Chapter 11
Aoife
The halls of Blackstone feel colder than usual.
The sky outside is gray, echoing the way my lip still throbs.
I woke up before the sun and couldn’t go back to sleep.
My dreams burned with fire, his hands, his voice, then darkened with my family’s warnings.
My head is having a war of its own, lust and loyalty.
I dress slowly, hiding the worst of my face. Concealer blurs the purple along my jaw. Gloss dulls the split in my lip. My eye looks worse than yesterday, even the heavy makeup can’t hide it.
I walk into the classroom which is empty. Taking the seat I always do in the third row from the front, window side. Light streams in across the desk, and I lean into it like it might burn the pain out of me.
If only I was that lucky.
The chair next to me scraps the floor, turning, and Rosa’s there, already sitting in the chair next to mine. She’s wearing the uniform we all have to wear, her long red hair in a braid over her shoulder.
She studies me, then nods at my face. “What happened?”
I lie without thinking. “Walked into a door.”
Her eyes narrow. “How many times?” she asks, her tone dry.
I don’t answer.
She leans in, voice soft, low, dangerous. “I don’t know what voodoo shit you’ve done to Matteo, but you’re playing a dangerous game, Irish.”
I blink.
Her mouth curls into something that’s not quite a smile. “A game he’ll win, and you’ll burn.” Then she stands, just as the other students start to trickle in.
I don’t move.
I don’t need to turn around.
Because I feel his eyes on me.
Burning into the back of my skull like a cigarette pressed to skin.
I shiver, goosebumps racing up my arms. My breath hitches. My fingers twitch, and I think about Rosa’s words.
“A game.”
The seat beside me shifts. Conor. He’s tense, annoyed. Silent for a beat too long.
I glance sideways. “What?” I question because right now he looks like he wants to hit someone.
He doesn’t answer right away, takes a deep breath. “That bastard’s starting again.” I don’t have to ask who. We both know.
I watch him watching Matteo and his brothers. Conor’s jaw tightens, his hands ball into fists under the desk.
“What’s his fucking problem?” he mutters.
A soft chuckle rises behind us. Matteo.
“Fuck off,” he says lazily, voice like smoke and violence.
Conor stands, shoving his chair back. “You need to look the other way before I make you.”
That gets Marco and Milo laughing, leaning in with wicked smiles like this is their pre-breakfast entertainment.
“Or what?” Marco grins.
“You’ll hit another woman?” Matteo quickly adds.
The words hit like a slap. Silence falls fast. My heart’s in my throat.
“Conor,” I whisper. “Sit down.”
He doesn’t move for a second. Then, slowly, he does.
The moment the teacher speaks, everyone is facing the front, and not another word is said, but I still feel his eyes on me, which makes me rub the back of my neck hoping to ease the burn which is there.
The moment the bell rings, I’m up ready to leave, but the classroom empties slowly, like the air isn’t thick with unspoken violence.
The Messina family is out. I keep my head down, my steps quiet, but I can feel Conor behind me like a shadow I can’t shake.
He doesn’t speak until we’re alone in the corridor, when he grabs my elbow, not hard, but enough to stop me.
“What the hell is going on with you?” I don’t answer. I keep my eyes on the stained tiles beneath our feet. “I’m trying to protect you,” he says through gritted teeth. “You think I enjoy watching you flirt with fire?”
I blink up at him. “You’re imagining things, have you seen me talk to him, or even stand at arm’s length with him?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Aoife.” His jaw ticks. “I see the way he looks at you and I see you.”
I shake my head. “See what, Conor? Yes, he stares. I glanced once, but have you seen me lock eyes with him? No. And it’s none of your business.”
He exhales sharply, stepping back like I slapped him. “You’re family. It’s all my business.”
“No,” I say, voice low. “I’m property. A deal. That’s all I am.”
His eyes flash, hurt and rage mixing into something uglier. “You think I like this? You think I want to be part of any of this? I was just as shocked as you about the engagement.” Silence crackles between us. “I’m doing my best,” he says finally. “You don’t make it easy.”
I look away, because I don’t believe him.
“Fine. You want distance? You’ve got it.
We don’t have any more classes together today.
” He starts walking backwards down the corridor, voice echoing.
“I’ll see you after hours. For training.
” Then he’s gone around the corner, and I’m standing there feeling alone.
Taking in a deep breath, I tighten my arms around my books and walk to my next class.
Why the hell don’t I have anyone in my corner?
The training pit hums tonight. Heavy. Tense.
I’m holding the knife again. Still wrong. Still too stiff, and my instructor knows it.
“For fuck’s sake, O’Brien,” he snaps, circling me like a shark. “That grip will get you killed. Open your damn stance!”
“I’m trying—”
“Try harder. This isn’t ballet.”
I grit my teeth, adjusting my grip again, fingers aching. Sweat slicks my skin even though the stone walls are cold. I can’t find my rhythm tonight. Can’t find anything but the gnawing at the edge of my mind. The voice. His voice. Little lamb.
“You think someone’s gonna pause a fight and let you fix your grip?” he shouts. “You wanna die fast, O’Brien? ‘Cause that’s how you die fast. Drop it,” my trainer barks. “Training’s done. We’ve got a fight.” I know he hates working with me, and it’s showing more and more every day I’m down here.
My head jerks up. “What?”
He nods toward the center to the ring, and that’s when I see him.
Matteo.
“They call him The Rage down here.” I’ve heard it whispered like a legendary fear dressed in skin. My trainer steps back. “Now you’ll see why.”
Standing still. Shirtless. His brother wraps his fists in black tape like he’s strapping rage to his knuckles.
