Chapter 31 Matteo
MATTEO
Idon’t sleep anymore.
There’s only one thing on my mind—him—and he’s there because my wife never truly rests.
She wakes from nightmares soaked in sweat, breath hitching, eyes wild. Every time, I pull her into my arms and hold her until the sobs ease and exhaustion finally drags her under again. By morning, she pretends she’s fine.
She isn’t. And I know it. I see it.
That’s what eats at me most—the waiting. The knowing I can’t tear this fear out of her yet because Valerio is waiting for one mistake. One slip. Then we move. Then we end it.
I hate it. I hate the patience this war demands. I hate that I can’t put a bullet in him right now and be done with it.
I would kill for her peace. I would burn my empire to see the light come back into her eyes. Instead, I watch it dim, reduced to a fragile flicker that refuses to go out—but barely holds.
I rub a tired hand over my jaw and stare out the window. All I want is to go home. To hold my wife. My son is in Los Angeles, brokering a deal he swears will benefit the family. He’s becoming exactly the man I raised him to be.
I’m proud of him.
And some nights, that terrifies me.
And still, some nights I wonder if any of this is worth it… or if Marcello was right to walk away.
“You’re brooding again,” Valerio says, coming to stand beside me at the glass. “Keep scowling like that and your face is going to stick.”
“You’re not funny.” I don’t look at him. “Go home, Rio. I just need to wrap a few things up.”
“Wrap up what?” he counters. “You burned through three weeks of work in four days. There’s nothing left.” His voice drops. “Go home. Be with your wife. Watch a movie. Pretend you’re normal.”
I should. I want to. But here—alone in my office—I don’t have to be the pillar. I don’t have to be unbreakable. I can just exist.
“I will,” I say finally. “In a minute.”
My gaze drifts to the towers beside ours. “I should’ve bought those buildings,” I add. “They’re bigger.”
Valerio snorts, already taking the bait.
“You still can,” Valerio says. “You’re a billionaire—with a capital B. You could even put it in her name. For when she’s ready to restart that fashion line of hers.”
“Good idea,” I reply, distracted.
He lets the silence stretch, then claps his hands once. “Drink.”
“No.”
“Come on,” he presses. “I’m your second, but I’m also one of your oldest friends. And I know that look. Life’s got you by the balls.” He grins. “And in my experience, there’s very little a bottle of good bourbon can’t improve.”
I turn to him. He’s smiling—that infuriating mix of mischief and insight. I already know agreeing means trouble. Valerio thrives on trouble.
“I’m not in the mood.”
“You’re never in the mood,” he counters. “That’s exactly why we’re going.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No,” I snap, finally facing him. “I’m not interested in loud music and half-naked women.”
He gasps, affronted. “Excuse you? I would never drag you somewhere like that. What do you take me for—some kind of harlot?”
I blink. “Yes. You’re the biggest man-whore I know.”
“And the sky is blue,” he sighs. “Just one drink, brother. If not for you, then for me. My little Persian lady friend flew home last night, and now I’m tragically alone.”
“You have at least five women you could call right now.”
“But I want you,” he says, batting his lashes like an idiot. “Come on. One drink. We’ll go to Silo instead of a club.”
I’m already leaning toward no—but when I open my mouth, I cave.
“Fine,” I mutter. “One drink.”
“Perfect.” He claps my shoulder, steering me toward the door. “We’ve got a bottle of 1895 waiting with our name on it.”
Silo smells of leather and aged whiskey. The lights are low, the jazz slow and deliberate—nothing frantic, nothing loud. A place built for men who want to disappear without being forgotten.
We take the far corner, dark liquor between us while Valerio throws out half-hearted jokes, clearly trying to haul me out of my own head. A few land. Most don’t. My thoughts snap right back every time.
“When it’s all said and done,” he says, warming to himself, “I think I’ll retire like Hugh Hefner. My own version of Playboy bunnies, silk robe, cigar in one hand, whiskey in the other. Heaven.”
I take a slow sip. “Sounds like paradise,” I deadpan.
He scoffs. “Rio’s Angels. Tell me that doesn’t have a ring to it.”
“It absolutely does,” I mutter, rolling my eyes—then fail to stop the low laugh that slips out anyway. “You should trademark it.”
For a moment, the edge dulls. Just a fraction.
Then the air changes.
It’s subtle—a shift in temperature, a wrongness in the oxygen—but I feel it instantly. I don’t need to turn. I know that presence. I know that stench.
I glance over my shoulder, following the sudden pause of the room.
Of course.
Giacomo.
Midnight suit—tacky as ever. A smug grin split across his face like a fresh scar. He has the audacity to walk in as if he still belongs here, as if he hasn’t been blacklisted, whispered about, quietly erased.
