Chapter 7 Matteo
Matteo
I've been walking the halls since two in the morning, bare feet silent on hardwood floors. Three hours of pacing like a caged animal, replaying the sound of Nico's face hitting marble. The wet crack of cartilage. The perfect spray of crimson across white linen.
The satisfaction still burns warm in my chest, but it's tangled with something else now. Something that feels too much like restlessness. Too much like wanting.
The safehouse is built for sound control as much as security. Thick walls, reinforced glass, enough space between rooms that secrets stay buried. Tonight I'm grateful for the isolation, because what I'm thinking about doing would get me killed if my family knew.
Isabella is three doors down. I know because I've been listening to her breathe through the monitors, watching the rise and fall of her chest in the dim blue light of the security feed. Her sleep has been restless since we returned from the restaurant. Broken. Haunted.
The first nightmare hit around midnight.
Soft whimpers that turned to desperate gasps, sheets tangling around her legs as she fought something I couldn't see.
I watched her thrash through the camera feed, my hands clenched into fists as every instinct I've spent years burying screamed at me to go to her.
I didn't. Smart men don't get involved in other people's dreams.
The second nightmare came an hour later.
Worse this time. Her whole body went rigid, back arching off the mattress, and she cried out a name I couldn't make out.
The sound hit me like a physical punch, made something twist in my gut that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the need to fix whatever was hurting her.
I turned off the monitor that time. Told myself I had better things to do than watch a woman sleep.
But I couldn't stop listening for her voice through the walls.
That instinct is the problem. It feels too much like caring, and caring has always been the fastest way to get yourself killed in my world.
I learned that lesson young. Eight years old, watching my father's business partner bleed out on our kitchen floor because Dad caught him skimming money.
The man begged for mercy, talked about his daughter's medical bills, his wife's cancer treatments.
All the soft, human things that made him vulnerable.
Sal put the gun to his head anyway.
"Emotion is leverage, boy," he told me while the body cooled between us. "The moment someone knows what you care about, they can destroy you."
Smart advice. The kind that's kept me alive for twenty-nine years.
So why am I standing in this hallway at three in the morning, listening for the sound of a woman's distress?
A soft cry drifts down the hallway, muffled but unmistakable. The third nightmare of the night.
This time I don't hesitate.
Isabella's door is locked, but I have the override codes for every room in this place. The lock disengages with a quiet beep, and I step inside without announcing myself. The scent hits me first: something floral and clean that makes my mouth water. Then I see her.
She's tangled in white sheets, honey-blonde hair spilled across the pillow in waves. My gray sweatpants hang loose on her frame, the matching hoodie twisted around her torso. Even in sleep, she looks elegant. Refined. Nothing like the women who usually warm my bed.
Nothing like anyone who should be here, in my world, in my head.
She whimpers again, and the sound goes straight through me. Her face is turned toward the window, moonlight catching the tear tracks on her cheeks. Her fingers clutch the sheets like she's holding on for her life. Whatever she's dreaming about has teeth.
I sit on the edge of the mattress, careful not to wake her. This close, I can see everything: the way her lashes flutter against her cheeks, the rapid pulse at her throat, the vulnerable curve of her neck. She looks younger like this. Softer. Like someone who's never seen blood spilled over dinner.
"Shhh, bella," I murmur, my voice barely a whisper. "It's just a dream."
My hand moves without permission, brushing damp hair away from her forehead. Her skin is warm, unmarked by the violence that shaped my world. She settles at the touch, her breathing slowing, and I feel something dangerous shift in my chest.
This is insane. I should leave. Should walk back to my room and pretend this never happened. Should maintain the distance that keeps us both alive.
Instead, I keep stroking her hair and talking softly in Italian. Words my mother used to whisper when I was small enough to believe in safety, before I learned that comfort was just another form of weakness.
"Sleep now," I tell her. "Nothing can hurt you here."
The lie burns on my tongue. Everything can hurt her here. I'm the biggest threat of all.
But she doesn't know that. She just sighs and melts deeper into the sheets, her face peaceful for the first time since I brought her to this place.
I watch her breathe, count the steady rise and fall of her chest, and realize I'm sitting in the dark at three in the morning comforting a woman who should mean nothing to me.
A woman who's supposed to be a tool, not a temptation.
I stay longer than I should. Long enough to memorize the sound of her breathing, the way moonlight turns her skin to pearl, the trust she's showing me without even knowing it. When I finally force myself to leave, I close the door softly behind me and lean against the hallway wall.
My hands are shaking.
Matteo Rosetti's hands don't shake. Not during negotiations, not during violence, not ever. But here I am, twenty-nine years old and trembling like a boy because I touched a sleeping woman's hair.
This is what caring does to you. This is why Dad taught me to cut it out before it spreads.
But walking back to my empty room, I can't shake the image of her face when she settled at my touch. Can't forget the way she whispered my name in her sleep, soft and trusting.
