Chapter Eleven
Valentina
W hen I arrive at Firenze two days later, Guido announces that he’s revised the schedule to account for Arabella’s departure. Consequently, he tells me that I’m no longer needed tonight and can go home.
It’s when he mentions that it’ll be a slow evening because the men have been called to a meeting at the Don’s house that I decide tonight’s the night. This is my opportunity to do some digging.
Both of the Leone brothers will be away from the club, so their offices will be free. It’s certainly a risk to search them, but I don’t know if I’ll get a better chance than this one.
Based on the little I know of Rocco, I haven’t been in a rush for an introduction.
It’s not even the stories, it’s the absence of them.
When his name is brought up, the girls quiet and pale, averting their gazes. Guido usually grins evilly, puffing out his chest in pride at the mention of his cousin. In my eyes, anyone he admires is worthy of the deepest suspicion.
Weirdly enough, Guido seems to despise Matteo. Anytime he’s mentioned, Guido sneers and glares my way.
A voice in my head whispers at me to focus on Rocco and I choose to listen to it. Even though I’ve been warned to stay away from Matteo by no less than four people, it’s his brother’s office that I decide to investigate first.
I don one of my dance outfits, a black lace bodysuit with cutouts that start beneath my waist and wrap around my back, so that if I’m caught, I can just play dumb and say I got lost on my way to one of the VIP rooms.
Thanks to the couple of weeks I spent familiarizing myself with the club, I’m now proficient at moving about it without drawing suspicion to myself. Using the back hallways, I slink in the shadows and avoid the high traffic areas until I reach the door to Rocco’s office.
I grab the handle and press, but the door doesn’t budge.
Mierda .
Naively, I hadn’t accounted for it being locked. I should have known better. Throwing an anxious look over my shoulder, I kneel in front of the lock and examine it. It’s just a basic tumbler lock and not one with a complex mechanism. It would be relatively easy to open if I had tools on me.
With my heart in my throat, I reach for one of the bobby pins in my hair. Closing my lips around one end, I pull it open with my fingers and bend it into an L shape. I grab another and flatten it, then I jimmy them both into the lock and start to feel for the pins, raising them one at a time in a painstakingly slow process. My hand slips just as I go to lift the last one. Muttering a curse under my breath, I go back to work when footsteps sound down the hall, approaching quickly.
My body freezes in terror, my knees stuck in their positions like they’ve been welded to the floor. It takes near superhuman effort to force myself to move. The footsteps get closer and sweat beads at my temples.
I can’t fail before I’ve even started.
The last pin slots into place, sounding my deliverance with a soft click . My entire body sags in relief when the door opens. I crawl stealthily inside and shut the door quietly just in time to hear the footsteps pass by.
A quiet, somewhat hysterical laugh bubbles out of me.
I did it .
It’s my first win.
My heart pounds loudly in my ears, my vision blurry. I stay on the floor with my back against the wall for a few minutes, working to calm the panic inside me as I examine his office.
It’s very large and masculine in a way that screams ‘I have a small penis’. A giant painting that I assume is a self-portrait hangs on one wall. There’s an entertainment area to the right with a couch opposite two chairs separated by a coffee table.
In the middle of the room is a large metallic desk with a Rodin-like bust of the same man from the painting and a massive computer. Behind it, a cubed display of drawers.
I stand and head for the desk. There’s nothing overtly wrong with the office and yet something about it makes me shiver. There’s bad energy here.
As I start rifling through his desk drawers, I quickly realize that this is going to be incredibly hard. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Short of finding a penned letter confessing to Adriana’s murder with a map pointing exactly to where her body is buried—which seems highly unlikely—I’m looking for anything. Any evidence that points to her having been here. Photos, emails, a weapon, anything . That kind of search requires time and meticulous attention, not rummaging quickly through a stranger’s drawers and hoping I’ll be able to spot when something is incriminating.
Unfortunately, the one thing I don’t have is time. When I don’t find anything in the drawers, I move to the standing ones behind his desk.
They all open easily, except one.
Leveraging the same bobby pins I used on the office door, I unlock it and pull it open.
