Chapter 31
Matteo
When the door slams behind Rafe, I walk over and lock it from the inside before returning to the floor in front of the stage. It’s just us now—me and my furious Little Thief, who’s still standing on the stage.
I should be angry that she lied about being sick, that she danced half-naked for a club full of men. Instead, I’m fucking mesmerized by the way the spotlight catches in her now pink hair. The perfect color for her.
“You wanted to dance,” I say, voice low as I take a step toward her. “Dance for me, Little Thief.”
She’s a vision in her stage of undress, my suit jacket hanging open to reveal the perfect curve of her breasts, nipple piercings catching the light. The contrast of her near-nudity with the formal black of my jacket makes my mouth water.
But it’s her hair that keeps drawing my eye. That shocking, defiant pink that frames her face like a warning sign.
“I love what you’ve done with your hair,” I add, reaching to touch a strand. “It suits you.”
Her eyes flash, dark and dangerous. Without warning, she jumps down from the stage, closing the short distance between us with a thud that seems to shake the floor. The jacket flutters open wider with the impact, but she doesn’t bother closing it as she storms toward me.
“Fuck you.” The words tear from her throat, raw and jagged. She pushes into my personal space, all heat and fury and perfect, perfect chaos. “Don’t you dare act like this is normal. Like you didn’t send me to meet your ex without a single fucking warning.”
I blink. “My ex?”
“Tony,” she hisses, pushing a finger into my chest. “Or should I say, Antonia?”
I absolutely fucking hate when my cousins are right. But it’s nothing compared to how much I loathe knowing that Raven’s been avoiding me due to a misunderstanding I unknowingly created.
“Tony isn’t my ex,” I say carefully.
“Bullshit.” She’s close enough that I can count her eyelashes, see the gold flecks in her eyes that burn with righteous anger. “She knew you. And you… you said you love me, Matteo. You said it when you were inside me.”
My heart pounds harder at the memory. I said those words, and I meant them. I still do.
“And then you use me like a fucking errand girl,” she continues, hands balling into fists at her sides. Her entire body trembles with the force of her rage, pink hair falling in disarray around her flushed face. The sight is magnificent.
“That’s not what happened,” I growl, my control slipping. “Tony isn’t my ex. She’s a contact. An informant. Someone who had information I needed.”
“Then why didn’t you just say that?” Her voice cracks, something raw and vulnerable bleeding through the anger. “Why didn’t you tell me who she was instead of just sending me into that bathroom blind?”
I run a hand through my hair, frustration mounting. “I didn’t think it would matter to you.”
“It mattered to me!” Her voice rises, filling the empty club. “It mattered because I thought it was a date. An actual date with a man who said he loves me. And instead, it was just another job.” She laughs, but it’s not a joyful sound.
Her words hit like a physical blow, and for a moment, I’m speechless. She thought it was a date. She wanted it to be a date. Something about that knowledge makes my chest tighten in a way that’s unfamiliar and almost painful.
The heat of her body radiates against mine as I step closer. “The Tony thing was just unfortunate timing.”
“Unfortunate timing?” She laughs, the sound sharp as broken glass. “You knew she’d be there. You arranged to meet her.”
There’s no denying she’s right. Just as there’s no simple truth. It’s messy because I didn’t fucking think. I’m the one who made it complicated. “Yes,” I admit. “I needed that information. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t also a date.”
Sighing, I decide to be completely honest.
“It was a date for me, Little Thief.”
Her chest heaves with each breath, anger and something else—hurt, maybe—making her eyes glitter like polished obsidian.
“You might have needed that information, Matteo. But you decided it was more important than just being honest.” She inhales sharply. “I know who you are, and unlike Piper, I don’t shy away when shit gets complicated or bloody.”
Her voice’s rising again, and each syllable is dripping with disdain.
“But I refuse to be your pawn,” she screams, her nostrils vibrating. “You broke into my apartment and blackmailed me. And then… then you started whispering sweet nothings in my ear. What’s really pissing me off is that I believed you. That’s how stupid I am.”
My measured breathing is the only thing keeping me from grabbing her, from silencing her accusations with my mouth on hers. I watch her come apart before me, all that glorious chaos spilling out, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“I love you,” I say simply.
She scoffs. “Bullshit. You don’t even know me.”
Reaching for her face, I brush my thumb across her cheek.
“I know enough,” I rasp. “I know you’re chaos in human form.
I know you stole my lighter because you wanted a piece of me, not because you needed it.
I know you’re not afraid of blood or violence—you watched me cut off a man’s fingers, and you got wet from it. ”
Her breath catches, pupils dilating at my words. “You’re delusional,” she whispers, but there’s no conviction behind it.
“I know you dyed your hair pink because you were hurt and angry, because you wanted to become someone new.” My hand slides to her neck, feeling her pulse race beneath my palm. “And I know you’re here right now, half-naked and furious, because some part of you still wants me as much as I want you.”
For a second, I think she might crumble, might let me pull her against me and end this standoff. But my Little Thief is full of surprises.
