Chapter 10
Matteo
Sunday arrives with fog curling over the Hollow, the sun prying through the clouds.
We returned from Blackstone late. The manor is quiet, only Father’s office glows like a pulse. Grandfather and Father had returned from Chicago to another business meeting with an Italian family. I don’t ask. They only tell us what we need to know.
We gather in Father’s office, sunlight slicing through the stained glass. Marco and Milo slump in leather chairs. I lean against the wall, nursing a mug I’m not drinking. Sleep won’t come, blue eyes keep crowding my lids.
They’re beautiful eyes, ones I could stare into for hours. But they must stay away. They’ll burn us both.
Father steeples his fingers. “First week at school. Speak.”
“Classes suck,” Marco says, stretching.
“Training’s good,” Milo adds. “Real good, already learning how to use the knife in better ways.”
I nod, silent but agreeing.
Father smiles. “I thought you’d say that, you learn a lot there.”
Grandfather chuckles from the corner, where he’s swirling whiskey before noon like he’s earned it.
I mean the man has been out of bed since six this morning, so I’m going to say the work he's done in that time, he does deserve it. “They don’t go to Blackstone to learn algebra,” he mutters.
Making the three of us laugh, because we don’t.
Father turns his eyes to me. Serious now. “Leo spoke to us,” Father says. “There’s a lot of rage in you, Matteo. You’re barely holding it in.”
I clench my jaw. “You're not wrong,” I admit.
Grandfather smiles. “You’ve always needed a fight. You like blood on your hands.”
A smile creeps across my face. I’ve been fighting so long my hands hardly feel it anymore.
Father nods, agreeing with Grandfather, then turns to me. “That’s why we spoke to the Antonovs,” he says. “They have someone like you, older, fights dirty. We arranged a match.”
My brows lift. “A fight?”
“Of course.” Grandfather smirks. “Break his nose if you want. Do damage. Show them what you can do.”
I smile for real now. My fingers twitch just thinking about it.
“Your father and I will watch. We want to see what you’re made of.”
“I already know what I’m made of,” I say, and Father just smiles wider.
“We want to see it in blood,” he says.
Marco groans. “Can I fight someone too?”
Milo grins. “Yeah, what the hell? Let us have some fun!”
Grandfather laughs, loud and warm. “Your time will come. Don’t worry, boys.”
“Besides,” Father adds, “we have a long year ahead. Plenty of blood to spill.”
There’s a knock at the door, soft but deliberate, our mother.
“Boys,” Father says, rising to his feet. “Let’s get to church before your mother kicks it down and accuses me of corrupting you all.”
“Too late for that.” Marco smirks.
“How much more corrupt can we get?” Milo laughs.
Even Grandfather chuckles. “Now that’s the right kind of question.”
I follow them out, the weight of Monday already coiled in my fists. Finally, a fight.
I’ll think about it all day and then sit in church while planning how to ruin someone’s face.
As we walk out to the car, Marco and Milo join me, each taking his place at my side. “You have a lot of rage to get out, Monday night is going to be so good to watch.” Milo is the first to speak.
“Russians are big. He might land a good one, knock some sense into you.” Marco claps my back and climbs in.
I know Marco will stand next to me, but he also doesn’t agree with my fascination with Aoife, and is worried what it will bring out the family if word ever got out. I don’t blame him, you never want to be the reason for a war to start.
My parents started that war. I’ve heard the stories; Mother carried the guilt for years.
A fight might be what I need to feel, for the pull toward her to stop eating me up.
I sit in the pew, fingers curled on rosary beads. The cold spheres remind me: prayers won’t wash the blood from my hands.
Granddad stands at the altar, speaking, his voice echoing through the old cathedral. Every Sunday we’re here, for Mother, for him. A man of God, with a niece who is married to a mafia family, everything he’s against.
Milo leans close. “Pray all you want. No priest in the world is wiping away the enemy.”
My grip on the beads tightens, pressing my lips together to stop myself from telling him to fuck off.
Marco snickers, chiming in. “Was it worth it? She moan your name like a prayer, Matteo?”
I don’t respond, because yes she did, and I can’t stop hearing it.
The way it left her lips, desperate and breathless. The way her pulse beat beneath my hand as I held her neck. The way her body clenched around me like she was built just for me.
The way my name sounded when she said it in the dark. Seductive. Sinful.
I look at the crucifix as stained glass fractures the light. Will God forgive me? Should He? I already know. I’m not sorry.