It’s full of… Polaroids.
Loose polaroids just haphazardly thrown in a locked drawer.
That same shiver rolls down my spine again.
I reach in and grab one, studying it. It’s a mid-size shot of a girl I don’t recognize. She’s fully clothed, has blond, curly hair and glasses, and nothing is weird or overtly wrong about the photo except that she has an openly terror-stricken look on her face. I can’t put my finger on it, but a tingle at the back of my neck tells me something is very wrong.
Or maybe that was my body’s way of trying to warn me.
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
The blood drains from my face. Ice creeps down my back and freezes every muscle in its path until I can’t move. A moment of clarity makes me tuck the photo into one of the cutouts of my bodysuit.
He’s not supposed to be here.
“Turn around, Melody.” His voice drips with unbending authority.
My ears ring as I do what he says.
Matteo stands in the open doorway, his handsome face set in an unreadable mask of granite, his entire body lined with tension. It’s the first time I’m seeing him in weeks and the twitching muscle in his jaw reveals his fury.
There’s an inexplicable split second of foolish relief that it’s him, but it’s gone just as quickly. He found me searching his brother’s office. I can’t pretend I was doing anything else, just like I can’t pretend that I’m not aware of what the punishment for this crime will be.
Especially not when Matteo steps into the office and closes the door slowly behind him. The weight of his anger presses down on me like a storm about to break. The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. It’s as if the air itself knows what’s at stake—if I don’t kill him, he’s going to kill me.
As soon as the thought materializes, an unwelcome emotion cleaves at my chest. I try not to give the doubt any attention, but it bursts into my consciousness, demanding to be heard.
I don’t want to kill this particular Leone, not without knowing for sure that he’s responsible. Because the possibility that he might be innocent, well… it might change things.
No. There’s no room for mercy.
Even less so for misguided sentimentality.
Ultimately, it’s his survival versus mine.
It’s choosing between him and Adriana, and that choice is easy.
I let my bottom lip tremble so Matteo will buy into my fear. It’s not nonexistent, so it’s easy to overexaggerate. His eyes drop to my mouth. I think I see something soft flicker through his hard gaze, but I don’t stop to identify it. My fingers close around a knife-shaped letter opener on Rocco’s desk and I hurl it at Matteo with deadly precision. It cartwheels through the air at speed, slicing lethally towards him.
He snatches the makeshift weapon deftly out of the air with an ease that reveals just how deceptively dangerous he is.
His mouth flattens into a harsh line, his eyes turn inky black, and his voice strains tightly around the edges of his temper.
“That was a mistake, pavona .”
He lets the letter opener fall. It hits the floor with a clang that explodes in the ensuing silence.
Matteo doesn’t wait another second—he lunges across the desk. Instead of retreating, I go towards him. When he clears the surface and reaches for me with both hands, I weave under his arm and punch him right in the face.
The blow catches him clean in the jaw and sends his head snapping to the side.
Pain radiates through my hand, at least one or two of my fingers likely broken by the impact. Damn him for having such a perfectly chiseled face.
He runs his fingers over his jaw and turns his head back towards me. When his mouth stretches into a slow smirk, I have the confirmation I’ve been looking for that he is, in fact, batshit crazy.
Low heat simmers to life in my belly as my brain mistakenly sends signals to my body that this is some kind of foreplay between us.
Matteo throws a punch, and I deflect it with my forearm. He immediately throws a second one without waiting to see if the first lands.
I duck, evading his fist just in time to hear it rush past my ear. His eyes flash with dark amusement.
He’s testing me.
“You know how to fight,” he comments.
He sounds pleased, not angry.
He’s enjoying this, the bastard.
And based on the look growing steadily darker on his features, he’s going to enjoy killing me.
A third punch comes and I just manage to rear back and avoid it. He’s grinning as he continues raining blow after blow down on me, forcing me to defend instead of attack. He’s incredibly fast, incredibly skilled, and incredibly strong, and even though I’m able to keep up, it’s costing me. Every deflection uses up my stores of energy until I’m nearly depleted without having been able to counter.
