Chapter 22
Raven
Iwake to empty sheets and the ghost of Matteo’s warmth beside me. Sunlight streams through my half-drawn curtains, painting the room in golden stripes.
From the living room, I hear his voice. It’s low, controlled, and tight with something that sounds like anger.
Stretching like a cat, I reach for my old alarm clock. Seven o’clock. Ugh, this is way too early for me. But apparently not for Matteo, who’s already up and handling what sounds like business.
As I think his name, his words from last night push to the forefront of my mind.
“I think I’m in love with you.”
Nope. Not dealing with that right now. Pin it.
“… don’t care what it takes.” His voice drifts through the door, muffled but unmistakably tense.
I should probably go out there. Say good morning. Ask who he’s talking to. That’s what a real girlfriend would do, right? Not that I am one. I’m a fake girlfriend. With benefits. But definitely not in love.
Instead, I slide out of bed and gather my clothes for the day. Then, I tiptoe to the bathroom, shutting the door with a soft click. The shower starts with a whine of old pipes, steam quickly filling the small space. As I step under the spray, hot water sluices over my skin.
The water’s doing nothing for the mental imprint of Matteo’s confession. Love. What a ridiculous concept. You can’t fall in love with someone in… what, two weeks? I suppose it’s only really technically been one week today.
Seven days since he took me out for dinner and told me what he’s expecting of me. Twenty-one days since we met for the first time. Anyway, the specifics don’t matter. Whatever he’s feeling has to be lust. Obsession. Maybe even infatuation. But love? No.
If he really did love me, he’d tell me why he showed up wearing an eyepatch. Right? People in love share those kinds of things.
I scrub shampoo through my hair, trying to wash away his words. He can’t possibly love me. He barely knows me. And what he does know—the chaos, the impulsivity, the emotional pinboard that is my coping mechanism—isn’t exactly the stuff of forever.
By the time I’ve rinsed conditioner from my hair and shaved, I’ve successfully compartmentalized Matteo’s confession into a neat little package labeled ‘deal with never.’
I wrap myself in a towel and wipe condensation from the mirror, studying my reflection. My cheeks are flushed, eyes a little too bright. I look… different somehow. Like someone’s adjusted all my settings just slightly.
Pin it.
After brushing my teeth and putting on fresh underwear, the mirror has cleared enough for me to work on my face. I apply minimal makeup and slip into a navy blue summer dress that hits mid-thigh.
Black pumps complete the look. The whole outfit screams ‘competent PR professional who definitely isn’t sleeping with a Mob boss and absolutely isn’t freaking out about said Mob boss dropping the L-word.’
With one last glance in the mirror, I square my shoulders and prepare to face Matteo. And by prepare, I mean I absolutely don’t think about how to respond if he mentions love again.
Pin it harder.
When I stride into the living room, Matteo is standing by the window, phone pressed to his ear. He’s already dressed in… where the hell did he get those clothes from? He was not wearing those pants yesterday, and as far as I know, his shirt is still soaking.
“Did you leave?” I ask, not liking how much that thought bothers me.
He turns and ends his conversation abruptly. “I’ll call you back,” he says into the phone before pocketing it. His eyes track me from head to toe, appreciation evident in the way his gaze lingers.
“No,” he replies. “I had Vito bring some clothes this morning.”
Vito’s the guy who’s never far from me at the Leone Room. We’ve never been formally introduced, but my spy deduction skills are unparalleled. Plus, I’ve heard Matteo use his name a few times.
I nod. “Right, right,” I murmur, like that makes sense.
His shirt has short sleeves, so he’s showing off his tattoos and those corded, muscled forearms. Be still my heart.
I frown when I realize he’s still wearing the eyepatch. Since I don’t know why he’s wearing it, I don’t know what I was expecting. But the more I look at the left side of his face, the more I wonder what he’s hiding beneath that patch.
Matteo has scars on both sides of his face, but the ones on the left are by far the most prominent ones. They’re… deeper, bigger, and if I remember correctly, they reach the corner of his eye. Which is hidden by the patch right now.
Realizing I’m just standing here, gawking, I swallow harshly. “So, umm… good morning,” I chirp awkwardly, aiming for casualness and landing somewhere in the vicinity of slightly manic.
Instead of responding verbally, he crosses the room in long strides and cups my face in his hands. The kiss he gives me is gentle—so gentle it hurts somewhere deep in my chest.
When he pulls back, his thumbs stroke my cheekbones with a reverence that makes me want to run. “You look beautiful,” he says simply.
