Chapter 16 #2
“Right, but shouldn’t you still be growing your empire?”
“What is the point of being richer?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
He smiled. “What is life without freedom?”
We were halfway through our pasta – mine a delicate cacio e pepe, his a spicy arrabbiata that smelled like home and heat – when I found myself watching him instead of eating.
The way he leaned back, relaxed, one arm resting casually along the booth behind me.
The way the jazz reflected in his eyes, warm and alive.
“Can I ask you something?” I said softly, swirling my fork absentmindedly through the pasta.
He turned his head slightly, those golden-brown eyes locking onto mine. “You can ask me anything, princesa.”
I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Live the way you do.” I gestured vaguely with my fork, then set it down and leaned my elbow on the table, turning toward him more fully. “You do whatever you want. You make your own choices. You don’t care what anyone thinks or expects. You live.”
A small, knowing smile curved Matteo’s lips, but he didn’t interrupt.
“I used to think I was like that,” I continued, almost surprised by my own honesty. “That I’d built this life for myself where no one could control me. Where I had power. Freedom. But somewhere along the way, I became exactly what I swore I’d never be.”
His gaze softened.
“I realized it in Hawaii with you,” I admitted, fingers brushing the rim of my wine glass.
“My life isn’t mine. The Cosa Nostra says jump, and I jump.
They say fly to Vegas, I fly. I’ve spent so long trying to prove I’m more than a soldier…
But that’s exactly what I’ve become. A soldier who listens. ”
The jazz music swelled for a moment, filling the silence between us like a sigh.
I looked at him then, really looked. Matteo Di’Ablo. The man who should’ve been the least free of all of us – a Boss in a blood-soaked empire – but somehow, he was the one who walked through life on his own terms. He didn’t bow, didn’t break. He bent the world instead.
“You’re free,” I said quietly. “Really free.”
His smile faded into something more thoughtful. He tilted his head slightly, as if studying me from a new angle. “Freedom comes at a price, Francesca.”
I met his eyes, my heart thudding.
The band shifted into a slower tune, the saxophone melting into a smoky melody. Around us, couples leaned closer, laughter lowering, conversations softening.
Matteo reached for his wine, his fingers brushing mine briefly as he did. It wasn’t accidental. And sitting there, surrounded by music and roses and the heavy velvet night, I felt something shift inside me – like the quiet click of a lock turning, the start of something I couldn’t quite name.
The chocolate torte between us looked sinful under the low restaurant lights – dark, glossy, draped in a drizzle of espresso syrup and scattered with gold leaf like tiny constellations.
I was still tracing the edges of my thoughts from earlier, but Matteo, of course, had found a way to coax me out of them without even trying.
He’d leaned into storytelling like it was a game – half business anecdotes, half ridiculous adventures from his younger years as Capo that had me tearing up from laughter.
Before I knew it, the heaviness in my chest had lifted, replaced by that warm, reckless energy that always seemed to orbit around him.
“You didn’t,” I said between laughs, clutching my chest.
He smirked, swirling the last of his Barolo. “I did. I cut his head off.”
“After you made him trust you!” I shook my head, still laughing as I cut into the torte, letting the fork sink into the thick layer of chocolate. The jazz band had shifted into a livelier rhythm, something with a cheeky bounce to it, matching the sudden ease between us.
“A rat is a rat.”
“True.”
“And sometimes,” Matteo said casually, licking a bit of chocolate off his thumb like he had no idea what it was doing to my heart rate, “Lying is worth it to get what you want.”
I raised a brow. “Not if you end up losing it in the end.”
“If.”
“When.”
He smirked. “We’ll have to agree to disagree, princesa.”
I couldn’t help it; I smiled, shaking my head at him, the candlelight flickering between us. “You’re crazy.”
“You love it,” He murmured, leaning back against the booth with that infuriatingly relaxed confidence.
My smile lingered. God help me, I liked this – him – more than I should.
The jazz swelled softly around us. The world outside the restaurant could have fallen away, and I wouldn’t have noticed. It was just Matteo and me, dessert plates between us, and that familiar, dangerous spark humming in the air.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing Matteo’s penthouse suite on the top floor of one of the glitziest casino hotels in Vegas.