The tattoos over his body, violent, dark, inked like warnings. The cassowary wings stretch wide across his chest, feathered in war. A cloaked angel of death spans his lower abdomen. Barbed wire coils his wrist like a crown of thorns. Every inch of him is carved in sin.
He’s not alone. His father and grandfather are standing like sentinels near the edge of the circle. Watching. Waiting.
A chill creeps into my bones. Not fear. Something colder. Like I’ve seen a demon be summoned and realized too late.
The Russian is already inside the ring. He’s older. Taller. Broad shoulders and a scar slicing through his left eyebrow. He spits on the mat like he owns it.
The bell chimes, and the fight begins.
The first hit is brutal. The Russian swings wide, Matteo ducks it with ease, sending a jab into the man’s ribs that echoes off stone. A second hit. Harder. His fists are fury. Precision. Raw power in motion.
The Russian grabs him, throwing him down, but Matteo rolls with the momentum, springing back up. He smiles, dark and deadly, and lands a left hook that snaps the man’s head sideways.
Blood spills. The scent of it thickens the air. The crowd roars, but Matteo doesn’t hear it.
He’s somewhere else. His fists land again and again, rhythm like a war drum. The Russian stumbles. Matteo doesn’t stop. He slams a knee into his gut, sends an elbow crashing into his jaw.
The Russian stands tall and laughs then brings his arm back, and quickly swings, getting Matteo on the jaw, but it doesn’t even faze Matteo.
Matteo’s fists keep going. Mechanical. Relentless. Until he drives a right hook so hard it cracks across the Russian’s face. The nose snaps. The sound is sickening.
The Russian drops, but Matteo doesn’t stop. He straddles him and keeps hitting him. Knuckles coated in red. Eyes gone black.
He’s not fighting anymore. He’s releasing something.
It takes Marco and Milo both to pull him off.
Even then, he doesn’t move easily. His chest is heaving. Blood drips from his knuckles like it belongs there.
The Russian lies still, groaning, his face unrecognizable.
Matteo steps back, and in that moment, he looks at me.
Not a glance. Not a flicker. A full, brutal stare.
And I know, he didn’t fight for show, he fought because something inside him demands violence to feel calm.
And I'm the storm making him reckless.
I look around and see Conor staring at me, and before anything can happen I leave. I don’t want the argument with Conor, and I don’t want the weight of Matteo staring at me.
The rooftop air bites my skin like frost, curling around me with the hush of danger.
The moon shimmers above, casting the cliffs and the sea below into liquid silver and bruised ink.
I walk the edge again, the wind catching my hair, whispering madness against my ears.
The rocks far below don’t roar tonight, the waves barely lap. A quiet death, not a violent one.
“You want to jump, little lamb?” His voice drags like smoke across my spine. “Don’t jump tonight. The sea isn’t angry enough to swallow you. You’ll hit the rocks before the water.”
I freeze, looking around until I see him. Matteo. Sitting against the wall, arms braced over his knees, a cigarette burning between his fingers. He doesn’t look at me. Not even a glance. He just stares out at the night like it might tell him something he doesn't already know.
God, he looks dangerous.
I step toward him slowly, I see the fresh cuts on his knuckles, the blooming bruise darkening on his jaw. I sit down facing him, and still he doesn't turn.
“Your knife skills seem to be getting worse,” he mutters. “You got a death wish?”
“I’m trying,” I whisper.
“Give me your knife.” He puts his hand out for me to give it to him.
I give it to him without hesitation. His fingers wrap around it, frowning. He turns it once, inspecting it.
“This handle’s too big for your hand,” he says. “Ask for a smaller one.” He passes it back, and then reaches to his sock, pulling out a sleek black blade, balancing it effortlessly on one finger. “You need to be one with it. Doesn’t matter the size. You can kill with a pocket edge if you know how.”
I try to balance it. Fail. Again. That’s all I seem to do with this fucking knife, fail.
“You hold that knife the way you do, I can take it off you in two seconds.”
I look at him. “You wouldn’t.”
He doesn’t even glance my way. With one swift flick, he taps the handle in my grip and it slides cleanly into his hand.
“Easy.”
“You know a lot about knives?” I ask.
“Not really. That’s Milo. The shit he does with a blade would scare you.
Hell, it scares me sometimes. But I learned to use a knife before I held a pen.
That’s what my family taught me first. Protect yourself.
Fight with anything. If there’s no weapon?
Make one.” I try again, but it still doesn't balance. And Matteo still isn’t looking at me.
I shift between his legs, close enough to feel his breath. Still no glance.
I reach out, my fingers brushing over his bruised knuckles. “Are you okay?”
He doesn't flinch. “Not my first fight, little lamb. I don’t lose. It’s not in my nature.”
“Why won’t you look at me?”
“Because one of two things will happen,” he says, voice low and grit. “One, I’ll see your face and the rage will rise again, and I’ll go hunt the bastard who laid his hand on you. Or two, I’ll kiss you so hard I’ll ruin you more than I already have.”
My breath sticks. I can’t speak. The weight between us is too heavy.
He takes a slow drag of his cigarette. The tip burns red in the dark.
Then, softly, he asks, “The other night… Did I hurt you?”
My heart trips.
His voice is barely audible. “Are you in pain?”
I shake my head, even though he isn’t looking. “No. You didn’t hurt me. I’m not in pain.”
He nods. Quiet again, and then, he stands up. “Good night, little lamb.”
And with that, I’m left in the cold. Not a glance. Not even a backwards look. Just the smoke he leaves behind and the silence which wraps around me like a second skin. He walks away like I’m nothing, like what happened was nothing and that’s what cuts deepest.
The wind bites at my cheeks, tears pooling without falling. I sit there, motionless, his cigarette smoke still lingering in the air like a ghost.
He didn’t look at me. Not once.
And still, I feel like he saw everything.