Chapter 11
Raven
Icollapse onto my couch, wincing as my body sinks into the cushions. Every muscle screams in protest, reminding me I’ve been awake since the home invasion courtesy of Matteo.
Thankfully, my landlord changed the chain and door while I was at work. I know he’s going to add the repairs onto my next rent bill, but so be it. I’d happily pay twice that amount for not having to tackle the cleanup in here after hurricane Matteo.
The Thai takeout container on my coffee table sits half-empty, abandoned next to a glass of cabernet that I’ve refilled twice already.
My apartment is still a disaster zone from his search, and I can’t bring myself to care. There’s a smudge on my wall I keep trying not to look at—my attempts to scrub away his handprint only made it worse.
Shifting positions makes me wince again. Not from pain, exactly. Just… awareness. My wrists still tingle with ghost sensations of leather biting into skin. I rub at them absently, tracing the phantom pressure points from his belt.
The marks have faded to almost nothing—barely visible pink lines that wouldn’t raise an eyebrow from anyone who happened to see them.
So why can’t I stop touching them?
“Get it together,” I mutter, grabbing my wine glass and taking a long sip.
My phone buzzes on the cushion next to me, and I nearly drop my drink. Heart hammering, I snatch it up only to find a spam text about extending my car warranty.
Relief and disappointment war in my chest. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I toss the phone down and try to focus on the TV. Some cooking competition plays on low volume. The contestants rush around while the judges glare from the front line.
Normally, I love watching people crack under pressure while making risotto, but tonight I can’t follow a single moment. My brain keeps rewinding to Matteo’s unfriendly visit, hitting replay on the same moments in high definition.
Matteo’s hand around my throat. And the way he held his silver lighter like it was sacred. Seriously, I almost expected him to do a Smeagol impression and lovingly croon, “My precious.”
I grab my phone again. Nothing. I set it down. Pick it up. Check my socials. Put it down. Two minutes later, it’s back in my hand like a nervous tic I can’t control.
He’s in my contacts now as Psycho Bastard. Yep, I renamed him immediately after he left. But that doesn’t make me any less aware of the fact that Matteo Russo has my number and I have his.
Matteo Russo. My stomach feels like it’s twisted into a pretzel. Not just any Russo. The family Piper married into. The family everyone in Cleveland speaks about in hushed tones. The fucking Mafia.
Mental pin: I didn’t just steal from any random hot guy. I stole from the Mob.
The pin slips immediately. Some thoughts are too big, too sharp to contain.
I’m going to be his girlfriend. The word feels ridiculous even in my head. What does that even mean? Arm candy at Mob functions? A prop? The idea that I might have to touch him again, that his hands might be on me again…
My body betrays me with a flush of heat I refuse to acknowledge. I down the rest of my wine in one gulp.
The worst part is that I said yes. I could have chosen the ten favors, stretched them out over years, maybe even found a way to weasel out of them. Instead, I chose immediate servitude like an idiot.
All because the thought of being bound to him for years made something in me panic. I grab the takeout container and force myself to eat another bite of cold noodles that taste of nothing.
“It’s fine,” I tell my empty apartment. “It’s just a job. I’ve dealt with difficult clients before.” Though difficult clients don’t usually break into your apartment, tie you up, and come on your face. At least not the kind I usually deal with.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text from Leo with a photo of him and Ollie at some restaurant. They look happy. Normal. People whose biggest concern is whether they got the lighting right for their Instagram post.
Me: Looks amazing. Miss you guys already.
It’s almost nine o’clock, and the sun is just starting to set, bathing my apartment in that perfect May golden hour light that usually makes everything look magical. Tonight, it just makes the chaos more visible.
Cushions are still on the floor, papers scattered, my life turned upside down by a man with storm-cloud eyes and a smile that promises violence.
My phone chimes with a text notification. I’m pathetic enough to lunge for it. It’s just a food delivery app asking me to rate my order.
“For fuck’s sake,” I groan, dropping my phone onto the cushion again.
Why am I even waiting for him to text? It’s not like I want to hear from him. It’s not like I’m curious about what being his girlfriend will entail or when it starts.
And I’m definitely not replaying the moment his fingers curled around my throat or the way his voice dropped when he called me Little Thief.
Mental pin: All of the above.
