Chapter 23 Matteo
Matteo
The intel Isabella brought us yesterday changes everything.
She's been sleeping in her own room for three nights now, insisting she needs space to process everything about her parents.
I wake up reaching for her every morning, my body aching for the weight of her curves pressed against me.
The scent of her perfume still clings to my sheets, driving me insane with want every time I close my eyes.
I can't stop thinking about the look on her face when she told us about Chase liquidating twelve million in art. The way her voice cracked when she described Libby Donaldson's call. How she'd connected the dots herself: her uncle raising money fast, preparing for something massive.
Something that would destroy us.
My brothers are already gathered in the war room when I arrive. Maps spread across the mahogany table, laptops open, the smell of coffee and violence thick in the air. Rafe looks up from satellite photos, his expression grim.
"Isabella was right," he says without preamble. "We found the warehouse."
The photos are spread across the table like evidence at a crime scene. Industrial compound in Queens. Remote. Perfect for staging a massacre and making it look like we orchestrated it. I flip my coin between my fingers, metal warm and familiar against my palm.
"Explosives?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Rigged to blow," Rafe confirms. "Fire suppression disabled. Arms deals staged to look like our suppliers. We even found bodies in cold storage, waiting to be planted as casualties."
Leo slides a tablet across the table. "Security footage from three blocks away. Chase's men have been moving equipment for weeks."
"He's not just trying to disappear," Rafe says quietly. "He's staging a massacre and wrapping our names around it."
Leo slides a tablet across the table. Security footage shows Chase's men moving equipment, setting the scene. My jaw clenches watching them work with military precision. This isn't revenge. It's theater.
"He's not just trying to disappear," Rafe says quietly. "He's trying to make us disappear."
The coin flips faster. Chase Callahan isn't content with starting a war. He wants to destroy us completely, frame us for something so horrific that even our allies will turn. Then he walks away clean while we burn.
"We don't wait," I say, catching the coin in my palm. "We end this. Tonight."
Dom straightens. "Matteo."
"No." I lean forward, hands flat on the table. "Every hour we wait, he gets closer to pulling this off. We hit him now, before he can spring the trap."
"It's suicide," Leo says. "He'll be expecting us."
"Maybe. But he won't be expecting all of us." I look around the table, meeting each of their eyes. "This stops tonight."
The door opens, and Isabella steps inside.
She's wearing the cream cashmere sweater Besiana lent her, dark jeans that hug her curves.
Her hair is pulled back, revealing the elegant line of her neck.
But it's her eyes that stop me cold. There's something hollow there, something distant that makes my chest tight.
"Sorry," she says quietly. "I didn't know you were meeting."
Dom starts to stand, probably to escort her out, but I catch his eye and shake my head. She's part of this now, whether we like it or not. Whether she knows it or not.
"It's fine," I say. "Come in."
She moves to the window, wrapping her arms around herself. Even across the room, I can feel her pulling away. Retreating behind those perfect walls she's spent years building. I want to go to her, pull her against me, make her look at me instead of through me.
"What's the plan?" she asks, not turning around.
"We're going after Chase," Dom says carefully. "Tonight."
She nods once, like she expected this. Like she's already accepted whatever comes next. The casual resignation in her posture makes something violent unfurl in my chest.
"I'm coming with you."
The room goes silent. Even the air seems to stop moving.
"Absolutely not," Dom says.
"It's not a request." She turns to face us, and there's steel in her voice that reminds me why I fell for her in the first place. "He won't expect me. That gives you an advantage."
"You're not bait," I say quietly. The words come out rougher than I intended.
"No." She meets my eyes, and for a moment I see through the cracks to the woman underneath. Fierce. Determined. Broken but not beaten. "I'm the blade."
The silence stretches until Rafe clears his throat. "She has a point. Chase thinks she's compromised, that we've turned her. Seeing her might throw him off balance."
Every instinct I have screams against it. The thought of Isabella anywhere near that warehouse, near Chase and his sick games, makes my hands shake with the need to lock her in a room where she'll be safe.
But I look at her face, see the way her jaw is set, the determination in her green eyes. This is her choice. Her fight. And denying her that might be the thing that finally breaks her completely.
"Fine," I say. "But you stay close to me. You don't move unless I tell you to move."
She nods, and I catch the faintest smile ghosting across her lips. It's the first real expression I've seen from her in days.
The meeting breaks up twenty minutes later. Plans made, weapons distributed, the machinery of war grinding into motion. Dom and Leo head out to prep the vehicles. Rafe disappears to coordinate with our security team.
Isabella and I are alone.
She's still standing by the window, staring out at the city lights. The cashmere sweater clings to her shoulders, and I can see the tension in the way she holds herself. Like she's afraid she might fall apart if she relaxes for even a second.
"Talk to me," I say quietly.
"About what?"
"About whatever's going on in your head that's making you look at me like I'm a stranger."
She doesn't answer immediately. Just stands there, arms wrapped around herself like she's holding the pieces together by force.
"I brought you intel that could save your family," she says finally. "And all I can think about is how I lived with my parents' killer for fourteen years. How I was grateful to him."
The raw pain in her voice makes my chest ache. "Bella."
"I need to feel something else." She turns to face me fully, and there's something wild in her green eyes. Something desperate and dangerous. "Anything else."
Before I can respond, she's crossing the room in quick, predatory strides. Her hands hit my chest, pushing me back against the wall with surprising force. The impact drives the breath from my lungs.