“Thanks,” I manage, stepping back to put some much-needed distance between us. “It’s nothing special. Just work clothes.”
His lips quirk up at one corner. “I wasn’t talking about the dress.”
Oh. Oh no. We are not doing this.
Pin it, pin it, pin it.
“Breakfast?” I blurt too loudly. “I’m starving.”
Something flickers in his eye—amusement, maybe, or understanding—before he nods. “There’s a place near your office I’d like to take you,” he grins.
Words fail me, so instead of wasting time attempting to string a sentence together, I get my things so we can leave.
The way his hand finds the small of my back as he guides me out the door feels proprietary, possessive. My heart does a little stutter-step when his fingers splay wider, encompassing more of me.
Nope. Pin it.
“Car’s downstairs,” he says, holding the door for me.
As I step past him into the hallway, I catch the scent of him—soap and coffee and something darker. My pulse quickens, and I mentally hammer another pin into the board of things I’m not dealing with right now.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I’m not in love with Matteo Russo. He’s not in love with me. We’re just two people playing pretend until I’ve carried out the favor I owe him. That’s my new mantra, and I stubbornly repeat it throughout the drive.
The diner Matteo chooses is all chrome and red vinyl, like someone preserved a slice of the fifties in amber. It’s busy but not crowded—the sweet spot between breakfast and lunch rush—and smells like coffee and bacon grease.
My stomach growls as we slide into a booth by the window, morning sunlight warming the tabletop between us. I’ve been so focused on not thinking about last night that I’ve worked up a legitimate appetite.
Matteo sits across from me, his posture relaxed but his eye alert, scanning the room like he’s cataloging exits and potential threats. Old habits, I guess.
“Their pancakes are good,” he says, not bothering to open the plastic menu. “And the coffee’s decent.”
I flip through laminated pages filled with pictures of greasy comfort food. “Sorry, Matty. But I can’t take your word for it,” I say very seriously.
“Why not?” His affronted tone makes me smile.
“Because I’ve only ever seen you eat over-the-top healthy and plain breakfasts,” I dutifully point out.
His lips quirk up as he reaches for some of the small sugar packets on the side. Curious about what he’s up to, I stay quiet while he pours some into his cupped hand. Then, he reaches for my hand and brings it to his mouth.
“What are you…” The question dies when he takes my finger into his mouth and swirls his tongue around it. “Matteo,” I hiss when he pulls it back out and dip my finger in the sugar in his palm.
“I’m proving just how much I love sugar,” he replies with a wink.
When he sucks my sugar-coated finger back into his mouth, I can barely take it. I’m squirming in my seat. I’m so wet I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m leaving a wet patch beneath me.
The waitress appears to take our order. I ask for the blueberry pancakes and coffee, while Matteo goes for eggs, bacon, and hash browns. As she walks away, I notice his gaze following her. Not in a way that makes me jealous, but like he’s assessing whether she’s a threat.
Apparently, she passes inspection because he relaxes minutely, his attention returning to me. “So,” he begins.
But before he can continue, I blurt, “Tell me why you’re wearing that damn eyepatch.” My tone’s a lot harsher than intended.
He quirks his right eyebrow. “Excuse me?” His tone is as cold as his gaze is now. Gone is the playful man from only moments ago.
Refusing to back down, I shake my head. “I want… no. Fuck that. I deserve to know.”
“And why’s that?” he asks, smirking.
But again, it’s not playful. This is a side to Matteo I haven’t seen since he ransacked my home in the middle of the night.
I take a deep breath and reach for his hand. “You say you love me,” I murmur. “And people in love usually want it to be requited—”
“Are you saying you can’t love me, Little Thief?” he challenges. “Because I’m pretty sure a part of you already does.”
“I can’t stop you from thinking that,” I volley, annoyed at the way he makes it sound like he knows me better than I know myself. “But I’m telling you that I can’t fall in love with you when you’re not being honest with me.”
“What am I lying about?”
I make a sound of annoyance. “Why are you wearing the fucking eyepatch?” I ask again, refusing to let him derail the conversation. Because I already know what he’ll say next. He’ll argue withholding information isn’t lying, and that’s a whole other discussion.
“Does it bother you that I am?” he asks, his tone even colder now. “Do you think I’m damaged? Or not good enough—”
“What?” I whisper, horrified. My mouth falls open and I drop his hand like it’s burning me. “Is that what you think of me, Matteo?”