Chapter 28
Matteo
Sunlight filters through the grand hall’s heavy curtains, casting the room in shadows that dance across generations of Russo family secrets hanging on the dark-paneled walls.
I slouch deeper into the leather chair, swirling seventy-year-old whiskey in a crystal glass. Enzo’s surprise arrival has turned this Tuesday morning into an impromptu family gathering, with my cousins scattered around me like a Mafia version of a Norman Rockwell painting.
Except Norman Rockwell never painted killers with perfect suits and blood-soaked hands. At least not to my knowledge.
“To family,” Remus toasts, raising his glass. The crystal catches the light, throwing prisms across the leather furniture.
We drink in unison, the burn of good whiskey before noon feeling like the most normal thing in the world. Blue cigar smoke curls toward the ceiling from Enzo’s and Rafe’s lips, the scent mingling with aged leather and mahogany.
I run my thumb over the worn metal of my lighter, the familiar motion as unconscious as breathing.
“So,” Enzo drawls, leaning back in his chair, “Cleveland’s still standing. I’m almost impressed, Matteo.” His expensive suit looks freshly pressed despite the early hour and unexpected visit. Always the perfect picture of control.
“Fuck off,” I retort with no real heat, reaching for the decanter to refill my glass. “Some of us have to get our hands dirty instead of just scowling at people until they do what we want.”
Rafe snorts, nearly choking on his whiskey. “That’s rich coming from the man who set the Bertelli warehouse on fire because they delivered the wrong shipment.”
“It wasn’t the wrong shipment,” I correct. “It was the right shipment to the wrong people. Besides, they needed the insurance money.”
Enzo’s eyebrow arches as he taps ash from his cigar. “It’s almost strange seeing you without someone on their knees, choking on your cock. Getting soft in your old age?”
“Thirty-two is hardly old age,” I counter, my finger tracing the edge of my eyepatch—a habit I’ve never managed to break. “Besides, variety is overrated.”
“Matteo Russo, advocating monogamy?” Remus whistles low. “Did you replace your glass eye with a heart? Is that why you’re wearing the eyepatch more and more?” He gestures to the fabric covering the empty socket.
My jaw tightens, the muscle jumping beneath the ink on my neck. “It’s a prosthetic, not glass, you uncultured fuck.”
The banter feels familiar, comfortable—the kind of casual cruelty that passes for affection in our family. But beneath it, something else coils in my chest.
A tension that has nothing to do with my cousins and everything to do with the fact that my phone hasn’t buzzed with Raven’s name nearly enough. Barely at all, if I’m honest.
I pull it out again, checking the screen. Nothing. My last three texts sit unanswered beneath her name. I type another message, thumbs moving before I can stop them.
Me: Starting to think you’re avoiding me, Little Thief.
I hit send, then immediately regret the vulnerability in those words. No, fuck that. The only thing I regret is not being over there right now to kick down her door.
“Earth to Matteo,” Remus’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “You planning to share with the class, or just stare at your phone like a lovesick teenager?”
“Just business,” I lie, pocketing the device.
Enzo laughs, the sound sharp and knowing. “If that’s your business face, I’d hate to see what you look like when you’re actually invested.”
Something about his tone—the subtle mockery, the implication that I’m transparent—makes something in me snap. The whiskey burns in my veins, loosening my tongue and my better judgment.
“I’m in love,” I blurt out, the words falling into the room like a live grenade.
The silence that follows is absolute. Enzo freezes mid-exhale, ash dropping from his cigar onto his pristine sleeve. Remus’s eyes widen, his glass halting halfway to his lips. Rafe, the only one who already knew, just smirks into his whiskey.
“In love,” Remus echoes. “With who? If it’s with yourself, it’s hardly announcement-worthy.”
“He’s in love with the woman he… coerced into helping him,” Rafe explains. “Raven something.”
“Raven?” Enzo asks, his tone coated in that D.C. superiority he usually reserves for politicians or us common folk when he’s figured something out we haven’t caught up to yet.
“Raven Carter,” I confirm.
Enzo bursts into laughter. Not the polite chuckle of someone humoring a joke, but full-bodied, genuine laughter that makes him lean forward in his chair.
“Something funny?” I ask, my voice dropping to a dangerous register.
He wipes at his eyes, still chuckling. “No, no. Nothing at all.”
“Then what’s with the hysterics?” I press, feeling my fingers tighten around the crystal tumbler.
“Just…” He composes himself with visible effort. “… just never thought I’d see the day. That’s all.”
Remus glances between us, confusion evident in the furrow of his brow. “Am I missing something here? Who the fuck is Raven?”
“My woman,” I answer simply.
The possessiveness in my voice surprises even me. The thought of Raven—blonde hair spread across her pillow, knife in hand, chaos in human form—sends a pulse of heat through my veins that has nothing to do with the whiskey.
“Since when do you have a ‘woman’?” Remus presses, making air quotes that make me want to break his fingers.
“Since I say I do,” I snap back, draining my glass in one swallow.
Enzo’s eyes dance with something that looks suspiciously like insider knowledge. “And does she know she’s yours?”
The question lands like a sucker punch. Does she? After Emilio’s, the way she shut the door in my face, the radio silence since—I’m not so sure anymore.
“She’s mine,” I repeat instead of answering directly. “Whether she likes it or not.”
“Healthy,” Rafe deadpans, earning him a middle finger from me.
“Where’s Piper, by the way?” Remus asks Enzo, changing the subject. “Thought she’d be with you.”
At this, Enzo’s smirk deepens. “Helping a friend,” he says cryptically. “One who’s free as a bird, if you catch my meaning.”