My teeth grit in frustration at being outmatched.
I can’t win, let alone survive a physical fight against him, that much is obvious.
“Come on, Melody. Fight back.”
The arrogance of his smile hits me right in my temper. I want to wipe it off his perfect face.
Luckily, I’m never unarmed.
After deflecting another blow, I throw a kick, aiming it at his sternum. I’m hoping to catch him off guard and buy precious seconds so I can reach for my knife, but he’s prepared. His hand closes around my ankle before it can connect with his abdomen.
It feels as if time slows as our eyes connect and he smiles smugly at me.
“Another mistake,” he crows.
Then he twists my leg viciously.
I let out a cry that’s more anger than pain as he flips me in the air, sending me careening to the floor. I land on my front and dull pain shoots straight through my ribcage.
Matteo is on me before I can crawl away. His forearm wraps around my throat and he yanks me back to my feet. I claw at his arm, attempting to dislodge it and free myself, but his hold is ironclad.
“Tell me what you were doing,” he growls against the side of my face. He’s breathing heavily, the strong planes of his chest moving against my back. I’m thrilled to find out that this isn’t as easy as it looks for him, that I’m putting up a hell of a fight. “What the fuck were you looking for in here?”
I throw my elbow backwards, connecting with his abs in a sharp blow. He groans and folds, his hold on me weakening just enough that I can shove his arm off. I don’t make it a step before his hand closes around the back of my neck and he slams me face first into the wall.
I shriek in anger and he laughs, the sound only further flaming my blood. “Let me go!”
He flips me around and pins me to the wall by my throat. Unlike Guido, he doesn’t squeeze. His large hand adds just enough pressure to send a rush of heat to my core.
“You can’t win against me.”
“ Vete a la mierda ,” I hiss at him.
He laughs in return. “Something tells me those words don’t mean “I give up”.”
Somewhere along the way, my hair broke free of its braid and now hangs loosely around my shoulders. Matteo looks equally disheveled, his previously coiffed hair mussed from our physical altercation, his dress shirt as rumpled as used bed sheets. Both of us rip in ragged breaths.
He closes the distance between us until his body is pressed against mine. There’s an immediate confusing familiarity from having him pinned against me this way, like my body recognizes him. His thumb rubs circles over my pulse point, taking clear pleasure in tracking my racing heartbeat.
His lips find my ear, his harsh breaths raising treacherous goosebumps along my heated skin.
“Say you give up,” he demands, victorious.
That same rush of pure, illogical need crashes through me, my body weak in its craving for him.
I’m out of control. If I make it out of this room alive, I’m hooking up with the first man I see.
Matteo’s nose brushes against the column of my neck and a shiver runs through him as he pulls away. My tongue swipes over my bottom lip and his pupils dilate until they’re smoldering with desire.
My answer is a rage-filled whisper. “Never.”
Taking advantage of his distracted state, I slam my forearm into the inside of his elbow. The force of my blow relaxes the fingers he has around my neck and elicits a grunt of pain from his throat.
I duck and spin on my feet until I’m behind him. Matteo attempts to turn but freezes when he feels the point of a blade pressed up against his throat. I slam my palm into his back until he’s splayed against the wall. He’s so tall that I have to stand on my toes to keep my knife against his carotid.
I expect him to be surprised or angry.
Instead, he laughs delightedly. It’s chilling, a sound so intimidating I hesitate to refer to it as laughter.
“Turn around,” I order. “And don’t try anything, or I’ll slit your throat where you stand.”
He’s still laughing when he turns, his skin digging into the blade with every deep chuckle. He doesn’t seem to care or even notice.
“Fascinating,” he grins, eyes on the knife before they rake erotically slowly down the length of my body. “You’ll have to show me where you kept that later.”
“You’ll be dead later,” I answer, digging the knife further into his throat to emphasize my point.
Matteo doesn’t fight against the knife, he doesn’t make a move to counter attack. Instead, his body relaxes. He tilts his head back against the wall.
“Will I? Pity,” he pouts. His smile fades. “Now you really can’t deny that you’re not who you say you are, Melody .” He says my fake name mockingly. “I’m at your mercy. You’ve just said that you’re going to kill me, so why don’t you tell me the truth?”
