Chapter 18 Matei
MATEI
Iwake to a silence I don't recognize.
Usually, my mornings are defined by the noise in my head: strategy, logistics, the constant threats that need to be neutralized. But right now, there is only the sound of Jordan's breathing and the weight of her body curled against my chest.
Damn. I could get used to this.
And that is a dangerous thought, especially since she hasn't decided if she even wants to stay yet.
One of her hands rests against my ribs, her fingers wide across my skin as if she's holding onto me. Her face is relaxed; the tension that's usually there is gone.
I look at her, really look at her, and the memory of hours ago washes over me. I had heard her and checked the camera. She was thrashing, whimpering in a terror I couldn't see. I jumped out of bed without thinking and ran in here.
I've killed men with my bare hands, broken bones without a second thought, yet holding her after that nightmare required a gentleness I didn't even know I possessed.
And the way she clung to me then, not as a captor, but as a shield. Someone she feels can protect her.
I lean into her hair and breathe her in. It's vanilla and something floral. It's not just a smell; it's an infiltration. It feels like she has seeped into the very foundation of my life, by my own doing, ironically.
I should hate it. I should scrub it off. Call myself out for letting myself slip.
Instead, I want to drown in it. In her.
My cock stirs, hardening against my boxer briefs. The physical need is there, heavy and demanding, but the urge to take her has shifted into something else. Something darker and more desperate.
It's not just about friction or release anymore.
I want to brand her. I want to physically overwrite the fear I saw in her eyes last night with the reality of me.
I want to push into her until the only thing she can feel, the only thing she can remember, is my weight, my hands, my name.
I want to conquer her demons just as thoroughly as I want to conquer her body.
I think back to the shopping trip. The way she hesitated with every purchase.
Most women I've dealt with would have grabbed everything in sight, seeing me as nothing more than a wallet with a pulse. Jordan played coy, or so I thought at first.
But looking at her now, I realize it wasn't an act.
She treated the luxury like a trap because she knows the cost of everything in this city. She didn't refuse the clothes because she didn't want them; she refused them because she refuses to be indebted.
She fights to survive in a world that tries to crush her. It is the same fight I have always known. The same fight my family clawed our way out of back in Romania, rising from concrete blocks to mansions.
She is a survivor. A fighter.
And I respect that more than I realize.
Her body shifts against mine, one leg sliding between my thighs. The silk of her nightgown rides up, skin against skin.
The air in the room feels too thin.
I need her to submit. I need her to look me in the eye and admit she belongs to me. But it's not just about my ego anymore.
In my world, ownership is the only true form of protection. If she is mine, wholly, verbally, irrevocably mine, then I can justify burning the entire city to keep her safe. It is the only way I can wrap my violence around her like a coat.
It's a twisted code of honor, I'll admit, but it's the only one I have.
I carefully reach for my phone on the nightstand, not wanting to wake her, but I need to get out of this bed.
The peace I feel lying here with her is a vulnerability. It softens the edges I need to keep sharp.
I slide out of bed, untangling myself from her warmth. It feels like a retreat, but I need to step back into the cold, into the violence and the control, before this woman starts to completely undo me.
I unlock my phone and the screen lights up.
Two texts.
The first is from my accountant:
Deal is done. Just need to sign these docs.
A link follows.
The second is from Lucian:
Nu uita. 20 de minute.
I glance at the time. Four forty-three. The meeting with my brother in Romania starts at five. The time zone makes early morning meetings necessary, but I've never missed one.
I click the link from my accountant and scroll through page after page of legal jargon and property transfer forms.
I glance at Jordan and tap the box on my screen to electronically sign the paperwork.
"Pentru tine, fluture," I say in Romanian in a low tone.
I just bought my first property here in Los Angeles. Not the mansion we're in; this belongs to the family, to the business. This one is mine.
I quietly leave Jordan's room and make my way down the hall back to my bedroom.
I pull on black slacks and a crisp white shirt. I strap on my platinum black-face Patek Philippe and slide my phone into my pocket.
I finish getting ready and head downstairs. The house is still and dark, everyone else asleep except for the rotating guards outside. Within the hour, it'll liven up when the maids arrive to start their morning routines.
One of my men stands in the hallway near the study. He straightens when he sees me.
"E Adrian aici?"
"Nu."
I shake my head.
"Adu-l," I tell him in Romanian. "Spune-i c? are cincisprezece minute."
The man nods and disappears toward the guest wing.
Giving Adrian fifteen minutes to come was probably too lenient. I should have made it five.
I enter my office and close the door, flicking on the light. The room smells like leather and whiskey. I move to the window, looking out at the city sprawled below. Los Angeles is beautiful in the early morning, before the traffic and chaos take over.
It will be mine soon. All of it.
My phone buzzes. Lucian.
I set it on the desk, turning on the speaker, and settle into my chair.
"Bun? diminea?a," Lucian's voice fills the room. "Or since you're in America, 'Good morning.'"
"Good morning, or evening for you actually," I reply, leaning back.
"Adrian there with you?" he asks.
"He's on his way."
Lucian makes a sound that's between disapproval and frustration. "Still drinking?"
