Chapter 15 Matteo
MATTEO
I’m acting like a fucking stalker. I know it. I shouldn’t even be here.
And yet—I am.
I tell myself it’s for her protection, that Valerio had to step away for a few hours and I’m simply filling in as a shadow.
It’s a convenient lie, one I’ve repeated to myself for the past forty minutes while sitting in the far corner booth of this piano bar, my untouched whiskey sweating on the table.
At any moment she should walk in.
At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself every time I look at my watch and feel that pulse of impatience crack down my spine.
I overheard her this morning in the hallway—she and her friends whispering about their reservation here. It wasn’t like I pressed my ear against the door. It wasn’t like I asked Adam, the doorman, which direction she went when she left.
I’m not obsessed.
I just… want to know she’s safe.
And maybe I want her to talk to me. After everything that happened between us, you’d think she would at least want to look me in the eye again.
Christ. I sound like a lovesick fool.
I run one of the most powerful syndicates in the state; women scramble for the privilege of being noticed by me, not the other way around. And yet here I am, pining after a woman who doesn’t even know how deep she’s cut me.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, swallowing a mouthful of whiskey and flinching at the burn. “What kind of spell did this woman cast on me?”
Then, without warning, I feel her.
It hits me like a shift in pressure—subtle but undeniable. My body reacts before my mind does, spine straightening, senses sharpening, every instinct turning toward the door.
Lavender. Warmth. Beatrice.
And there she is, walking in with the two women I recognized from the background check I ran earlier—old college friends she hasn’t seen in years. I take a moment to drink her in, and something in me clenches painfully.
The red silk dress clings to her like it was stitched onto her skin, catching the low golden light of the lounge and sculpting her into every fantasy I’ve tried to forget.
She doesn’t see me at first. She’s laughing with her friends, head tilted back, eyes bright, lips painted the softest shade of temptation I’ve ever seen. She looks lighter tonight—looser, livelier—and Valerio was right. She seems… different. Like she’s breathing for the first time in months.
I don’t move. Don’t blink. Don’t touch the damn drink in my hand. I just watch her.
The piano croons a slow Sinatra number, the kind that makes the world feel softer than it actually is. Conversations fade into a quiet buzz. No one here is in a hurry. No one is pretending their world is on fire.
She flicks her hair back and leans in toward her friends, animated and glowing, and I swear I could stare at her for hours and call it prayer.
Then she turns.
And she sees me.
The shock strikes her face for a fraction of a second—eyes widening, lips parting, breath hitching—before she snaps her gaze back to the table, too fast, too obvious.
Her friends follow her line of sight, find me, and immediately launch into teasing whispers.
The blonde one grins like she’s in on some delicious secret.
Beatrice tries to shush them, but her fingers tremble around the stem of her wine glass.
She’s uneasy. Good.
Because I’ve been losing my mind over her for days. It’s only fair she feels even a fraction of it.
Her friends drift toward the restroom in a cloud of laughter and perfume, leaving her alone at the table with the dim amber light washing over her skin.
The moment they disappear, I rise from my booth and cross the room, not rushed—not hesitant—just moving toward her with the certainty of a man walking toward something he has already decided he cannot turn away from.
She looks up as I reach her table. She doesn’t send me off. I don’t ask to sit.
“I think it’s time we talk, bella. No more ignoring. No more running.”
“Matteo…”
“No, Beatrice.” My voice sharpens. “I’ve given you space. Enough of it.”
I study her then—the faint tremor in her hand, the way her shoulders soften when she’s not pretending strength for anyone but herself. The piano slips into a slower melody, something aching and nostalgic, wrapping itself around us like a confession waiting to happen.
“I’ve been trying not to think about you,” I say.
Her eyes lift to mine. “You’re not doing a very good job.”
The corner of my mouth twitches, but the warmth doesn’t reach the hollow space in my chest. I inhale once, steadying myself.
“I started to have feelings for you.” The words fall quietly, without urgency, without theatrics—just truth, worn and tired and impossible to swallow any longer. “And I will risk everything to get you out of this.”
Her lashes flutter, the smallest betrayal of composure. She knew this moment would come; she just didn’t want to witness it.
“Matteo… if you take me from him, it’s war.”
“Then let it be war,” I answer, softer than a threat, heavier than a vow. “You deserve more than the life he’s forcing on you.”