I frown at him. “You don’t seem overly concerned by your fate.”
A charming smile is back on his lips in an instant. “If your beautiful face is the last thing I see before I die, that’s a far better fate than I could have ever imagined for myself.”
My treacherous stomach flutters at his words. I steady my hand at his throat to neuter that reaction.
“Flirting won’t save your life.”
“Maybe not, but it’s certainly making my final moments a little more exciting, don’t you think?”
I should already have killed him by now and put a third notch in my belt, but it’s not jitters halting my hand, it’s something far worse. That same hesitation, that same doubt from earlier.
Come on, Leni .
All I need to do is add a little bit of pressure and I’ll slice his carotid.
Just fucking do it.
If he sees the internal battle waging inside me, he doesn’t comment on it.
“You know, I thought you were running from an abusive boyfriend.” His eyes flick down to the knife and his lips twitch. “Clearly, I was wrong.”
I press the knife closer. “If I ever have an abusive boyfriend, he’ll run from me.”
Matteo grins, that same easy, alluring smile that makes him look like a GQ model.
“I see that now, pavona .”
“Stop with the nickname,” I grit, annoyed by the clenching in my stomach every time he says it.
Matteo tilts his head to the side. “Do you even know what it means?”
“No.”
I frown.
Should I?
His face relaxes, then settles like he’s made a decision. He sighs. “Too bad.”
In the next heartbeat, he straightens with lightning speed and grabs my knife-wielding wrist, clutching it in his closed fist.
“Mat—” I’m cut off by my own pained whimper as he squeezes my wrist. “Stop!”
“No,” he replies easily. “Game’s over.”
He bends my arm back at an unnatural angle, continuing to clamp down on my wrist with force. The savagery and ease with which he crushes my limb and forces me to release the blade show that he was only employing a fraction of his strength earlier. Now at full power, he does as he wants with my body, maneuvering me like I’m a puppet with appendages to be moved however he pleases.
He snatches the knife out of the air a second time and keeps it clenched in his fist as he walks me backwards and slams me down on his brother’s desk. The air expels from my lungs when I make contact with the hard surface.
Oxygen remains conspicuously absent as Matteo kicks my ankles to open up my legs for him. His palms flatten on either side of me as his large body comes to loom menacingly over mine. Thorny pinpricks of fear scatter down my arms when I stare up into the depthless pit of his eyes.
“I win,” he declares.
My answer is hissed through clenched teeth. “I slipped.”
He smirks. “Sore loser.”
Our labored breathing brings our lips to within a hair of each other’s with every ragged inhale. Try as I might, I can’t pretend to be unmoved by the rampant sexual chemistry buzzing between us.
“That was cute,” he breathes. “Really cute even, if you were to ask my cock what he thinks. You put up a good fight.”
The desire is as potent in his eyes as the obvious mistrust. He shifts slightly, repositioning himself so his hard cock presses between my legs. His nostrils flare when he takes in the way my eyes widen. Savage lust ripples across his face, etching itself into every single one of his features.
When I unwittingly arch into him, an animalistic rumble of warning rolls up his chest.
“Careful, pavona . Provoking me into fucking you isn’t going to save you. Not unless you give me some answers. Tell me who the fuck you are,” he demands.
“Why?” I challenge. “You’re going to kill me anyway, I might as well die a mystery to you.”
He ignores me. “Let’s start easy. Was your grandmother a fighting stripper as well, or are you the only one in your family with that particular combination of skills?”
I glare at him. “My abuela once shot a man through her back door and went straight back to making arepas like nothing happened. She’d kick your ass if she saw the way you’ve been manhandling me.”
The man in question had come to try and assassinate my Papá . No one shed a tear when he left the property in a body bag.
“ I’m manhandling you? I believe you’re the one who punched me first.”
“You lunged at me!”
“You threw a knife at my face.”
I roll my eyes. “It was a letter opener, stop being so dramatic.”
He barks out a laugh. “So your abuela is who you get it from then. What about your mum?”
