Chapter 13 Matteo
MATTEO
She’s silent the whole ride back. My knuckles turn white as I grip the steering wheel. All I can think about right now is murder.
I want his blood. And if it weren’t for the fact that she’s sitting in my car, I would be hunting that dog down.
I see her shiver in my peripheral, so I turn up the heat a little more. She curls into herself, trying to calm her body, but the shaking never stops.
“I’m not cold,” she mutters under her breath. “You don’t need to turn up the heat.”
“I know,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road.
Her fingers are curled into the hem of her coat. Her eyes are red and raw from all the tears that spilled from them.
The bruise on her cheek is a dark whisper I can’t unsee. It drags something vicious out of me—something I swore she’d never witness.
Giacomo will have his day.
This is a promise I make to myself.
Breaking his nose. Breaking his jaw. Breaking his fucking neck for laying hands on her.
I’ll give him ten times what he did to her—and more—since I’m such a generous man.
But first, her.
I have to take care of her.
We pull into the garage, and I park the car. I’m out in a second, circling to her side—but she doesn’t reach for the handle. She just sits there, tears slipping down her cheeks in a silence that feels heavier than anything she could say.
It tugs at the last of my restraint.
“Bella,” I say quietly. She doesn’t answer, staring ahead with a look that’s more fury than fear now.
“Beatrice. We’re here.”
She blinks hard, tears slipping out before she can stop them. She wipes them away fast, almost irritated, like the emotions themselves offend her.
“Sorry,” she mutters, jaw tight. “I—I just…”
“Don’t.”
I take her hands and cup them in mine. I bring them to my chest and kiss her cold fingers.
The action is instinctive.
We stare at each other. The heat moves from her hands into my own, warming something deep inside my body. Her eyes glisten with more unshed tears, and it awakens parts of my chest I thought long dead.
I am not an empathetic man, and compassion has never come easily to me. But I have this sudden urge to pull her into my chest and hide her away from the rest of the world.
“Come on, let’s get you inside.”
I help her out of the car and guide her toward the elevator, my hand steady at her back.
When the doors open and we step in, she missteps, her heel catching on the floor.
“Whoa—got you.” My hand tightens around her waist.
She nods, staring at the ground. “I just… lost my footing.”
I don’t make her finish.
In one motion, I lift her into my arms and head down the hallway. Unlocking my door with her held against me is easier than it should be. I push it open and carry her inside.
She buries her head in the crook of my neck, her hot breath fanning across my skin and needling every one of my senses. I do my best to ignore the chaos she stirs just by being near me.
She’s so quiet. It’s… unsettling.
I’m used to her nervous chatter, that soft laugh she gives when she doesn’t know what to say, the way her words spill out too fast because her thoughts can’t keep up. Silence doesn’t belong to her. It looks foreign on her skin, wrong in her throat.
“Take a bath,” I tell her gently, my voice low so it doesn’t spook whatever fragile thread she’s holding on to. “There are bath salts in the cabinet and towels on the rack. Get warm. I’ll find you something dry.”
She nods—small, hesitant, like she’s afraid even that movement might break her open.
Her eyes are finally drying.
Her mouth parts with the ghost of a thought, and I wait for her voice… but nothing comes out.
Instead, she steps closer.
So close I can feel the tremble in her breath.
For a suspended heartbeat, I think she might speak—or collapse.
But she doesn’t do either.
She lifts her face to mine, and her eyes—God, her eyes—hit me like a blow.
Raw. Exposed. Searching me for something she isn’t allowed to ask for.
And I know right then: she’s breaking in front of me, and I’m the only safe place she knows to fall.
She simply steps closer—just one small, trembling step—and suddenly the space between us is a live wire. Her breath catches, my pulse spikes, and for a moment we hover in the same fragile orbit, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin without it ever reaching mine.
She lifts her face toward me, her eyes catching mine with a force that knocks the air out of my lungs. Raw. Searching. Breaking.
It feels more intimate than any touch could have been.
Everything in me surges toward her.
Want. Fury. Fear. Restraint.
I inhale her lavender scent like it’s oxygen, like it’s salvation, like it’s poison all at once. My hands twitch at my sides—desperate to touch, desperate not to.
She pulls away before I can lose the war with myself.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
Two small words. But the weight behind them could drop a man to his knees.
I watch her walk toward the bathroom, fragile and strong all at once, and when the door clicks shut, the silence that follows is a physical thing—a fist around my lungs.