I look over at the confession box, and wonder if saying it out loud would make the heaviness in my chest soften just a little.
As mass finishes, everyone starts getting up but I stay where I am. I know where they’re all going. To granddad’s house around back, for Sunday lunch.
I look down at my hands, as I move the beads between my fingers, and feel a movement next to me. Grandad. Leaning back, I turn to him, and smile.
“Matteo, something on your mind?” he asks. I laugh and stare at the cross.
“No, granddad. Just wanted a moment of peace from Marco and Milo.” I half lie, because I can’t tell him the truth, and Marco and Milo are starting to piss me off.
I glance over at the confession box again, and Granddad sees it.
“You know Matteo, the three of you look the same, but very different. Marco laughs, jokes around, has fun and doesn’t care.
Milo is his mother, smiles when he needs to, and will help when he needs to.
And I’m sure there are other things, which you know better than me. ”
I smile, because Granddad has said nice things about them, it’s a shame there are a lot more devilish things to say about them.
“But you Matteo, you hold everything in, you build up the rage and use your fists to let it out. You’ve always been like that.” Granddad smiles to himself. “You started punching the tree in the back when Marco cracked a code before you, it only has to be small for you to punch something.”
“He cheated, and you know he did.” I fight my case, which only makes him laugh.
“You keep telling yourself, but he won. Matteo, are you okay my son?” He asks again, and I turn to face him.
“I’m good, first week of school, I’m tired.” I smile.
“Just so you know,” he says, pointing to the box, “what you say in there stays in there.”
I stand up as he does, and put the beads into my pocket, and give him a nod. Because right now, there isn’t anything I can say without burning in flames.
Leaving the church through the back door, we headed to Granddad’s house. The table stretches long in the dining room, covered with enough food to feed a small army. My mother kisses my cheek. My father pours wine. Grandfather raises a glass in a toast none of us need to hear again.
Everyone eats, and laughs around the room, Milo starts arguing with Marco about how his piece of lasagna is smaller than his, and Rosa throws a piece of bread at Milo telling him to shut up.
It feels normal, for a minute, what every American family does on a Sunday. But under the laughter, the warmth, the wine, she’s there. In my mind.
Her voice as he moaned my name, like a sin she’s not meant to commit.
The sun sets blood-red behind us as we pull into the Blackstone courtyard. It’s Sunday evening, and students are returning like soldiers called back to the battlefield. Cars roll in, sleek, expensive, tinted. You can tell which family each belongs to without even seeing the crests.
I sit in the backseat, a cigarette between my lips, smoke coiling as the gates close. We get out, Rosa taps on her phone. Then I see it, the Irish car.
Conor steps out first. Straight-backed, arrogant. Like he runs this place, he fucking wishes. He puts out his hand, and she steps out. Aoife.
I see the swell on her cheek, the split lip, the dark bruise. She raises her head. Our eyes meet.
She looks away fast. Like I’m fire and I’ll burn her just by staring.
My cigarette snaps between my fingers.
“Matteo,” Marco says sharply.
Milo moves in front of me, blocking my path before I can take a single step. They know me well enough, and they know my next move. “Not here,” Milo hisses. “Not now.”
“Get it together,” Marco adds, gripping my arm. “You wanna lose it in front of every family on the damn campus?”
They shepherd me toward the garden edge, where statues hide our silhouettes from the crowd.
I’m seething. My blood is boiling in my veins.
“Someone hit her,” I growl, jaw clenched so tight it aches. “You don’t put your hands on a woman. That’s not power, that’s fucking weakness.”
Marco lights a cigarette and hands it over. “You already fucked her. She should be out of your system.”
Milo sits on the stone edge. “Matteo, be real with us. We knew the second you saw her on that cliff, something changed. You were hooked from that moment. But this?” He gestures toward me. “This is something else.”
I lean back against the wall, staring at the stone sky above us, jaw ticking. I shake my head once, hard. Because I don’t know what to say to them, I don’t know what to tell myself.
“You want to throw hands, wait for tomorrow night,” Marco says. “Take it out in the ring.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Milo smirks. “Or better idea, fuck someone else.”
Marco nods. “Seriously. There are dozens of girls here. Pick one. Forget the one that’ll start a war.”
I don’t answer. None of the others have eyes like hers, silence like hers.
I close my eyes, exhaling smoke.
The woman I want is forbidden, and I need to fucking remember that.