I like the way his mouth curls around the word, bringing an Italian flair to my language.
“Both of my parents are dead.”
I’m careful not to reveal any actual information. If he thinks I’m an orphan, then he can’t tie me back to my Papá and the cartel. I shudder to think what he’d do to me if he ever found out who I really am.
“I’m sorry.” He strokes the side of my face, his gaze becoming gentler. “What’s your real name?”
I flatten my lips and seal them. “I told you, no.”
“Make your identity worth my time and I’ll spare you,” he coaxes.
“Death, please.”
Cold, sharp metal is pressed against my neck. I suck in a shocked breath, my lungs freezing at the top of my inhale. I didn’t even see him move.
“There are two ways I can give this blade back to you, pavona ,” he purrs, changing tactics. “In your hand or buried in that pretty neck of yours. Which is it going to be?”
I arch my back and tilt my head, opening my throat up to him. “My neck.”
Matteo’s gaze trails down to my throat and I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Stubborn,” he purrs.
I wait for the killing blow, but it never comes.
My eyes fly open when Matteo makes a soft sound. He’s still looming over me, his gaze fixated on my throat. His free hand moves and he cups the underside of my jaw, shifting it back to further open up my neck to him.
“The bruising is gone,” he notes, his voice tinged with satisfaction.
I can’t see anything with the way he has my face shoved to the side. My heart ticks in increasingly frantic beats, then comes to a screeching halt when his tongue makes contact with the soft area at the base of my throat. He flattens it against my skin, the move hot and wet and hungry.
A strangled whimper rips from the depths of my throat and he groans. He trails his tongue up my neck and over my jaw to nip at my chin.
“Matteo— oh .” His teeth rake wetly down the entire column of my throat before he bites me. Hard . A loud sucking noise follows as he draws my flesh into his mouth.
I’m dazed, beyond confused and overwhelmed by how I went from the brink of death to deliciously inflamed by his obvious loss of control.
“She won’t touch you again,” he vows, lips kissing a path up the line of my throat. The tip of the knife is still there digging into the other side of my neck, and that adds another dimension to the physical sensation that’s making me near delirious. “She never should have in the first place. This skin isn’t hers to bruise, it’s mine .”
Through the haze of arousal, I realize that he thinks Arabella is the one who tried to choke me. I was convinced he was aware that it was Guido who hurt me. Does that mean he doesn’t know about the abuses the other girls are suffering?
I frown even as my hands dig through his hair. Distantly, I realize I’m drawing him closer instead of shoving him off to try and get away.
When my palms move down to his shoulders, Matteo grabs both my wrists and pins them above my head with one hand. I arch against his hold, inadvertently pushing my breasts into his face as he moves from my neck down to my chest.
“What are you doing?” I squeak, overwhelmed.
The noises falling from his lips are unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. Rough, uncontrolled sounds of delight. Primal and carnal grunts that send needy pangs straight to my pussy. All he’s doing is kissing and licking the available skin at my throat and chest, but you’d think he was fucking me seven ways to sunday with the way he’s snarling his obvious pleasure.
“Answer me. Tell me who you are, why you’re here, and why you’re digging around this office,” he demands, words whispered in frustration against my skin. “I really don’t want to have to kill you.”
My eyes squeeze shut.
He sounds almost angry to be so affected, his growls erotically aggressive.
“I can’t,” I reply desperately.
“And I can’t hurt you,” he mutters angrily.
Matteo wrenches himself off me, but only partly. His hand is still clamped on my waist, the other pinning my wrists above my head. He’s breathing heavily, his chest working as he brings his face right over mine.
“I won’t let you leave this room without answering one question, pavona .”
“What?”
His eyes drag slowly down to my plump mouth. “Who was the last man to kiss these lips?”
Whatever I thought he might ask, that wasn’t it.
A shiver runs down my spine and turns into a raw ache once it reaches my pussy. My gaze drops to his mouth. It’s one of the first things I noticed about him. No man has any business having a mouth that perfect.
His eyes darken when my lips part and then he’s lowering his head, his face getting progressively closer, his gaze pinned to my lips with the single-minded focus of an animal of prey.
