Chapter 20
Matteo
Before I knock on Raven’s door, I adjust the eyepatch I’m wearing tonight. No theatrics. No explanation. Sometimes the prosthetic stays in, sometimes it doesn’t. Tonight, the socket’s sore and I don’t give enough of a shit to pretend otherwise.
I knock at exactly eight o’clock—two sharp raps that echo my pulse—and wait, wondering what the hell this is about.
The door swings open, and all my thoughts evaporate like water on hot coals. Raven stands framed in the doorway, blonde hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head, strands escaping to frame her face.
But it’s not her hair that short-circuits my brain—it’s what she’s wearing. A dusky pink crop top stops just below her ribs, revealing a strip of smooth skin above denim shorts so short they’re criminal.
“You gonna stand there all night?” she asks, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk that says she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. “Wait, what the hell happened to your eye? Are you okay?” The smirk’s now completely gone, replaced with a worried expression.
“I’m fine,” I rasp, taking a step closer. “Are you going to invite me in?”
She steps aside with a dramatic sweep of her arm. “Enter at your own risk.”
“Where’s my hello?” I ask, staying firmly in place.
Her eyebrow arches. “Hello,” she chirps, voice dripping with fake sweetness.
“Not that kind of hello.” I tap my lip with one finger. “I think I deserve a proper greeting.”
A flush crawls up her neck, staining her cheeks. She rises on her toes and aims for my cheek. I turn at the last second, catching her mouth with mine. No tongue, nothing overly aggressive, but with Raven, it still means something.
When I pull back, her pupils have dilated, eating the brown until only a thin ring remains. Desire clear as day.
“Better,” I murmur.
She rolls her eyes but steps back to let me in. “Seriously, why are you wearing an eyepatch? And don’t tell me it’s a fashion accessory.”
The apartment smells of tomato sauce and garlic, warm and inviting in a way that catches me off guard. A large pizza box sits open on her coffee table beside an unopened bottle of red wine.
“Pizza?” I guess, surprised by the domesticity of the scene. “And here I thought this was a booty call.”
“Can’t live on orgasms alone,” she quips, padding ahead of me into the living room. “Now, answer my question.”
The view from behind is even more devastating as those shorts cup her round ass like they were custom-made for it. Each step makes the fabric ride higher, revealing more of those full curves.
“There’s nothing wrong with my eye,” I grin. “It doesn’t exist.”
“W-what?” she gasps and spins around, hands on her hips. “What the hell does that mean?”
Ignoring her, I move toward the kitchen. “I’ll get glasses for the wine.”
“Don’t bother,” she calls, dropping to the floor beside the coffee table. She crosses her legs beneath her, looking utterly at home sprawled on the hardwood. “We can share the bottle.”
I pause, watching as she tears the seal from the wine with her teeth, spitting the foil onto the pizza box. There’s something unbearably intimate about the gesture—more so than watching her pleasure herself on camera.
This is Raven unfiltered, unpretentious, unperforming.
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Little Thief?” I ask, shrugging off my suit jacket and draping it over a chair.
She snorts, working the corkscrew into the bottle. “Would it work if I were?” Then she tilts her head to the side. “Is that the key to get you to answer my damn question?”
I loosen my tie, feeling overdressed beside her casual ease. Sitting on the couch, I lean forward to grab a slice of pizza. “Probably not.”
When I showed up here tonight with the eyepatch, I knew she’d be asking questions. What I never bothered to consider was whether I wanted to answer or not. The explosion isn’t a secret, and neither is the fact I lost my eye.
But that doesn’t mean I want to discuss it over pizza and wine, like it’s a funny or unimportant event. Not when it’s something that’s fundamentally changed me.
“Fine,” Raven says. “I’ll stop asking and pretend it’s totally normal you suddenly show up with an eyepatch.”
“Sounds good to me,” I reply.
She pops the cork free with a triumphant grin and takes a swig directly from the bottle. Her throat works as she swallows, and I find myself transfixed by the movement. When she passes the bottle to me, her fingers brush mine, a touch that shouldn’t affect me as much as it does.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says, tearing into her pizza slice.
“Always dangerous.” I take a pull from the bottle, tasting her lipstick on the rim.
She ignores my jab. “About our arrangement. Our routine. It’s too…” She wiggles her fingers, searching for the word. “Staged. Manufactured.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”
“We show up at the same time every night. We sit at the same booth. We leave together.” She tears at her pizza crust, a nervous gesture I hadn’t noticed before. Her toes wiggle against the hardwood as she stretches out her legs. “People are messy, Matteo. Real relationships are unpredictable.”
