8. Matteo
8
MATTEO
R ain pounds against the study windows, matching my dark mood. The funeral replays in my mind like a film I can’t stop watching—the heavy scent of incense mixing with too many lilies, the echo of footsteps on marble, the weight of a thousand calculating eyes watching our every move.
Gio deserved better than the political theater his funeral became. Every family in New York sent representatives, each condolence offered with precise measurement of power and threat. The church had been packed with our world’s most dangerous players, all of them watching, assessing how the DeLuca-Russo alliance would reshape the landscape.
But it was Bella who commanded the space, even in her grief. She stood beside me in that elegant black Valentino, her spine straight as steel despite the dark circles under her eyes that even careful makeup couldn’t quite hide. Her hand had trembled slightly when I helped her from the car, but no one else would have noticed. By the time she reached the church steps, she was every inch a donna.
The memory of her at the pulpit haunts me. Standing there in profile like a Renaissance painting of a saint, her voice never wavering as she spoke about her father. “He taught me that true strength lies not in power over others, but in remaining true to yourself.” Her eyes had met mine then, a clear challenge in their hazel depths.
Even grieving, she fought against the cage I was building around her.
Father Romano’s sermon had dragged on, filled with carefully coded messages about family and loyalty. I barely heard it, too focused on the slight tremor in Bella’s shoulders, the way she bit her lip to keep from crying. I wanted to reach for her, to offer comfort, but comfort wasn’t what she needed from me. Not when I’m the one forcing her into this marriage, this life.
The nauseating sweetness of too many flower arrangements had filled the air, competing with Cher’s perfectly theatrical displays of grief. Gio’s wife had played her part well—dabbing at carefully smudged mascara, leaning on her brother-in-law Carmine’s arm at just the right moments.
But I saw how her eyes kept darting to the other families’ representatives, measuring their reactions, calculating her next move.
Now, hours later, the rain matches the heaviness in my chest. Bella hasn’t spoken since we returned to the compound, disappearing to our room immediately. I should be with her, but there were too many fires to put out—the thinly veiled threats from the Calabrese family, Carmine’s endless machinations, the other families’ probing questions about tomorrow’s wedding.
I miss Giovanni with an ache that surprises me. He should have been here today, sharing cigars and memories, teasing me about becoming his son-in-law. Instead, I had to watch his daughter stand alone, had to field questions about how quickly I’m claiming her. The politics of it all leave a bitter taste in my mouth.
My phone buzzes. Another message from Johnny Calabrese. I delete it without reading it. Whatever new threat it contains can wait. Right now, I need a drink and silence. The scotch burns going down, but it does nothing to ease the weight of memory, of duty, of the growing need to check on Bella.
The study door opens softly, and my heart stops. Bella slips in like a ghost in black silk, her hair falling loose around her shoulders in dark waves. Tears shine on her cheeks, but there’s something else in her eyes—something that makes my blood heat despite the solemnity of the day.
The robe she’s wearing clings to curves I shouldn’t notice, especially not today. But I’m only human, and she’s devastating in her unconscious grace. Her feet are bare beneath the hem, making her look somehow more vulnerable and more dangerous at once.
“I thought you’d be here,” she says softly, closing the door behind her. The click of the latch sounds final, intimate.
I set down my scotch, needing my hands empty before I do something unforgivable. “You should be resting. Tomorrow?—”
“I don’t want to think about tomorrow.” She moves to the bar cart with fluid grace, pouring herself a generous measure of scotch. The robe shifts as she moves, revealing glimpses of black lace underneath that make my mouth go dry. “Tell me about the threats. The ones you’ve been hiding from me.”
“Bella—”
“Don’t.” She turns to face me, and Christ, she’s beautiful in her fury. Fire burns in her eyes despite her tears, and her chest rises and falls rapidly with emotion. “Don’t treat me like something fragile. My father’s dead, I’m marrying you tomorrow, and Johnny Calabrese wants to destroy us both. I deserve to know everything .”
I study her for a long moment, struggling to maintain control. The silk robe clings to every curve, and a drop of water from her damp hair trails down her neck, disappearing beneath black lace. She looks like every fantasy I’ve denied having—vulnerable yet fierce, innocent yet knowing. The urge to taste that drop of water, to follow its path with my tongue, is almost overwhelming.
“They’ve been watching you,” I admit finally, forcing myself to focus on the threat rather than how her lips part at my words. “For months. They knew about your art shows, your favorite coffee shop, your morning routine at the gym.”
She takes a long swallow of scotch, and I watch her throat work, entranced. Her hand shakes slightly as she lowers the glass. “Before or after they killed my father?”
“Before. They were always going to come for you.” I stand, drawn to her like a moth to flame. When I move closer, I can smell her signature jasmine perfume mixed with something uniquely her. It makes my head spin more than the scotch. “Your father knew. That’s why he asked me to protect you.”
“By marrying me?” Bitterness edges her voice, but I see how her breath quickens as I approach. Her pupils dilate, a flush creeping up her neck.
“By any means necessary.”
She sets down her glass with a sharp click. “And what about Sophia? Did you protect her by any means necessary too?”
The question hits like a physical blow, but I barely register the pain. Not when she’s looking up at me like that, defiance warring with something darker, hungrier.
“Don’t,” I warn her, feeling like I’m standing at the precipice.
“Why not?” She steps closer, tilting her head back to meet my eyes. This close, I can see the gold flecks in her hazel irises, count each dark eyelash still damp with tears. “I’m wearing her ring tomorrow, sleeping in her bed. Don’t I deserve to know how she died?”
“You know how she died.” The words come out sharper than intended, but Bella doesn’t flinch. Instead, she steps closer, and the heat of her body tests every ounce of my control.
“I know what you told me. That the Calabrese family killed her. But why? What really happened?”