"How's the weather in Bucharest?"
A pause. Then, "That's not an answer, Matei."
Before I can respond, the door opens and Adrian stumbles in, looking like shit. His hair sticks up at odd angles and his eyes are bloodshot. He's wearing the same clothes from yesterday, wrinkled and stained.
"Fuck," Adrian mutters, collapsing into the chair across from me. He rubs his face with both hands.
I shake my head but say nothing.
"Adrian," Lucian says from the speaker. "You're late."
"Time change. It's early here," Adrian shoots back. "What do you need from us?"
"An update would be nice. Since you're there to help Matei and our family and not just drink yourself to death."
Adrian flips off the phone, even though Lucian can't see it. I almost smile.
"Let's get started," I say, cutting through the bullshit. "Where would you like to start?"
Lucian clears his throat. "The port situation first. You said you found product?"
"We did," I say. "Adrian led the team to the pier the other night. They found approximately seventy million dollars' worth of Siberian Ice in a shipping container registered to a Bulgarian shell company."
"Seventy million?" Lucian sounds impressed despite himself. "That's more than we expected."
"It's more than the Bulgarians should have," Adrian adds, his voice rough.
"What did you do with it?" Lucian asks.
"Moved it to one of our warehouses," I say. "We're keeping it secured until we decide how to use it."
"Use it?" Lucian's tone sharpens. "We're not turning into drug dealers out there, Matei."
"No, but we're businessmen," I counter. "And right now, that product is worth seventy million dollars to the right buyer," I say and lean back. "Or we burn it and send a message to the Bulgarians that we own this city now."
There's silence on the other end as Lucian weighs the options.
"Keep it secured for now," he says finally. "We'll decide later."
I nod, even though he can't see me. "There's something else. I heard from Callum Killaney."
Adrian's head snaps up, suddenly alert despite the hangover.
"And?" Lucian asks.
"Our first shipment arrived in Boston. I'll have it moved to Chicago so Enzo Bonventi's men can secure it and transport it out here. It should arrive within a week, maybe less."
"Good." Lucian sounds pleased. "The alliance is starting to come together, then."
"It is," I agree. "And once we have the shipment, we'll have more leverage. We can sell our goods, buy our way onto the streets, start growing our territory. But we need more men. The Bulgarians are going to get aggressive when they realize we're really moving in."
"How many do you need?"
"Another dozen. At least."
Lucian makes an approving sound. "I'll send them. Anything else?"
Adrian leans forward, elbows on his knees. "We secured three nightclubs in key locations. One on Sunset, one in Santa Monica, and another in Pasadena. I'll have more locked down over the next few weeks."
"Good work," Lucian says, and Adrian's expression shifts slightly. Pride, maybe. Or relief. Hard to tell with my brother these days.
"How's Father taking all this?" I ask.
Lucian sighs. "He's coming around. He's starting to see that this could actually work. But he's still in the dark about working with Killaney, given all that happened."
We all know what he means.
"We'll tell him when the time is right," I say.
"Agreed." Lucian pauses. "I'm planning to come out in a few weeks. See the operation for myself."
"You're leaving Victor to handle things alone?" I ask, amused.
"If I can't make it, I'll send him instead. He's always complaining about needing a vacation anyway."
I laugh. "Life of a politician too hard for him?"
"Don't get me started on that," Lucian says, laughing.
We talk logistics for another ten minutes: shipment routes, distribution points, and contacts we can trust. Adrian contributes where he can, but I can see him fading, the hangover dragging him down.
Finally, Lucian ends it. "I'll let you go. Send me updates every few days. I trust you two will do what's necessary for success."
"Absolutely."
The call ends, and Adrian stands immediately, swaying slightly. "I'm going back to bed."
"Adrian." My voice stops him at the door. "I told you, you need to tighten up with the drinking."
He turns, eyes blazing. "You have no idea what I've been through. You think grief is a mood you can turn off, Matei? It's a cancer. It eats you until there's nothing left. You know nothing."
I stand slowly, rounding the desk. "That's fucking bullshit."
"Excuse me?" he says, turning around.
"I said it's bullshit." I step closer, anger flaring hot in my chest. "I was right next to you, tearing up half of Romania looking for her. I was there when we learned she was dead. Don't tell me I don't know what you've been through."
Adrian's face twists. "Don't you fucking talk about her. Don't you dare." His voice cracks, raw and broken.
He storms out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
I stand there, fury and frustration raging inside me.
Adrian's right, in a way. I don't know what it's like to lose the woman I love. I've never let myself possess anyone that completely.
I glance up, thinking of Jordan asleep upstairs.
That is the difference between me and Adrian. He mourns the dead. I protect the living.
I look back at the door where Adrian just walked through.
Still, being forced to bury the one woman you've spent your life with, loved, wanted to marry, it's one of the hardest things a man can endure. I hope I never have to experience it.
But I wish it didn't destroy my brother the way it did.
I wish he could move forward instead of drowning in liquor and rage. I wish a lot of things, but none of them matter right now.
I return to my desk. There's work to do, territory to claim, enemies to eliminate.
I'll squeeze in what work I can because Jordan will wake soon, and I want to be there when she does.