I turn away and pace my room, each step a battle against the urge to rip apart the city until I find Feriama and end him with my bare hands. Every part of me is electric with fury—white-hot, volatile, barely tethered—but I force it down. She cannot see that storm. Not tonight.
I drag a hand through my hair and breathe once. Twice. Slow. Controlled.
For her.
I find her a sweatshirt—soft, worn-in, oversized—and a pair of boxer briefs that will hang off her hips like shorts.
I hold the clothes in my hands for a moment, grounding myself.
When I return to the hallway, she opens the bathroom door just a crack. Steam spills out, curling around her like a veil, and she stands there silhouetted, fragile and fierce and impossibly out of reach.
Our eyes lock.
It’s a collision—quiet but catastrophic, a plea, an apology and a truth neither of us is brave enough to speak.
We stare at each other with an intensity that could level cities.
Two people restrained by loyalty, fear, fate—choosing not to step closer, even though everything inside of us screams to do so.
For a moment, it feels like we’re being pulled toward each other by something sharp and undeniable—a fall we both stop just before we reach the edge.
I lift the clothes in my hand just slightly. “These are for you.”
Her gaze flicks to them, then back to me. “Thank you,” she whispers, taking them before slipping back into the veil of steam—leaving the air around me burning.
I give her space and head to the kitchen, putting on some chamomile tea in case she needs something warm. By the time I walk back to the bedroom, she’s already sitting on my bed with her legs crossed.
Her hair is wet, pulled back into a messy twist. Her eyes are still red and heavy with sadness. She clutches the hem of my hoodie like it’s armor, and her legs are bare.
She looks so small and fragile. But even in her brokenness, her beauty still shines.
When she hears me walk in, her head lifts. She forces a smile onto her lips.
“Thank you for the bath, I feel a little better.”
“Stop thanking me,” I say as I step inside and place the tray on the side table. “I brought you some tea.”
I walk over to where she sits on the edge of my bed and take a seat beside her. I want to reach out and hold her, but I don’t.
“What happened, Beatrice?” My voice is low.
She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter what happened.”
“Yes, it does.”
“We… we had an argument. More like a misunderstanding.”
She gives a bitter laugh. “He thought I was flirting with the waiter. And this—” she touches her cheek lightly, “—it was an accident.”
Her voice thins, frays.
“But after the gala he’s been… different. Volatile. The smallest thing sets him off.”
I sit there quietly, listening, but the rage inside me simmers hot.
“I’m sorry for pulling you into my mess but I—”
I place my finger over her lips to silence her. Her eyes widen, and the moment I touch her, those familiar tingles return.
“Don’t apologize.” My voice is thick, weighted with emotion.
My palm finds her cheek—soft, cautious—and I turn her face so I can see the bruise he left on her. My thumb drags lightly over it.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not so much now.” The words escape her in breathless little pants. “It should fade within a few weeks. Just in time for…”
She doesn’t finish, and a pit settles in my stomach. I move my eyes to meet hers, but she looks away. I gently turn her face back to mine.
“In time for what?”
“My… my rehearsal dinner.”
“You’re kidding, right?” When she makes no move to correct me, everything in me hardens. “You cannot be serious, Beatrice.”
She looks down at her lap, fingers twisting the ring on her left hand. I hate that thing. It’s more like a shackle.
“You can’t still be considering marrying him after he did this to you, Beatrice?”
“I said it was an accident. And I don’t have a choice.” She lifts her head slowly, eyes hollowed by truth. “I don’t have the luxury of freedom or choice, Matteo. Even tonight… will have its consequences.”
“Yes, tonight should have its consequences—you leaving him.” My voice is hard as steel. “You can’t stay in a union like this anymore, Beatrice. Today he hurt you by accident. Tomorrow it won’t be an accident.”
I don’t want to hurt her or cause her any more distress. But she can’t be na?ve enough to think this won’t continue—that a demon like Giacomo won’t drag her to the very edge of death with him.
“I… I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t? Choose you, for you, bella.”
She rips my hand from her face and moves away from me on the bed.
“You don’t get to judge me, Matteo. You have no idea what this man has over me.”
It’s the first time since I picked her up that I hear her true voice.
“Then help me understand, Beatrice. Because I have been fighting the urge to go out and kill him for what he’s done to you.” The bloodlust claws at my sanity. “Tell me.”
She bites down on her lip and looks away. “You won’t understand.”
“Try me.”