Chapter 22
Aoife
The first thing I register is his arm, heavy and warm, claiming me like I belong.
The second is the quiet in my chest. No regret.
The bed’s a wreck, sheets twisted the air is thick with sex and smoke. I’m still in his T-shirt, his hand on my thigh like he forgot to stop touching me.
I don’t want him to move.
“You look better in my shirt,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, breath warm against my ear.
I grin, lazy and unashamed. “You look better on top of me.”
Danger flickers in his eyes, and for once the storm inside him feels still.
I trace the ink across his chest, wings stretched over his collarbones.
“I love this one,” I whisper, thumb brushing a feather.
His hand slides higher, and heat crawls through me. The same burn as last night when he touched me like I was worth bleeding for.
The door bursts open.
“Rise and sin, lovers!” Milo’s voice hits like a cymbal, loud, smug, too awake for this hour.
I tug the hem lower. Matteo stretches an arm behind his head, unbothered.
Marco fills the doorway behind Milo, and the air changes.
His smirk dies when he takes in the scene. My pulse spikes.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Marco’s tone cuts clean through the room.
I stop halfway off the bed. Matteo stays still, then sits up slowly, eyes locked on his brother, jaw hard enough to crack.
“You knew what this was when I called last night,” Matteo snaps.
Marco steps closer, scoffing, “Told you it’d get messy.”
Matteo doesn’t blink. My pulse hammers. I shouldn’t be here, not in their world, not like this.
Marco’s gaze hooks mine. Not anger, more assessing me.
“You know what this means,” he says to Matteo, not me. “The second she’s more than a fuck, she’s a war.”
They lock eyes, the air between them burning. My breath snags.
Milo exhales like he’s seen this a hundred times. “Easy, lovebirds. No blood before breakfast.”
Marco exhales, tension leaking out slowly. “You’re an idiot, Matteo. But you’re my brother.” He shakes his head, you can see he's pissed off about this.
He glances my way, expression unreadable, then smirks. “Hope you’re hydrating, Aoife.”
I roll my eyes, heat crawling up my neck. Matteo leans back into the pillows, unbothered, king of the wreckage.
I slide off him, pulling the blanket over me. Marco’s eyes dip lower than I like, and Matteo’s arm snakes out, pulling me right back to his side.
“You were staring,” Matteo growls.
Marco shrugs. “Want to know what the war’s over.”
Rosa walks in next, gaze locking on mine. One brow lifts. I open my mouth, but she slices through the silence before I can speak.
“Still deciding if I should shake hands with the enemy,” she says, lips curved in a smirk that doesn’t reach her eyes.
Milo snorts. “Nah, we just fuck them.”
They laugh. I catch myself smiling. I shouldn’t. If my family knew, they’d carve the date themselves. Sleeping with him only moves it closer.
Rosa’s gaze drops to the ring on my finger as a sharp smile settles across her face. “That’s an ugly ring.”
I glance down. For a second, I’d forgotten it was there. I forgot I wasn’t free.
“So fucking ugly,” Matteo says, reaching for a shirt.
I say nothing. The ring is ugly, but the fear of what they’d hear in my voice is worse.
They talk about training, the next trial, white noise under Matteo’s fingers tracing lazy lines down my spine. My body hums under his touch, greedy for more.
Milo glances over. “How’s the knife?”
“Better,” I say. “Thank you.”
He nods, taking it like he’s not used to hearing it.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number. One link. I click on it.
My breath catches. The date blinks up at me, familiar. Too familiar. Heat drains from my face.
Matteo’s hand stills on my back. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie, curling my fingers firm around the phone like it might bite. “I should go.”
His arm tightens around my waist. “Stay. No class yet.”
“Conor will come looking,” I murmur. “I’m not in the mood for his protective-ass routine.”
Matteo studies me, eyes flicking over mine, searching. He knows I’m lying. He just lets me keep the lie.
I’m grateful and it hurts, because he never pushes, not even when I want him to.
I cross to the bed, pulling on my clothes. Matteo’s gaze trails over me, slow and claiming, while his brothers and Rosa talk about some party like we’re not here at all.
He steps behind me, heat and breaths at my neck.
“We could have fun before you go,” he murmurs. “Already miss being inside you.”
I turn, his hands still gripping my waist. Mine finds his neck, pulling him down as I rise onto my toes and kiss him.
“Maybe this was supposed to be it,” I whisper, holding back tears. We’ll have to stop sooner or later, but if it ends, I want last night to be the memory that stays.
Matteo kisses me once, slowly, then smiles. “Cute you think I’m done playing, little lamb.”