I’ll be having a word with management. Let rot like that back in, and the whole place starts to stink.
His gaze sweeps the room slowly, possessive, like a man revisiting a kingdom he lost and still believes is his. When he takes his first step forward, the tension tightens—sharp, electric.
Whispers ripple. He hears them. He always does. And he doesn’t care. Men like him never do. They build empires on sand and act shocked when the tide comes in.
He moves deeper into the room, smile widening.
Heads turn, but no one greets him. A few older men shift, uneasy. Others look away entirely. Once, he could command a room with a glance. Now he barely earns acknowledgment.
But that smile—slick, venomous—it finds me.
Our eyes lock. I see the spark in his, the quiet thrill of it.
If he were smart, he’d stay right where he is.
Giacomo has never been smart.
He walks straight toward me.
Valerio stiffens beside me.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, low and even, the way you’d speak to a rabid animal. “Be smart about this, boss.”
“I’m not starting anything,” I say, the lie smooth. My grip tightens around the glass. “No reason to get my hands dirty. Not yet.”
“Yet,” he mutters. “I knew we should’ve gone to the nightclub.”
Giacomo stops just short of our table. His hands come together in a slow, deliberate clap.
“Matteo,” he drawls, head tilting. “You look… tired. Time hasn’t been kind to you.”
I don’t rise to it. That’s what he wants. I know this man well enough to recognize the bait—and I’m unarmed.
He clicks his tongue and turns to Valerio. “Not in the mood to talk? Still keeping the leash tight, I see. He used to have more bite.”
Valerio doesn’t blink. “Still pretending you have a kingdom? You’re surplus here, Giacomo. You never should’ve come back.”
Giacomo chuckles. “You don’t hold the keys, Valerio. I go where I please. This city isn’t yours.”
“It isn’t yours,” I cut in, my voice flat. “And he’s right—you don’t belong here. You may not recognize authority anymore, but last I checked, I still run these streets. My word is law.”
He laughs softly. “Then why am I still breathing? I could’ve sworn you wanted me dead.”
My jaw tightens.
“Oh—and tell me,” he adds lightly, “how’s that whore of yours? Let her know I miss her.”
I’m on my feet before I register the movement. The chair shrieks back, slicing through the room. Heads turn.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say, ice-cold.
He shrugs. “Public place.”
“You lost every right to this city the moment you went after my wife.”
He steps closer—too close. Close enough that I can smell him. Close enough that it would take nothing to wrap my hand around his throat.
His voice drops to a whisper only I can hear. “One day, I’ll take everything you have. Piece by fucking piece. Your throne. Her. Your son. Or should I say—my son.”
My fist curls.
Valerio’s already up, his hand locking around my arm beneath the table, anchoring me in place.
“Not here,” Valerio grits beside me.
I hear him. I just don’t care.
Every instinct in me screams to put my fist through Giacomo’s face—to feel bone give, blood spill across imported tile. To end him.
But I don’t.
“Yes,” Giacomo hisses, tongue clicking against his teeth. “Listen to your lackey, Matteo. Wouldn’t want things to get… messy. Not when you’ve got so much more to lose than I do.” His smile sharpens. “You know what they say about a man with nothing left.”
“Watch yourself,” Valerio warns quietly. “He might hold back. I won’t. And I don’t need a gun.”
Giacomo lifts his hands in mock surrender, amusement glittering in his eyes. He thinks he’s winning. That’s the dangerous part.
“Leave,” I say, every word carved from restraint.
He steps back, brushing imaginary lint from his lapel like he hasn’t just threatened my entire world.
The silence thickens—men pretending not to listen, pretending they don’t survive on moments like this. Giacomo knows it.
He raises his voice just enough for the room to hear. “Enjoy the peace while it lasts, gentlemen. Because soon—” his gaze flicks to me, casual as sin, “—what’s his will belong to no one.”
I move without thinking. Valerio locks onto my arm, stopping me just short of violence.
“Ciao, boys,” Giacomo says lightly, bowing as if we’re all friends, and walks out.
I don’t breathe until the door shuts behind him.
Valerio releases me, jaw tight. “He’s courting death, walking in here like that.”
“No,” I murmur. “He wants an audience.”
I scan the room. Eyes drop. Faces turn away. He wanted them to see. To hear. To remember.
“This ends,” I say, fire burning clean through me. “I’m done waiting.”
Valerio arches a brow. “Waiting for what?”
“For restraint.” I stare at the door like he might come back. “He’s mocking my family. My wife.”
“But we live by the code,” Valerio says carefully. “And we die by it.”
“When it comes to my wife—” I snap my head toward him, “—there is no code.”
My voice lowers, lethal. “I don’t care if we have to fake a strike, burn a trail, rewrite the rules. We are going after him.”