I don’t catch his meaning, and from the blank looks on the others’ faces, neither do they. But there’s something in Enzo’s expression—a private amusement, a joke at my expense—that makes my skin prickle with unease.
My phone remains silent in my pocket, a dead weight that feels heavier with each passing minute. I picture Raven in her apartment, ignoring my texts, and something that feels dangerously close to desperation claws at my chest.
I don’t chase. I don’t worry. I don’t sit around waiting for someone to text me back. Except, apparently, I do.
The decanter makes another round, amber liquid splashing into the crystal as morning inches toward noon. I feel the whiskey warming my blood, but it does nothing to dull the edge that forms when Remus leans forward, ashing his cigar slowly.
“About those explosions,” he starts, and just like that, the temperature in the room drops ten degrees. My jaw locks tight enough to crack teeth, the old scar tissue on my neck suddenly feeling too tight for my skin.
“Which one?” I ask, voice flat as a blade. “The one that took my eye, or the more recent attempt?”
Enzo’s gaze sharpens, picking up on the tension vibrating through me. “Both,” he says. “We haven’t had a proper family discussion about either.”
My hand finds my lighter again, flicking it open and closed in a rhythm that matches my pulse. The small flame dances, hypnotic and familiar. “Not much to discuss. Someone’s trying to burn me down. I’m going to find them first.”
I really fucking wish people would stop bringing it up. Every time, I remember the heat of it, the force throwing me backward, the smell of my own flesh burning all over again. It’s not exactly pleasant.
History repeating itself in the worst possible way. My fingers curl into a fist around my glass, knuckles whitening with the strain of not shattering it.
“We’ve got resources,” Rafe continues. “More men. Better intel. Let us help, Matteo. This isn’t just about you anymore.”
“I’ll handle it myself.” The words come out clipped, final. A statement, not a suggestion. I meet each of their gazes in turn, challenging any of them to argue. “My problem. My mess. My fucking cleanup.”
A beat of silence stretches between us, broken only by the gentle clink of ice against crystal. Then Remus nods once, sharp and decisive. “Your call,” he concedes. “But you’ll tell us when you know who’s responsible.”
It’s not a question, and I don’t treat it like one, which means I don’t have to answer.
Enzo studies me over the rim of his glass, something calculating in his expression. “We trust you, Matteo. Always have.” He pauses, lips curving into a smirk. “Even if your methods occasionally involve more property damage than strictly necessary.”
“Property damage is just restructuring with style,” I counter, feeling my mouth twitch toward a smile despite myself.
“Speaking of restructuring,” Remus cuts in, leaning back with a predatory grin, “let’s circle back to this love confession. Never thought I’d see the day Matteo would be domesticated.”
“I’m not domesticated,” I growl, my eye narrowing. “I just found someone worth keeping.”
“The lady with the knife,” Rafe supplies helpfully, earning him confused looks from the others. “She pulled a blade on some asshole at an ice cream shop. Matteo nearly creamed in his pants. Pun intended.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter, but there’s no denying the heat that pulses through me at the memory of Raven, all righteous fury and sharp edges, threatening to cut a man’s dick off for touching her.
Chaos incarnate, and somehow, impossibly, mine. Or at least she was, before everything went sideways at Emilio’s.
“You should bring her around,” Enzo suggests, his tone casual in a way that immediately puts me on edge. “Family dinner. Let us meet the woman who’s tamed the beast.”
I stare into my whiskey, watching the light fracture through crystal and liquid. “Might be a while,” I admit reluctantly. “I think I’m in the doghouse.”
All three cousins turn to me with varying degrees of interest.
“You fucked up already?” Rafe asks, sounding almost impressed. “That was fast, even for you.”
“I didn’t fuck up,” I insist, running a hand through my hair in frustration. “That’s the problem. I have no idea what happened. One minute we’re having dinner at Emilio’s, the next she’s shutting her door in my face and ignoring my texts.”
“What exactly happened at Emilio’s?” Enzo inquires, his voice suspiciously neutral.
I shrug, replaying the night in my head for the hundredth time. “Dinner was going well. We were talking, sharing dessert. She was teaching me how her father taught her to pick locks.”
“Very romantic,” Rafe deadpans.
“Then Tony showed up,” I continue, ignoring him.
“Tony?” Remus repeats. “Antonia was there?”
“Yeah,” I confirm. “I’d arranged to meet her for intel on the explosion. Sent Raven to the bathroom to get the envelope from her. When she came back she was cold, different.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Enzo pinches the bridge of his nose, looking like he’s fighting a migraine. Rafe stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. Remus just shakes his head slowly.
“What?” I demand, looking between them.
“You sent your girlfriend to meet your ex in a bathroom,” Remus states flatly. “And let me guess, you didn’t explain who Tony was. And you’re confused why she’s pissed?”
“Tony’s not my ex,” I protest, bewildered by their reaction. “I’ve never even fucked her. She’s just a contact. A valuable one.”
“A female contact you have a history with,” Rafe corrects, his voice deadly calm. “Who you call by a nickname. And you’re completely oblivious to why this might be a problem?”
Put that way, it does sound… not great.
“You’re an idiot,” Rafe announces with finality.
“A colossal fucking idiot,” Remus agrees.
“Fuck.” The word falls from my lips like a prayer. “I need to fix this.”
“Flowers,” Remus suggests. “Women love that shit.”
Rafe scoffs. “Flowers won’t fix this level of stupidity. You need to grovel.”
Enzo raises his glass in a mocking toast. “To Matteo’s first relationship crisis. May he survive it with all remaining body parts intact.”
I flip him off as I down the rest of my drink. My mind’s already racing with how to fix this, how to make Raven understand that she’s not just a tool, not just a means to an end.
She’s the chaos to my fire, and I’ll burn down the world before I let her slip away.