The moment we stepped inside, the city’s skyline spilled in through the floor-to-ceiling windows – gold and neon lights shimmering like liquid stars against the desert night.
I’d expected opulence, but this was something else. Black marble floors gleamed under dim golden lighting. A grand piano sat in the corner like it belonged in a fifties’ jazz club, and a sleek bar ran the length of the living area, bottles glittering like stained glass.
The air between us was electric, stretched thin and sparking. All through dinner, through the car ride back, it had been growing beneath every shared glance and every touch. Now, alone in his penthouse, it wrapped around us like silk.
“Make yourself at home, Donna,” Matteo said, his voice low, smooth, the trace of his accent making the word sound like a secret as he addressed me with the Italian term of respect.
The female version of a Boss – a Don – something I wasn’t, but considering I was to be only second in command soon, close enough.
He shrugged off his jacket, tossed it carelessly over the back of an armchair, and rolled up his sleeves. I wandered toward the bar, the click of my heels soft against the marble. “I think you already know I’m not good at being a guest anywhere.”
“That’s what I’m counting on.”
He reached for two crystal tumblers, moving behind the bar with practiced ease. I perched on one of the tall stools, resting my elbows on the counter as I watched him. He moved like he owned the space – confident, unhurried, and devastatingly attractive.
“What will it be?” he asked without looking up, already pulling out a bottle of whiskey and something citrusy.
“Surprise me,” I purred, crossing my legs.
“Dangerous words.”
The flirting came easy, almost instinctual now. A shared glance here. A light brush of his hand when he slid the drink toward me. My pulse picked up every time his gaze lingered a little too long, every time his voice dipped into that teasing register that made my stomach flutter.
And then – just as the tension sharpened into something undeniable, and I blinking up at him through my dark eyelashes – he said it.
“I’m relocating to Miami.”
“What?”
“Zach doesn’t need me in New York anymore.
He and Maria are settled now, and the business there is stable.
I’ve wanted to move south for a while – sun, ocean,” he added lightly.
“Maria already convinced Zach to fly down every two or so weeks together. My people have already gotten me settled there.”
Something shifted in my chest. I didn’t know what I’d expected to hear tonight, but it wasn’t that. The wheels in my head began turning.
“Wow… Miami.” I rounded the bar to get to him.
“I should’ve told you sooner. But we were just starting to…”
“Get along?”
“I guess you could say that.”
Before I could second-guess it, I reached up, grabbed Matteo by the jaw with both hands, and pulled him down to me.
The kiss landed hard, hungry, like the spark between us had finally ignited into flame. He made a low sound in his throat, hands immediately finding my waist and pulling me into him. His mouth tasted like whiskey and heat, his light stubble rough against my palms.
I moaned and pushed my long, sharp nails through his hair.
Every thought scattered like smoke. There was only us and the undeniable truth that we’d been circling this moment for far too long.
His mouth dominated mine, and my world narrowed to the feel of him – his hand tangling roughly in my hair and tugging, the other digging into my waist with the kind of possessive, masculine certainty that made my breath hitch.
Matteo kissed like he was claiming territory he’d been circling for far too long – deep, relentless, starving.
I gasped against his lips, and he took the opening, pushing his tongue through my parted lips and deepening the kiss until I was pressing my thighs together. His fingers tightened in my hair, tilting my head back as if he needed more of me, always more.
Liquid fire took flame through my veins, erupting in my chest and spreading all throughout. I could feel every nerve ending; every brush of his hands over my skin leaving goosebumps.
Without breaking the kiss, Matteo lifted me like I weighed nothing and set me on the polished bar.
The cool surface pressed against the backs of my thighs as our bodies collided.
I gasped, feeling his hard length press against my center through his suit pants, followed by a moan when I rolled my hips into him.
My legs wrapped around his hips instinctively, pulling him closer, erasing the last sliver of distance between us.
Somewhere to the side, something ceramic toppled and shattered against the floor. A vase. Then a lamp followed. Neither of us looked. Neither cared. It was like it didn’t exist.
All I could focus on was him. The taste of whiskey on his tongue. The scrape of his light stubble against my skin. The heat of his body pressed against mine like a living flame.