Tiny, breathy pants fall from my mouth. He’s going to kiss me. He’s going to—
“What kind of kinky shit am I interrupting here, brother?” a cold voice drawls from the doorway.
Matteo’s body turns to stone. It’s such a very visible, visceral reaction that it makes my stomach bottom in response, the arousal instantly washing away. Fear closes its barbed fingers around my heart once more. The emotion is back fueled by Matteo’s obvious dislike of the intruder.
The knife at my neck disappears, smoothly tucked into the folds of his jacket like it was never there. He bends his head slightly and pretends to nuzzle me once more.
“If you want to live, you’ll follow my lead and do as I say,” he whispers urgently. “Trust me.”
I swallow thickly as he straightens. Something about the abrupt change in his demeanor tells me to play along. Matteo takes my hand and helps me sit up. Once I’m seated, his hands find my waist in a casually possessive embrace.
Whatever animosity and suspicion he held for me moments ago, both are gone.
“Rocco,” Matteo calls over my shoulder, eyes never leaving mine.
Oh, shit .
Steps sound behind me as Rocco comes closer. I jump off the desk and Matteo wraps an arm around my shoulders, tucking me into his side. I follow his gaze as it comes to rest on his approaching brother. Rocco doesn’t look anything like the massive self-portrait hanging next to us. Where he was once attractive, he’s been bloated and softened by overconsumption of either alcohol or drugs.
Maybe both.
Either way, I understand why he prefers the likeness he sees in the self-portrait.
It paints a prettier picture.
Literally.
Rocco’s interested gaze travels lewdly down my body, taking note of the incredibly revealing bodysuit I’m wearing. Matteo stiffens besides me.
“Apologies,” Matteo calls, voice bored. “Just needed a quick fuck.”
Rocco’s stare is crude and vulgar. It manages to make me feel both naked and dirty, like he can see straight through the fabric.
“How very unlike you, brother.” His face contorts into something that resembles an attempt at a smile but comes out a grimace. “And in my office?”
Matteo shrugs but his body is taut against mine, like he’s ready to snap at the first provocation.
“A good therapist would have something to say about that,” Rocco adds. His stare shifts back to me and I resist a scared shiver. “It’s rare to see you interested in a woman. I fondly remember the last time you were.” Rocco laughs sharply, an ugly sound. Tension swirls to life like a fast-forwarded, category five hurricane. Oxygen is sparse. “And now you’re fucking a stripper. How cliché. Tell me, whore, how do you feel about fucking brothers?” He extends a hand, reaching for my chin. “I’d be happy to leave my little brother the pleasure of your sweet pussy while I buried my cock in your tight ass. I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Ice forms, hardening the surfaces of Matteo’s entire body until his eyes and cheekbones look like they could slash. His fingers wrap around Rocco’s wrist before he can touch me and he pushes him away with a firm hand.
“I haven’t had a taste yet,” Matteo says, his tone disinterested and unlike anything I’ve heard his voice be thus far. “You interrupted us. I’ll let you know if she’s worth it, but I doubt it.”
Interest flares to life in his brother’s gaze, but Matteo doesn’t let the moment last. He pushes me forward and away from the both of them, then smacks my ass lightly.
“Run along,” he says, face devoid of all emotion. “I’m done with you now.”
The complete shift in his personality gives me whiplash. Gone is the arrogant, confident, teasing man who had his hands on my body and his lips on my neck. In his stead is a cold, callous, lifeless version of him. I’d find the change jarring in isolation, but when it’s added to the photos of the girls I found in his brother’s drawer, and to my own body’s reaction to Rocco’s words and presence, it starts to draw a picture of the kind of man his brother is.
I turn at the door before leaving, and look over my shoulder one last time.
Both brothers stare back at me. One does so lasciviously, his eyes screaming the violence he’s dying to subject my body to.
The other’s gaze is so intensely impassioned it leaves a searing brand on my skin. Unlike his brother, his stare is protectively possessive.
No matter his words to the contrary, I don’t think Matteo would ever hurt me. I’m just not sure why .