Chapter 25
Raven
My phone buzzes with a text from Matteo, letting me know he’ll be here in five. I dash to the bathroom for a final outfit check.
The black off-the-shoulder crop top leaves a sliver of skin exposed above the high waistband of my floor-length skirt, which falls in silky waves to my ankles. Interrupted only by the thigh-high slit that reveals a flash of leg when I walk.
My blonde hair’s twisted into a messy updo with tendrils framing my face. The outfit is perfect for the Leone Room—sexy but not desperate, revealing without giving all the goods away.
Sharp knocks on my door make me jump, even though I’m expecting them. I slide my feet into black stilettos, grab my clutch, and paste on a confident smile before opening the door.
Matteo leans against the doorframe, a study in lethal elegance. His tailored black suit fits as if it was poured over his body, the crisp white shirt beneath open at the collar, revealing the edges of his neck tattoos.
His hair is styled back from his forehead, drawing attention to the sharp angles of his face and the scars that somehow make him more beautiful rather than less. And, of course, the eyepatch I’m actually starting to dig.
“Hi,” I breathe, momentarily forgetting everything in the face of… well, his face.
His eyes drag down my body, lingering on the strip of exposed skin at my waist. “You look good enough to eat,” he says, voice pitched low enough to make goosebumps rise on my arms.
“Thanks,” I say, locking my door behind me. “So do you.”
We take the elevator down in silence, his presence filling the small space like smoke. In the lobby, I prepare myself for another night at the Leone Room—more eavesdropping, more pretending to be madly in love with the beautiful and dangerous man beside me.
… And it is just pretend.
Pinning that.
When we’re inside his car, he leans forward and tells the driver to go to a place that most definitely isn’t the Leone Room.
“Change of plans?” I ask.
“Change of venue,” he corrects, taking my hand and running his thumb along my wrist. “You’ve earned a night off.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “From playing spy?”
“From the Leone Room.”
The car pulls away from the curb, gliding through Cleveland’s early evening traffic. We’re heading away from downtown, away from the familiar route to the club.
“So where are we going?” I ask when the silence stretches too long.
“Don’t worry, we’re not leaving the country.” Matteo’s lips curve in that almost-smile I like more than I want to admit. “We’re going to dinner.”
“Wow, so specific,” I deadpan. “Should I also expect oxygen and gravity at this dinner?”
His laugh is unexpected, a low rumble that vibrates through the space between us. “You’ll see.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re in a part of Cleveland I’ve never visited—an older neighborhood with brick buildings and narrow streets that feel more like Boston or Philadelphia than Ohio.
The car stops in front of an unassuming storefront with no sign except small brass letters above the door spelling Emilio’s.
“What is this place?” I ask as the driver opens my door.
“Somewhere private,” Matteo answers, helping me out of the car.
His hand returns to the small of my back, warm through the thin fabric of my top as he guides me toward the door. A man appears out of nowhere to open it for us, nodding deferentially to Matteo without meeting his eye.
Inside, the restaurant is nothing like I expected. No flashy décor, no pretentious modern art, no hushed cathedral-like silence that screams overpriced and underwhelming. The space is intimate and warm, with only twelve tables arranged with enough space between them to ensure privacy.
The booths are upholstered in deep crimson leather, the lighting low but not dim, and soft jazz plays at a volume that enhances rather than competes with conversation.
An older looking man with silver hair and a genuine smile approaches. “Matteo,” he greets warmly, clasping Matteo’s hand and kissing both his cheeks. “It’s been too long, son. How are you?”
“Emilio,” Matteo returns, his voice warmer than I’ve ever heard it. “You’re looking well.”
“And you’ve brought a beautiful guest,” Emilio says, turning to me with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Welcome to my place, Miss…?”
“Raven,” I supply, charmed despite myself.
“Miss Raven. A pleasure.” He gestures for us to follow him.
We weave through the restaurant to a corner booth partially concealed by a decorative screen. It’s the best seat in the house—private but with a clear view of the entire restaurant and both exits.
I slide into the booth, and Matteo sits across from me, his back to the wall, gaze briefly scanning the restaurant before settling on me.
