Chapter 32
Matteo
Smoke coils toward the cracked dorm window, fading into the gray morning.
Silence fills the room, not peace, but ghosts. My own, warning me something is coming.
I stare at the ceiling, nicotine steadying the pulse in my throat. My father still hasn’t called. I thought maybe my mother would talk sense into him, or Grandfather’s words would.
The quiet beats like a war drum waiting for its first strike.
A knock then the door creaks open.
Milo walks in first, dragging a chair. “You’re awake.”
Marco follows, tossing an apple into the air. “And smoking. Brooding 101.”
Rosa steps in last, braid loose, tossing a packet of bandages on the desk. “For your knuckles. Heard you nearly broke Leo’s wrist.”
I don’t answer.
Marco drops onto the bed. “So? Did he call back?” I shake my head.
Milo leans forward. “That’s fucking great. What now, fearless triplet?”
“I don’t know.” Smoke leaves my mouth slow and thin. “Nothing feels right. I’m supposed to take Aoife home this weekend. Grandfather wants to meet her. But if her family gets even a hint—”
“They’ll burn her alive,” Rosa cuts in.
I nod once. “She’s scared,” I admit. The word tastes weak. “She trusts me. I need that to mean something. She’s been getting messages too.”
Milo straightens. “Messages?”
“She told me last night. No name, no number. They disappear after she reads them. Anything on the gossip site, Rosa?”
“Nothing posted,” she says. “If anyone knew, it’d be all over by now.”
Marco tosses the apple again, catches it. “So, who the hell is it?”
“I don’t know.” I crush the cigarette in the tray. “Whoever they are, they’re smart. Know how to cover tracks.”
“Someone inside?” Milo asks.
“Maybe.” I rake my hand through my hair. “So, we keep quiet. No one else knows until I talk to Grandfather.”
“Speaking of plans,” Marco says. “How are you getting her out this weekend? Conor’s glued to her.”
“I’ll find a way. Maybe through alliance training. Leo might run interference.”
“And if he won’t?” Rosa’s voice is soft.
“Then I lie. But he’ll help.”
The silence that follows is heavy, less judgment, more worry. The kind that comes from loyalty.
“She’s really in this deep?” Milo asks. “You are too?”
I nod once.
But inside, everything spins.
If I don’t get this right, we’re not risking love.
We’re risking blood.
The air in the classroom hangs heavy, buzzing faint under tired lights.
I slump in the back corner, elbow on the desk, counting seconds. Marco taps his pen in a rhythm that drills behind my eyes. Milo’s half-asleep, hood up like he’s plotting an escape. The teacher’s voice blurs. I haven’t heard a word in forty-five minutes.
I’m watching her.
Aoife sits front row, posture straight, mask in place. Conor leans in too close, whispering something that makes her jaw tighten. Her arms lock across her chest like armor.
Whatever he’s saying, she hates it. My hand curls under the desk, fist tight enough to ache.
Marco notices. “Stop staring before you combust.”
Milo’s voice drifts through a yawn. “She looks pissed.”
The bell rings. Chairs scrape, bags zip. Aoife’s the first up, slipping past Conor before he can grab her. I track her until the door closes.
“Come on,” Marco says, stretching. “Let’s get out before my brain dies.”
“Garden?” Milo asks.
“Yeah.” Marco kicks my boot. “Move.”
We push through the corridor into sunlight. The garden hums with laughter and gossip. Ricci and Remo argue over a street race while Remo tosses grapes into Santino’s mouth.
Rosa’s there too, sunglasses on, braid loose.
Marco drops beside her. “What’d we miss?”
“Enzo nearly choked on a grape,” she says dryly.
I scan the clearing, Aoife sits beneath the oak, distant from Conor, who’s still glaring at anyone that looks her way.
Laughter rolls through the garden, soft as wind in the hedges. I lean back on the bench, cigarette burning slowly between my fingers.
For a moment, it almost feels normal. Almost.
But I can’t unclench my jaw. My pulse won’t settle. Because across the grass, Conor leans too close again.
Marco mutters, “You gonna keep staring or end him?”
I flick the ash from my cigarette. “Just watching.”
The banter hums around me: family, noise, routine, but none of it touches me.
My focus stays locked on her.
The rooftop groans beneath my boots. Wind cuts across the stone, sharp and cold. I light a cigarette, watching the smoke twist toward the night.
Far below, the lighthouse blinks steady, patient like it’s ready for whatever is coming.
She’s already here.
Aoife stands near the edge, back to me, silver light spilling over her shoulders. Her hair’s tied up, exposing the curve of her neck. The knife I gave her glints in her hand, bright as bone.
“You came,” she says without turning.
“I said I would.” I flick the cigarette over the ledge and move closer, jacket pulled tight against the wind. The air feels wrong tonight, too still, too heavy. “We don’t have much time. I need to show you something.”
Her shoulders tighten. “Another trick?”
“No. Survival.”
She turns, eyes meeting mine. She looks exhausted, shoulders slumped, dark circles smudging her skin, but she’s here. Still fighting. Still standing.
I hold out my hand. “Give me the knife.”
She hesitates, then places it in my palm.
“This blade isn’t for warning shots,” I say. “It’s quiet. It finishes what it starts. You should too.” The knife spins once across my knuckles, muscle memory, a glint of steel cutting the moonlight. I step behind her, close enough to feel her breath catch.
“Like this.” I guide her hand, my fingers closing over hers, firm but steady. “Too tight and you’ll shake. Too loose and you’ll lose it.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.” My voice drops near her ear, rougher now. “But trying won’t save you.”
She swallows hard, lips parting, but she nods.
We move together slash, block, retreat, thrust.
The rhythm builds, her movements sharpening, breath syncing with mine.
What we’re doing doesn’t feel like training anymore.
I circle her. “Again.” She moves cleaner, sharper. Her blade answers without hesitation she’s learning faster than I expected.
“You’re holding your breath,” I murmur. “Lose the tension. Rhythm, fight like a heartbeat. If it comes to it, go for the neck. Push it all the way in.”
She exhales, a quick, ragged sound, and resets her stance.
“Matteo,” she pants after a few strikes. “Why are you pushing so hard tonight?”
I don’t answer right away.
“Is it your father?” she tries. Still silent. “Or — is someone watching me?”
I look at her. I nod once. “Yes. Closer than the messages.” Her fingers tremble. Her lips part. I step forward, lift the knife from her hand, and put it on the ledge so the steel can’t catch the light between us.
“You have to be ready for anything,” I tell her. “I won’t always be there in time.”
She moves in until we touch. “You always are.”
Those three words split something loose in me. I pull her face up and press my forehead to hers.
“This weekend, I’m bringing you home,” I whisper. “Leo will cover for us. If they call, make an excuse. Say you’re sick.”
She nods but flinches as if someone’s hand ghosted across her ribs. “They’ll kill me if they know.”
They’ll have to go through me.” My grip tightens. She’s shaking, I hold on.
“I don’t know how this ends,” I admit, voice ragged. “But I will not stand and watch you break.”
She folds into me, arms clamping around my waist. “I trust you, Matteo.” Her breath is warm against my neck as she kisses the crown of my head.
“I’ve got you, little lamb.”
I do not let go.