"Isabella, what are you—"
"Shut up." Her voice is rough, commanding in a way that makes my cock twitch despite everything. "For once in your life, just shut up and let me have this."
Her hands are already working my belt, fingers moving with single-minded determination. The leather slides free with a sharp whisper that echoes in the quiet room.
"Not like this," I say, catching her wrists. "You're hurting. I won't take advantage."
She wrenches free, fire blazing in her eyes. "Take advantage?" A bitter laugh escapes her throat. "I'm the one who brought you the intel. I'm the one choosing this. I'm taking what I want."
My zipper rasps down, and then her hand is on me through my boxers. Hot. Firm. Possessive. My head falls back against the wall as blood rushes south with devastating speed.
"Bella, don't." But even as I say it, my hips thrust forward into her touch.
"I said shut up." She drops to her knees in one fluid motion, and the sight of her there, still fully dressed, eyes blazing with fury and need, nearly stops my heart.
She yanks my boxers down and my cock springs free, already hard and aching. Her eyes lock on mine as she wraps her fingers around me, and there's something feral in her expression. Something that makes me understand this isn't about comfort or connection.
This is about control. About claiming power when everything else has been taken from her.
"Look at me," she commands, and fuck, the authority in her voice makes me throb in her grip. "I want you to watch while I do this. While I take what's mine."
Then her mouth is on me, hot and wet and absolutely devastating. No hesitation. No gentle exploration. She takes me deep in one smooth motion that tears a groan from my chest and makes my knees buckle.
"Christ." My hands fist in her hair automatically, needing something to anchor myself to. "Bella, you're going to kill me."
She pulls back just enough to speak, her lips still brushing my tip. "Good. Then we'll both be broken."
The words are raw, vicious, and they slice through me even as she takes me deep again. Her tongue works against the underside of my cock, and I can feel her anger in every movement. Every suck. Every deliberate scrape of teeth that makes me hiss and tighten my grip in her hair.
She's using me. Using this. And God help me, it's the hottest thing I've ever experienced.
"You want to watch?" she asks, pulling back to stroke me with her hand, her eyes never leaving mine. "Watch me take my power back."
Then she's working me with her mouth and hand together, setting a pace that's brutal and demanding. Her free hand grips my thigh, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks. The slight pain only makes everything more intense.
I try to gentle the rhythm, to slow her down, but she glares up at me and takes me deeper. Past her comfort zone. Past mine. Until I'm hitting the back of her throat and she's making these soft, desperate sounds that drive me insane.
"Fuck, Bella. You're perfect. So fucking perfect."
She moans around me at the praise, and the vibration makes my vision blur. Her movements become more desperate, more frantic, like she's chasing something she can't quite reach.
"Is this what you want?" she gasps, pulling back to stroke me fast and rough. "To see me on my knees? To watch me fall apart?"
"No." The word tears out of me. "I want to see you whole. I want to see you happy."
Something breaks in her expression. Tears start streaming down her cheeks, but she doesn't stop. If anything, she becomes more determined. More vicious in her need to finish this.
"Too late for that," she whispers, then takes me in her mouth again.
The combination of her tears and her mouth and the desperate way she's working me breaks something fundamental in my control.
My hips start moving on their own, fucking her mouth with careful, measured thrusts that she meets eagerly.
The sight of her lips stretched around my cock, tears streaming down her face while she takes everything I give her, is the most beautiful destruction I've ever witnessed.
"That's it, bella," I growl, my voice rough with need. "Take my cock like the perfect little queen you are. Show me how badly you need this."
She moans around me at the filthy words, and the vibration makes my vision blur.
"I'm close," I warn her, tugging at her hair. "Bella, I'm going to come."
She looks up at me, green eyes swimming with tears and defiance, and deliberately takes me deeper. Her throat works around me, and that's it. I'm done.
My orgasm rips through me with violent intensity, every muscle in my body going tight as I empty myself down her throat. She takes it all, swallows everything, her eyes never leaving mine even as tears stream down her face.
When it's over, I'm shaking. Completely destroyed. She sits back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and for a moment we just stare at each other.
"Isabella." I reach for her, but she's already standing.
"I'll be ready in an hour," she says quietly, her voice steady despite the tear tracks on her cheeks.
Then she's gone, leaving me slumped against the wall with my pants around my ankles and the terrible knowledge that I just watched the woman I love try to fuck away her pain.
And I couldn't stop her. Didn't want to stop her.
Christ, what kind of man does that make me?
An hour later, I find her by the SUVs. She's wearing all black: jeans, fitted jacket, boots that could kill a man. Her hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and there's something different about her posture. Straighter. More confident.
More dangerous.
I approach slowly, like she's a wild animal that might bolt. "You okay?"
She turns to look at me, and her eyes are clear. Focused. The woman who fell apart in my arms earlier is gone, replaced by someone harder. Someone ready for war.
"I'm perfect," she says.
The lie comes so easily, so smoothly, that for a second I almost believe it. But I've seen behind her walls now. I know what it costs her to stand this straight, to look this composed.
"Whatever happens tonight," I say, catching her hand, "I've got you. I always have."
She squeezes my fingers once, briefly. "I know."
But as we load into the SUV, heading toward what might be the last night of our lives, I can't shake the feeling that I'm losing her. That somewhere between the truth about her parents and the lies about her uncle, the woman I love is disappearing piece by piece.
And I don't know how to save her from herself.
The warehouse waits in the darkness ahead. Chase Callahan waits. And somewhere in the space between vengeance and justice, I'm about to find out what Isabella Callahan is really made of.
The war begins at midnight.