Emilio hands me a leather-bound menu with fancy gold letters on the front. It’s so pretty and shiny. I sigh contentedly as I run my fingertips across the engraved lettering.
“Can I start you with something from the bar?” Emilio asks.
Matteo clears his throat. “Is Tony…” he lets the sentence hang unfinished.
Emilio frowns. “Not here yet, son. So once again, what do you want to drink?”
I can’t help giggling at the brusqueness of Emilio’s words, and before I can stop myself, I shoot him a well-deserved finger gun. “You tell him,” I say to the older man, who gives me an approving nod.
“The Barolo,” Matteo says without looking at the wine list. “And water for both of us.”
“Excellent choice.” Emilio nods and withdraws, leaving us alone in our secluded corner.
“So,” I say, unable to contain my curiosity, “not that I don’t appreciate being fed, but what are we doing here? Why are we taking the night off from the Leone Room?”
“We’ll go later,” he replies, his expression unreadable. “But I wanted to be alone with you and show you this place.”
I blink, thrown off balance by this unexpected… what? Date? “I… thank you.”
A server appears with water and wine, going through the ritual of presenting the bottle for Matteo’s approval before pouring. When he leaves, I take a sip of the ruby liquid, surprised by its complexity.
“This is good,” I admit, swirling it in the glass. “Really good.”
“They don’t serve shit wine here,” Matteo says simply, picking up his menu. “I mean, they do buy it. But Emilio refuses to serve it to anyone who’s been here more than once in their life.”
I hide my smile behind my glass, strangely pleased by this glimpse of a different Matteo—one who appreciates fine wine and knows intimate Italian restaurants hidden away in quiet neighborhoods.
One who might possibly be taking me on an actual date.
The thought makes my pulse quicken in a way that has everything to do with the way the light catches the angles of his face, softening the scars and highlighting the intensity of his gaze when it lands on me.
Wait a minute. Am I excited about a date with Matteo Russo? The same man who’s making me dance like a puppet on a string just because I temporarily borrowed his lighter?
Pin that thought. Pin it deep.
“See anything you like?” Matteo asks, and I realize I’ve been staring at him instead of my menu.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I answer, the words carrying more weight than I intended.
The server materializes the second I decide, and I can’t help snorting at the way it seems like he reads my thoughts. Wouldn’t that be something.
After we’ve ordered, he takes our pretty menus, and for a few beats, we’re left with nothing but the clink of glassware and the quiet hum of jazz. I trace the rim of my wineglass with a fingertip.
This shouldn’t feel easy. It should feel like a trap—another test, another reminder that every freedom I have is on loan from him. But Matteo’s attention isn’t the sharp, dissecting kind right now. It’s steady, watchful, the kind that warms instead of cuts.
Out of nowhere, his words from this morning slither into my mind. “I love you.” Is that why we’re here? Why he’s taking me on a date? Wait… holy shit. Are we already in a real relationship and I was too slow at picking up on the clues?
Matteo asking me about previous jobs pulls me out of my thoughts, and I almost drop my guard completely at the normalcy of it.
“You know,” I say, tapping my fingers against the table. “I miss my French dog food client.”
“Oh, yeah?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.
“Yep,” I confirm, popping the P.
I tell him about my old client who was very adamant there are millions to be made by rebranding a dog food company as a luxury lifestyle. And when I pull my phone out to show Matteo pictures of the product mockups, he laughs—really laughs—and something in my chest loosens.
The conversation drifts from work to travel, somewhere, Emilio returns with two slices of steaming pizza on a wooden board. The smell of basil and roasted tomatoes fills the space between us.
I take a slice, biting into it just to prove I can. The cheese stretches, molten and perfect, and I almost moan when the plentiful flavors all hit my tongue simultaneously.
“You can admit it,” Matteo says smugly while picking up his own slice. “It’s the best pizza you’ve ever had, right?”
I take my time chewing and wash the slice down with more of that heavenly wine. “It’s alright,” I reply coyly. “For a pizza with pineapple on it, it is surprisingly good.”
He scoffs. “Fucking hell, don’t tell me you’re one of those people.”