God, I’m exhausted. Not just because I haven’t slept since he woke me up. No, it’s the kind that makes your limbs heavy and your thoughts sticky. I should sleep. I should clean up. I should stop checking my damn phone.
Instead, I curl deeper into the couch, pull a throw blanket over my legs, and stare blankly at the TV. A contestant is crying over a fallen souffle. I envy her. At least her problems have a time limit and judges who might be merciful.
Mine has neither.
I check my phone one last time before closing my eyes. Still nothing.
The wine and exhaustion finally pull me under, but even as I drift off, some part of me stays alert, waiting for the buzz of a notification.
When my alarm blares the next morning, I have a whole second of complete bliss. Then reality crashes back—Matteo, the belt, the favor—and I groan.
I drag myself into the shower, letting scalding water pound some life back into my body.
Everything is going to be fine. I am going to work, do my job, and not think about scarred faces or Mafia connections or the way my stomach flips every time my phone buzzes.
See? Totally fine.
By the time I walk into Holston PR, I’ve checked my phone seventeen times. Not that I’m counting.
The morning crawls by in a blur of meetings I can’t focus on. My body sits in conference rooms while my mind keeps drifting to Matteo. What exactly constitutes being his girlfriend? Hand-holding? Public appearances? Sex? Does he expect me to…
“Raven? Your thoughts on the Henderson proposal?”
I snap back to the room where five faces stare expectantly at me. “I think we should push for exclusivity,” I say automatically. “They’re wavering between us and Apex, but our personalized approach is the deciding factor.”
My boss nods approvingly, and the meeting continues. Crisis averted.
When lunch finally arrives, I lock myself in a bathroom stall and pull up an incognito browser on my phone. ‘Russo family Cleveland’ I type, then immediately backspace and try ‘Russo business Cleveland’ instead. Somehow, that feels safer.
The search results are frustratingly vague. Mentions of real estate holdings, and investment firms just to name a few. Nothing explicitly criminal, but plenty of local forum threads that cut off abruptly or dance around specifics in a way that makes my skin prickle.
I’m halfway through an archived news article about an explosion from last year that was suspected of organized crime ties when the bathroom door opens. I close the browser so fast I nearly drop my phone.
“Are you hiding from Holston, Raven?” It’s Marcy from graphic design.
I frown at her even though she can’t see me through the door. But hello, whatever happened to bathroom etiquette? Thou shalt not strike up a conversation with someone behind a closed door.
“Just taking a mental health moment,” I lie, flushing the unused toilet for show.
I spend the rest of the afternoon in a fog, nodding at the right moments and typing notes I’ll never refer to. By the time I escape the office, my nerves feel frayed at the edges, like a rope about to snap.
Back home, I order sushi—different from yesterday’s Thai, as if varying my takeout somehow constitutes getting my life together. After dinner, I find myself before the bathroom mirror, practicing facial expressions like I’m prepping for a pageant from hell.
I suppose I’m not far off since I’m trying to find one to use the next time I see Matteo.
Option one, professional detachment. I straighten my spine and smooth my features into a mask of polite indifference. My eyes look dead.
Option two, casual confidence. I force my shoulders to relax and quirk my lips into a half-smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.
Option three, seductive compliance. This one makes me want to punch the mirror. I look like I’m trying to sell sketchy diet pills online.
I drop the act and just stare at my reflection. Without the performance, what’s left is raw and real. A woman with shadows under her eyes and fear she can’t quite hide. But there’s something else there too. A spark of defiance that hasn’t been completely extinguished.
“What are you getting yourself into, Raven?” I whisper to my reflection.
The woman in the mirror has no answers. Clueless bitch.
My mind circles back to the fact that Matteo is a Russo for the hundredth time today. This is the family Piper willingly married into. And I guess I’m now connected through whatever bizarre arrangement I’ve agreed to with Matteo.
What exactly does the Russo family do? The obvious answer—organized crime—sends a chill down my spine. But what kind? Drugs? Weapons? Human trafficking? Each possibility seems worse than the last.
And what does Matteo do for them? His scarred face and easy violence suggest nothing good. The way he dispatched those men outside his apartment with such efficiency…
Mental pin: Don’t think about the blood. In fact, don’t think about it at all.