stage, where dancers move like living flames, twisting and arching in ways that look anything but natural.
Antonio lounges back like a king holding court, one arm draped across the seat. His ice-blue eyes aren’t on the dancers. They’re on me. Watching every shift in my shoulders, every flicker of restraint. We both know what this is—a test.
How will the Points soldier react to a strip club?
Will I play the part expected of me back home, or meld to these new expectations?
“You know,” he says over the pulse of music, voice smooth as a blade, “you’re wasted under O’Neill.”
I don’t bite, but I do roll my eyes, slouching further in the leather seat, signalling the waiter for a drink. The clear liquid arrives, and I let it sit untouched for a beat—Salvatore watching, waiting, like the predator he is.
“I’m serious, figlio mio. You’re loyal, and deadly when you need to be.
And what does Jonathan give you? A leash.
Rules.” His lip curls in distaste, eyes glinting with the satisfaction of a man who knows the world bends to his design.
I don’t point out the elephant in the room—that frequenting a strip club already walks the line of the Table’s invisible rules.
I sip my vodka, slow, deliberately letting him rant and rave. I’ve had my suspicions about Antonio and Nico’s organisation since that first breakfast. Where Gianna and Vera were eerily quiet and the tension felt thick enough to slice through with Uncle Bren’s hatchet.
But up until now, they’ve been very careful about what glimpses they’ve let me see.
Meaningless meetings about wine imports and exports, family dinners where they spent most of it talking in Italian as the woman push their food around their plates.
At the same time, he’s made a point of hinting at the power this marriage offers me, calling me son, clapping me on the back, and smiling as if I can’t see right through his trap.
As if by moving here, I’m gearing up to become whatever version of me they demand.
He leans closer, the scent of his cologne sharp, intoxicating, dangerous. “You’ll be married soon, Matthew. Eventually, you’ll learn what every man in our world does—wives are for alliances, not hunger. You want to stay sane? You feed that appetite elsewhere.”
A dancer kneels before me, with a practiced smile and rehearsed seduction that does nothing for me.
I shake my head, and after a brief hesitation, she slides from my view and perches on Antonio’s lap instead.
His hands move immediately—one to her waist, the other tracing the curve of her hip, fingers brushing over the satin of her thighs with deliberate, practiced ease.
Her back arches into him, following his touch like a mirror of obedience, lips curled in a flirtatious smile meant for survival. My jaw tightens.
Antonio chuckles, a low, dangerous rumble. “No appetite tonight?”
I meet his ice-blue gaze, steady. “I’m not fucking stupid. You’re not offering freedom. You’re offering chains.”
“Ah,” he murmurs, voice sliding into my ear even as his hands slide over her body. “But my chains are lined in velvet. I know what it’s like, Matthew. To want something so badly it burns a hole through you. To protect someone until there’s nothing left of yourself.”
I tense, muscles taut, every nerve screaming refusal as my thoughts race.
“You think O’Neill will ever let you keep her?” His words are silk, but there’s steel beneath. “A stepsister, a scandal, a liability. You’ll have more freedom with me. I hear we have an opening for a seamstress, and she likes sewing, no?”
The glass in my hand cracks under my grip, vodka spilling across the table.
Rage tightens around my ribs, squeezing, burning.
Every nerve buzzes; every instinct screams. The image of Antonio’s hand sliding over the dancer’s hip, the way she arches into him, the dead look behind her eyes, all of it sets my teeth on edge.
No matter how Antonio dresses his words, I hear them for what they are—a threat.
He smiles, teeth just shy of predatory.
“Think about it. All of this”—he gestures lazily at the dancers, the money, the club full of women with fake smiles and men who should be at home with their wives—“could be yours. And so could she. All you have to do is have an open mind. Simple, no?”
“Leave her out of this,” I growl, voice sharp enough to slice glass.
“Impossible.” He straightens, cufflinks catching the light. “After all, Lily Davis is the only thing you truly care about. Isn’t that right?”
And then he’s gone, rising smoothly from the chair. The dancer slides off his lap, trailing after him like a shadow, but I don’t miss the hesitation in her steps or the glance she trades with one of the other dancers before following Antonio toward the private rooms.
I sit in the haze of club lights, staring at the women around me, pretending my stomach isn’t curdling with the weight of his words, pretending my pulse isn’t hammering as every instinct screams that this is far from over.
Because the truth is—I haven’t touched anyone since her. Not since that last night on Abbie and Logan’s honeymoon. Not since she ran from me, sobbing, leaving sunrise and vodka as the only witnesses to our bitter ending.