“And you think our fake one needs to be messier?” I ask, taking another bite.
She nods, eyes bright with that chaotic energy I’m beginning to crave more than oxygen. “Exactly. If I’m supposed to hear things they wouldn’t say in front of you, I need freedom to move. To talk. To exist without feeling your eyes bore into me.”
I study her for a moment, processing. She’s right, though I’m reluctant to admit it. The routine we’ve established is too perfect, too rehearsed. No wonder we haven’t found the mole yet—they can see us coming from a mile away.
“So what do you suggest, Little Thief?” I ask, passing the bottle back.
She takes it, her fingers lingering against mine longer than necessary. “I could arrive by myself some nights,” she suggests, watching my reaction carefully. “Break up the pattern.”
My jaw tightens reflexively. The thought of her walking into the Leone Room alone, without me there to protect her, makes something dark twist in my gut. But she has a point, goddamn it. A good one.
“You know,” I say after a moment, “it might be worth trying.”
She blinks, clearly surprised by the compliment. “Is that a yes?”
I sigh, reaching for another slice. “Yes. But I’m not leaving you there alone—”
“Oh, come on,” she pouts.
Ignoring her interruption, I continue. “I’ll spend more time upstairs and less on the floor. That’s my best offer.”
A genuine smile breaks across her face, so bright it’s almost painful to look at. “Deal.”
When we finish eating, I surprise her by sliding off the couch to join her on the floor. Our fingers brush as we pass the wine bottle back and forth, the conversation flowing as easily as the alcohol.
She gets up to grab another bottle, her ass at eye level as she bends to reach into a cabinet. “Need a glass this time?” she asks over her shoulder, catching me staring.
I laugh, the sound dark even to my own ears. “I’ve tasted your pussy, Little Thief. I think sharing a bottle is the least of our concerns when it comes to bodily fluids.”
She flips me off, but her cheeks flush pink as she returns with the wine. And just like that, we’re back to our rhythm—banter and heat and the electric feeling that at any moment, one of us might catch fire.
The wine burns warm in my veins, loosening my tongue in ways I rarely allow. Something about this—sitting on her floor, passing a bottle back and forth like teenagers—strips away the armor I wear everywhere else.
Raven’s watching me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. It should make me want to retreat. Instead, I find myself leaning in, drawn to the chaos she radiates like a moth to my flame.
“Do you actually like all those fancy suits?” she asks, head tilted as she studies me. “Or is it just part of the scary Mob boss aesthetic?”
I snort, taking another swig from the bottle. “The suits serve a purpose. People respect the packaging.”
“But do you like them?”
The question is simple, but it hits differently. Not asking about the effect or the purpose—asking about what I want. I roll my shoulders, considering.
“I do like them,” I answer honestly. “Though I’ll admit, it sometimes feels weird to go for ice cream at two in the morning in a suit or tux.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Ice cream? You?”
“Why is that surprising?” I ask, genuinely curious about what version of me exists in her head.
“I just pictured you drinking blood or something.” She grins, the expression lopsided and entirely too charming. “Not, you know, doing normal people things.”
“I’m full of surprises, Little Thief.” The corner of my mouth quirks up. “I hate formal events too. All that small talk makes me want to set something on fire.”
She laughs, the sound light and infectious. “Now that tracks.”
Raven reaches for something on the coffee table—a pink permanent marker. She uncaps it with her teeth and pulls one foot into her lap. With surprising dexterity, she begins painting her toenails with the marker, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration.
I watch, transfixed by the mundane intimacy of the act. The way her loose strands of hair fall forward when she bends over her task. The flex of her calf as she angles her foot. The tiny furrow between her brows as she focuses.
“You missed a spot,” I point out, gesturing to the edge of her smallest toe.
She glances up, surprised I’m watching so intently. “It doesn’t have to be perfect,” she defends. “It’s just an old habit. Something that makes me feel good.”
I set the wine bottle aside and reach for her foot before I can second-guess myself. “Let me.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “You want to paint my toenails?”
“I want to touch you,” I correct her, pulling her foot into my lap. “This is just the excuse.”
She surrenders the marker with a small smile, extending her foot toward me. The trust in that simple gesture hits harder than it should. I take her ankle in one hand, feeling the delicate bones beneath my fingers.