Like maybe she's not as afraid of me as she should be.
The scent of espresso pulls me from restless sleep four hours later. Not enough rest, but it'll have to be. Today Dom expects updates on the Chase situation, and I can't afford to look like a man distracted by his captive.
Even if that's exactly what I've become.
The kitchen is my domain in this place. Cast-iron pans hanging from hooks, granite counters, everything positioned for maximum efficiency. I learned to cook the same way I learned everything else: because it might save my life someday. A man who can't feed himself is a man who can be controlled.
This morning I need the distraction. Need the precise movements and familiar rituals to quiet the voice in my head that keeps replaying Isabella's soft sighs from four hours ago.
Eggs with shaved truffle because she deserves something beautiful. Fresh espresso because she needs the caffeine after the nightmare. Toast with wild cherry jam because it seems like something she'd choose. Something elegant and refined, like everything else about her.
The domestic nature of it should feel foreign. I've never cooked for a woman before, never wanted to. But this isn't about romance or feelings. This is about keeping my asset comfortable until I get what I need from her.
What I need being her complete surrender, preferably naked and begging.
At least, that's what I tell myself as I arrange everything perfectly on the tray. As I make sure the coffee is exactly the right temperature. As I catch myself humming under my breath like some domestic fool.
I'm plating the eggs when she appears in the doorway. Hair sleep-mussed, feet bare, wearing my clothes like they were made for her. She blinks at the smell of coffee, still soft from dreams, and every protective instinct I've spent years burying roars to life.
"Good morning," I say, keeping my voice level. "I made breakfast."
She approaches cautiously, those green eyes taking in every detail. The perfectly arranged plate, the coffee mug already steaming beside it, the way I've positioned myself between her and the exit. Always calculating, always alert. It's one of the things I respect about her.
"What is this?" she asks, settling into the chair across from me. "Hostage Room Service?"
Despite everything, I almost smile. "I cook better than my enemies. It's a skillset."
She takes a bite of the eggs, her eyes closing briefly in appreciation. The sight does things to my pulse that I catalog as pure physical response. Like watching her in the shower through the monitors. Like imagining what sounds she'll make when I finally get her underneath me.
"This is incredible," she admits, and there's honest surprise in her voice. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"Survival." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "In my family, depending on others gets you killed."
She studies my face, searching for something I don't want her to find. "That sounds lonely."
The observation cuts deeper than it should. Lonely isn't a word that belongs in my vocabulary. I don't get lonely. I get focused. I get results.
I don't sit in empty kitchens at dawn wishing someone would share my coffee.
But I did that this morning, didn't I? Stood at this counter imagining her walking in, sleep-soft and wearing my clothes, making everything feel less like a tomb.
"Loneliness is a luxury," I tell her, which is what my father would say. What Dom would say. What any smart Rosetti would say. "Weak men get lonely. Smart men get even."
But watching her eat food I prepared with my own hands, seeing her soften in the morning light, I can't shake the feeling that this quiet moment is more dangerous than any negotiation I've ever walked into.
Not because I'm falling for her. That would be stupid, and I'm not a stupid man.
Because she's making me want things I've never wanted before. And wanting makes you sloppy.
We eat in relative silence, the tension from last night settling between us like fine wine. She cuts her eggs with precise movements, every gesture controlled and elegant. Even eating breakfast, she looks like she belongs in a museum, not a criminal's safehouse.
"What happened last night," she says finally, not looking up from her plate, "that wasn't business."
The words hang in the air between us. She's right, of course. Business would have been a quiet conversation, maybe a subtle threat. Business wouldn't have involved Nico's blood decorating the tablecloth.
"You're mine. I made that clear."
"That's not the part that scared me."
Her honesty catches me off guard. I set down my fork, studying her face for traces of deception. Finding none. Just raw truth that makes my chest tight.
"Good," I tell her, my voice quieter than before. "Fear keeps you alive."
But even as I say it, I know it's another lie. Fear won't keep her alive when Dom decides she's too dangerous to leave breathing. Fear won't protect her when this house of cards comes tumbling down.
Fear won't keep her alive when Dom or Sal decides she's too dangerous to leave breathing. Fear won't protect her when this house of cards comes tumbling down.
The smart move would be to get what I want from her first. To break down those careful walls and have her exactly where I've been imagining since the moment I saw her photograph, pinned beneath my body and screaming my name.
Once I've satisfied this hunger, once I've had her completely, then I can think clearly about next steps.
Then I can make rational decisions instead of sitting here like some lovesick fool watching her eat breakfast.
I watch her walk out of the kitchen, my coffee growing cold in my hands, and think: Time's running out.
For Chase. For the war. For whatever game I'm playing with the beautiful woman sleeping down the hall.
It’s just physical. Just wanting to possess something perfect before it gets destroyed.
Something that could get us both killed if I'm not careful.