She shakes her head, and pain flickers across her features like a shadow. “You’ll die. Or my family will. Or someone who never asked to bleed for our mistakes. This… whatever this is, Matteo—it has to end.”
Before she can say more, her attention flicks past me.
“Oh, Rachel, you’re back?”
Her friends arrive at my back, but I don’t turn. My eyes remain on her.
Rachel steps around the table, offering her hand. “Hi, I’m Rachel—Beatrice’s friend. And you are?”
I take her hand but never break eye contact with Beatrice. “Matteo Davacalli. Charmed.”
Emma appears on the other side, her gaze sweeping unapologetically down my body. “Emma. Pleased to meet you.”
I nod politely, but they don’t exist to me. Only Beatrice does.
“Matteo was just leaving,” she says firmly.
“No,” I answer before I can stop myself. “I wasn’t.”
Both women glance between us, identical knowing smiles stretching across their faces.
Rachel recovers first. “We were actually coming to say we can head out now if you want. Emma heard about this big Manhattan party and—”
“She can’t make it.”
Silence falls like a blade.
Rachel smirks. Emma blinks.
And Beatrice—God help me—looks like she’s about to murder me.
“You don’t answer for me,” she snaps. “A party sounds—”
“You go with them,” I say evenly, “and I follow. With my security. All twenty of them. If that’s how you want your night to go, be my guest. Otherwise, you stay. We have things to discuss.”
The air between us tightens, electric, charged with something that pulls and burns at the same time.
“After everything that happened, Beatrice,” I say quietly, “I think I’m owed a conversation.”
Her friends exchange a glance.
“It’s okay, Bea,” Rachel says gently. “We’ll see you tomorrow. Em and I need to head back anyway; we probably won’t end up making it to the party.”
Beatrice wants to argue, but Rachel leans down and kisses her cheek. Emma waves goodbye, and just like that, they’re gone—leaving the two of us alone at the table, facing each other like opponents in a game neither of us ever agreed to play.
“Tell me what happened at my place, bella.”
She shakes her head and rises from her seat. “I already told you—what happened that night was a mistake. We can’t let it happen again. It’s better if we stay apart.”
She steps away from the table—but my hand moves faster, curling around her wrist, stopping her mid-stride.
I stand, letting my full height overshadow her, letting the truth simmer between us.
For a moment, I wrestle with myself—with the urge to pull her closer, with the instinct to drag the truth out of her, with the knowledge that if I touch her for even a second longer, I won’t be able to let go.
I should let her go. It would be the sane thing, the strategic thing, the right thing.
But the moment she tries to pull away, my hand tightens—instinct, hunger, inevitability all snapping into place at once.
“You feel this too, Beatrice,” I murmur, stepping closer until our bodies are separated by nothing but intention. “Don’t pretend you don’t. Every time I’m near you, your body answers me.”
I dip my head to her neck, letting her lavender scent draw a slow, deliberate breath out of me.
Her inhale catches—quiet, sharp, unmistakable. It spears straight through my control.
I shouldn’t touch her, not here, not with half the bar watching us out of the corner of their eyes. But the urge is a living thing in my blood, too loud to ignore. I press my lips to the warm column of her throat, just barely, just enough to taste skin and danger.
Her hand comes to my chest—not to push me away, but to steady herself—and the sound she makes is not a warning. Not even close. She tips her head a fraction to the side, offering more. Inviting more.
I want to take it. Claim her. Mark her so thoroughly no one else will dare come close.
But I force myself to step back, dragging restraint up from places in me that haven’t seen daylight in years.
My hand slides from her wrist to her hand, threading our fingers together like it’s the most natural thing I’ve ever done. My thumb strokes slow circles over her skin, a touch meant to soothe and claim all at once.
“This is wrong, Matteo,” she whispers.
I tilt her chin up with a single finger. “Then tell me why my mouth on you felt right. Tell me why that kiss carved itself into my bones.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out—not when the truth sits blazing in her eyes, raw and hungry and impossible to hide.
“For once,” I say softly, “stop thinking. Just feel, bella.”
She bites her lip—a tiny movement, but it snaps something inside me clean in half.
“Let me take you home,” I say. I don’t raise my voice. I don’t beg. I simply give her the truth as it falls—steady, certain, inevitable.
She hesitates, every argument flickering behind her eyes. Then she nods.