While we get into a heated debate about whether pineapple belongs on pizza or not, our plates get cleared and the main course served.
“No, absolutely not,” I declare, pointing my fork at Matteo like a weapon. “You cannot possibly think pineapple belongs on pizza. That’s grounds for immediate relationship termination, fake or otherwise.” The words tumble out easily.
His gray eye crinkles at the corner, and I realize with a jolt that I’m actually enjoying myself—enjoying him—in a way that has nothing to do with our arrangement and everything to do with the man across the table.
“It’s fruit and cheese,” Matteo counters, cutting into his veal with surgical precision. “People eat that together all the time.”
“On charcuterie boards, not on perfectly innocent pizzas that never hurt anyone.” I take a bite of my pasta, closing my eyes at the explosion of flavor. “God, this is incredible.”
“Told you.” There’s something almost smug in his tone, like he’s personally responsible for the perfection of my tagliatelle.
I twirl another forkful, watching him through my lashes. “Let me guess, you own this place too?”
“No,” he says, surprising me. “But Emilio was a friend of my father’s. I’ve been coming here since I was a kid.”
The image of tiny Matteo sitting in this same booth, feet dangling above the floor, is so incongruous with the dangerous man before me that it makes me pause mid-bite.
It’s easy to forget he wasn’t born with a knife in his hand and blood on his knuckles. That somewhere in his past is a child who hadn’t yet learned to kill.
“You’re fidgeting,” he observes after a few moments of silence. “Is something bothering you?”
I set down my fork. “I’m fine,” I deflect, reaching for my wineglass.
The truth is that nothing is bothering me. I mean, not really. I’m just… overwhelmed. Yeah, I think that’s what this is.
When I first met Matteo, I was obviously insanely attracted to him. But in some ways, crossing paths with him has felt like… I don’t know. A cosmic fuck you, Raven Carter. Like all the times I’ve gotten away with theft finally caught up with me.
And I’d just gotten used to that thought, even talked myself into being okay with owing him a favor. Now, he’s pulled the rug from under me again by falling in love with me and now taking me on a date. That’s what this is, right? It has to be.
Matteo’s hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my wrist before I can grab the glass. His touch is light but immovable, a gentle reminder of his strength. “Don’t lie to me, Raven.”
I sigh, twisting my hand until he releases me. “It’s nothing, really. Just… I just need time to get used to all of this,” I try to explain. “And I miss my family.”
Wait… where the hell did that come from?
“I get it,” he assures me, watching me with an unnerving intensity that makes me feel like he’s cataloging every micro-expression. “Tell me about them. Your family.”
The request feels weirdly sincere, and my mouth jumps in before my brain can veto it. “They’re a lot. My mom’s basically a one-woman natural disaster. Category fun and not fatal.”
That makes him snort. “And your dad?” Matteo asks softly as he takes another bite of his food that’s almost gone.
I push my plate away, no longer hungry, and instead pour more wine. “My dad’s a lot calmer. He balances her out.”
“Go on,” Matteo encourages, which I do after downing half my glass of wine.
“He’s super methodical and patient, but with this weird, dry sense of humor that sneaks up on you.” I smile fondly. “He taught us to pick locks when I was eight because he said it was a practical life skill.”
“Us? You and your mom?” he asks, sounding weirdly excited by that. Psycho.
I roll my eyes. “No, me and Leo.” I twirl a loose strand of hair around my finger. “We’re complete opposites. He’s the responsible one. An architect with a steady boyfriend. I’m the chaos twin.”
“I never would have guessed,” Matteo chuckles.
When our meals are cleared and dessert menus appear, Matteo orders something by pointing at his menu and whispering to the server. It doesn’t take long for a single tiramisu to arrive with two spoons.
“For sharing,” Matteo explains, sliding the plate to the center of the table.
I dip my spoon into the creamy layers, liking the intimacy of sharing dessert. “So, what’s your family like?” I ask before I can stop myself.
His expression shutters briefly. But instead of shutting down, he surprises me. “I lost my parents when I was twelve,” he says, voice even. “The Sicilians who used to control Cleveland, the Greco family, set fire to our house, and my mom and dad never made it out.”