“Isabella.” Her full name comes out as a warning, but even I’m not sure what I’m warning her against—pushing me about Sophia or standing so close I can feel her breath on my skin.
“No more secrets, Matteo.” She presses her hand to my chest, directly over my thundering heart, and I can feel her trembling. The touch sears through my shirt like a brand. “If I’m going to be your wife, even in name only?—”
My control snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight. I catch her wrist, pulling her against me. Her soft gasp as our bodies collide nearly undoes me. “When are you going to understand?” I growl, my lips inches from hers. “This isn’t just about protection or politics. This isn’t in name only.”
“Then what is it about?” she challenges, not backing down despite our closeness. Her free hand fists in my shirt, and I can’t tell if she’s trying to push me away or pull me closer.
Instead of answering, I do what I’ve been dying to do since she walked into my office that first day. I kiss her.
There’s nothing gentle about it. All the frustration, the desire, the need I’ve been holding back pours into this kiss. My hand slides into her hair, silky strands wrapping around my fingers as I angle her head to deepen the contact. She tastes like scotch and tears and defiance, and Christ, she’s responding. Her mouth opens under mine with a small sound that shoots straight to my groin.
When my tongue sweeps into her mouth, she moans, the vibration traveling through both our bodies. Her hands move restlessly over my chest, seeking skin, and the feeling of her touching me, wanting me, nearly brings me to my knees.
“Matteo,” she gasps when I finally break the kiss to trail my lips down her neck. Her pulse races under my tongue, and the taste of her skin is better than I imagined.
“Tell me to stop,” I growl against her throat, even as my hands slide down her sides, memorizing every curve. “Tell me you don’t want this.”
Instead of stopping me, she pulls my mouth back to hers, this kiss even more desperate than the first. Her tongue meets mine, and the taste of her—scotch and sweetness and sin—makes me groan. Her fingers work at my tie, my shirt buttons, seeking bare skin with an urgency that matches my own. Every brush of her hands feels like fire.
I back her up against my desk, lifting her onto it. Papers scatter to the floor, but I couldn’t care less. Not when she’s wrapping her legs around my waist, pulling me closer. The silk of her robe is nothing compared to the silk of her skin as I slide my hands up her thighs.
Her head falls back on a gasp when I find the lace edge of whatever she’s wearing underneath. Black lace, not the emerald nightgown I’d suggested. My defiant little artist, always challenging me. The thought makes me smile against her throat as I taste the racing pulse there.
“What?” she asks breathlessly, her nails scraping lightly down my now-bare chest.
“Black suits you better anyway,” I murmur, sliding the robe off her shoulders. The sight of her in black lace nearly stops my heart. She’s a fantasy made real—all creamy skin and dangerous curves, innocence and sensuality combined in a way that makes me want to devour her whole.
She shivers under my gaze, but not from cold. Her nipples peak through the delicate lace, begging for my touch, my mouth. “I won’t be her replacement.”
“No,” I agree, running my hands up her bare thighs, loving how she trembles. “You’re nothing like her. You’re?—”
A knock at the door freezes us both. “Boss?” Antonio’s voice carries through the wood. “Johnny Calabrese is at the gates. He’s demanding to speak with you.”
Bella tenses in my arms, but I don’t release her. Can’t release her. Not when she’s finally in my arms, skin flushed and lips swollen from my kisses. “Handle it,” I call back, fighting to keep my voice steady even as my body screams for more of her.
“He says he has more photos. Of Miss Russo. Recent ones.”
A low sound escapes Bella—fear or fury, I’m not sure which. I rest my forehead against hers, breathing in the scent of her, memorizing this moment before reality crashes back.
“Go,” she whispers against my mouth, but her hands still clutch my shoulders. “Handle it.”
I step back reluctantly, physically aching at the loss of her warmth. The sight of her on my desk nearly brings me right back to her—hair mussed from my hands, lips red and swollen from my kisses, black lace askew to reveal the curves I’d barely begun to explore. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, nipples clearly visible through the delicate fabric.
She looks thoroughly kissed, completely tempting, and entirely mine.
My body still thrums with need for her. Every muscle is tensed with the effort not to go back, to finish what we started, to claim her the way I’ve been dying to since she first challenged me in this very office.
“This isn’t over,” I tell her, my voice rough with promise and barely contained desire. “What’s between us?—”
“No,” she agrees, sliding off my desk on unsteady legs. The movement makes the robe slip further, revealing more black lace and creamy skin that my hands still burn to touch. “But maybe it shouldn’t have started.”
She slips out of the study before I can respond, leaving me with the ghost of her taste on my lips, rage building in my chest, and a hard-on that begs to be dealt with. The trace of jasmine in the air mocks me, as does the scattered paperwork on the floor. Every nerve ending in my body screams for her return.
Johnny Calabrese wants to play games? Fine. But he’ll learn what happens to men who threaten what belongs to Matteo DeLuca. And Bella, whether she admits it or not, is mine. That kiss proved it. The way she responded to me, melted for me, needed me—that wasn’t political. That wasn’t about protection or duty or any of the other lies we’ve been telling ourselves.
That was pure, undeniable desire. The same desire that’s still coursing through my veins, making it hard to think about anything except following her upstairs and finishing what we started.
But first, I have a message to deliver to Johnny Calabrese about the consequences of threatening what’s mine.
I straighten my clothes and put my shirt back on, but I don’t bother trying to erase the evidence of what just happened. Let them see the marks from her nails on my chest, the bruise forming on my neck from her mouth. Let them know that the woman they’re threatening belongs to someone who will burn the world down to protect her.
Tomorrow she becomes my wife. Tonight, I’ll make sure everyone understands exactly what that means.
Starting with Johnny fucking Calabrese.