The way he says it makes heat crawl through me.
“I’ll see you again,” he adds, glancing toward Marco.
“The cameras are down. Five minutes to get back to your room,” Marco says, already turning back to Milo.
“Thanks,” I say, but Marco doesn’t look up. I nod to Matteo and slip out.
The link glows on my screen. Not gossip. A Hollow Edge publication. I duck into a narrow corridor, into shadow.
The headline hits me first.
“Blood on the Docks: Unnamed Witness Tied to Disappearance of Two Messina Operatives.”
My chest locks.
I scroll. No photo, just words that scrape raw. It’s Rory. My fingers tremble as I read it again.
A quiet morning turned into a bloodbath.
Ciara Brennan, seven months pregnant, shopping for her baby shower when the shots started A clean exchange between Cavalli and Pavlov crews. A hijacked shipment. Silent. Controlled. Until it wasn’t.
Two Cavalli men dead.
Ciara… collateral. Killed instantly, the child with her.
The last line freezes me.
What the hell does this have to do with me and the Messinas?
I kill the screen, pocket the phone, shove panic down until it burns.
How does marrying Rory fix any of this?
Conor walks toward me, a casual stride hiding the fact that his eyes miss nothing.
“You skipped breakfast,” he says, tossing me a protein bar. “Forgot you get hangry.”
I catch it midair, lift a brow. “You’re being nice.”
“I’m always nice.”
He’s not.
“You’re always armed.”
He grins. “Same thing.”
We sit on the bench by the garden wall. The silence between us feels… almost easy. Which is suspicious as hell.
He watches a few students drift past. “Heard your knife work’s getting sharper.”
“Must be the company I keep.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and a small smile creeps in, Matteo’s face flickering through my head.
Conor chuckles, eyes tracking the path ahead like he’s on guard even now. “Weird seeing you smile.”
“Because I’m usually two seconds from starting an argument with you?”
“Because you used to be quiet,” he says. “Now you’ve got this… fire.”
I glance at him, trying to read what’s hiding behind that calm, armor-plated face. “Is that your way of saying I’ve changed?”
“I’m saying you’re growing teeth,” he says. “And I’m not sure if that’s pride or warning I feel.”
I lean back. “Maybe both.”
Silence stretches between us, not heavy this time, just steady. Almost comfortable.
“Thanks for this,” I say, lifting the bar in a half-salute.
“Don’t mention it.”
We split paths soon after. I can feel his gaze even when he’s gone, watching, always watching.
But the article’s weight presses against my thigh, hot as a brand I can’t shake.
I don’t know who sent it. But I’ll find them.
Some days at Blackstone almost feel normal, whatever normal means for people like me.
I sit under the archway courtyard with Nora, Conor, and the others, our people, our families, the ones bound to us by blood or loyalty.
The sun sits warm on my skin. Someone tells a story about a Russian boy tripping over his own knife. Laughter breaks across the group. Even Conor grins, the sharp edge of him dulling for once.
For a breath, we’re students. Friends. Not heirs to empires carved from blood and smoke.
I lean back on my elbows. “You’re terrible,” I manage between laughs.
“Terribly committed,” he shoots back.
“Don’t forget the Heir’s Ball,” I say, turning to Nora. “Ready to stand in a room full of families who’d kill each other if the champagne ran out?”
I grin. “At least the suits will be worth it.”
Cillian laughs. “Right, the whole point’s so you can drool over us in suits.”
I ignore him. That world, glamour, power, charm, isn’t mine. Never will be.
Conor rolls his eyes, a flicker of a smile. He’s relaxed, so I let myself be too.
Then the prickle hits the back of my neck.
That stare.
Matteo.
Across the courtyard, half in shadow, cigarette between his fingers, head tilted. Watching.
That unreadable look steals the air from my chest.
I shift, pretending I don’t feel it, but my skin remembers his touch.
Conor throws a piece of bread at me. “You spaced.”
“Sorry,” I lie. “Didn’t sleep.”
“Then rest up,” he says. “Training tonight’s going to be a bitch.”
My gaze slips back across the courtyard.
He’s still there, gaze on me even while he talks to his family.
I nod along to the chatter, mind already moving pieces, how to play mine before they play me.
Conor scrolls through messages, and before I can stop myself, I speak.
“I think I want to go home this weekend.”
Conor looks up. “Yeah?”
He sounds surprised, and I don’t blame him. Home is the last place I ever want to be.
“Yeah. Thought I’d spend time with the family, before you get rid of me,” I say.
He studies me, silent.
We both know home is where the ghosts still live.