“You,” she says, the word precise and cutting, “are the most arrogant, manipulative, psychopathic asshole I have ever met.”
Her hands push against my chest, creating space between us.
“And if you think I’m going to forgive you because you cut off some creep’s fingers or because you say pretty words, you’re even crazier than I thought.”
I can’t help it, I smile. “There she is,” I murmur. “There’s my chaos.”
Her palm connects with my chest in a sharp slap that echoes through the empty club. Then another. And another. She’s unleashed now, pink hair flying as she pounds her fists against me.
“You manipulative…”
Punch.
“Arrogant …”
Punch.
“Piece of shit!”
Her knuckles catch my collarbone, and pain blooms bright and beautiful. I let her continue, absorbing each blow like a gift. The violence of her is intoxicating—all that controlled chaos finally breaking free, directed at me like a storm finding land.
“You don’t get to decide what I feel,” she snarls, punctuating each word with another hit.
I count seven blows before I decide enough is enough. On the eighth, I catch her wrists mid-strike, feeling the delicate bones beneath my fingers, the rapid flutter of her pulse against my thumb. She struggles, twisting in my grip, but I hold firm.
“Are you done?” I ask, my voice steady despite the fire burning through my veins.
“Fuck you,” she spits, attempting to knee me in the groin.
I expect the move, turning so her knee grazes my thigh instead. In one fluid motion, I move us, pinning her against the nearest wall. My hand leaves her wrist to wrap around her throat, squeezing until her breathing becomes ragged.
“Listen to me,” I growl, bringing my face close to hers. “You’re the fucking love of my life. And I’m sorry about Tony. You’re right, I should have warned you. But don’t you ever question how I feel.”
Her body presses against mine, warm and vibrant even through the layers of clothing between us. My suit jacket is completely open, leaving her chest bare against my shirt. I can feel her heart hammering, a wild rhythm that matches the pulse throbbing in my own throat.
“Prove it,” she challenges, eyes burning into mine. “Prove you love me.”
“How?” The word comes out rougher than I intend. “You want flowers? Fucking poetry?”
She laughs, the sound sharp and without humor. “I want honesty. I want you to stop pretending you’re in control all the time. I want to see the real Matteo Russo, not this…” she gestures at me with her free hand, “… calculated bullshit.”
Something shifts inside me, tectonic plates of restraint grinding against the pressure of her demand. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” I warn, my fingers tightening slightly around her throat.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she smirks, and the worst part is I believe her. “I’ve seen what you do to people who cross you.” Her eyes flick to the bloodstain on the stage. “Show me who you really are. No holding back.”
I fight against my temper, against the urge to give her exactly what she’s asking for. Because once that door is opened, there’s no closing it again. My thumb traces the delicate line of her jaw, a gentle touch at odds with the tension vibrating between us.
“You think I’m holding back?” I ask, leaning closer until our breaths mingle. “You have no idea what I’m capable of, Little Thief.”
“Then show me,” she whispers, the words a dare, a challenge, a prayer.
Something inside me snaps. I crush my mouth to hers, all pretense of gentleness gone. The kiss is brutal, punishing, my teeth catching her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. I taste copper and sweetness as my tongue invades her mouth, claiming, conquering.
To my surprise—and dark delight—she kisses me back just as fiercely. Her free hand fists in my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, her body arching against mine as if she’s trying to climb inside me. It’s not surrender; it’s escalation.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard, pupils blown wide with desire and adrenaline.
“Is that what you wanted?” I ask, voice rough. “To see the monster?”
She licks her lips, tasting her own blood. “That’s just a preview,” she says. “I want all of it. The truth. The real you.”
“Why?” I demand, genuinely baffled by her persistence. “Why push this?”
“Because I’m tired of being lied to,” she says, and there’s something raw in her voice that wasn’t there before. “Because I’m tired of being a fucking afterthought.”
“You’ve never been an afterthought to me,” I insist.
“No?” Her laugh is bitter. “Then why am I always the last to know? Why do I have to find out who Tony is in a fucking bathroom? Why do I have to guess at what game you’re playing?”
Her words cut deeper than they should, finding vulnerabilities I didn’t know I had. “There is no game, Raven. Not with you.”
“Everything’s a game to you,” she spits. “The favors, the Leone Room, the fake relationship—it’s all just pieces on a board.”
I press her harder against the wall, frustration mounting. “You think I cut off a man’s fingers for a game? You think I say I love you as a fucking strategy?”
“I don’t know,” she admits, and for the first time, I see genuine confusion beneath the anger. “That’s the problem. I don’t know which parts are real.”
Her words hit me like a physical blow, the truth in them undeniable. I’ve spent so long compartmentalizing, separating the monster from the man, that I’m not sure where one ends and the other begins anymore.
I loosen my grip on her throat, sliding my hand to cup the back of her neck instead. “All of it,” I tell her, the confession dragged from somewhere deep inside me. “All of it is real.”
Her expression changes. Then, in a move so quick I almost miss it, her hand slips to her thigh-high boot. Before I can react, cold metal presses against my throat, the edge of a blade kissing my skin with deadly promise.
My breath catches, the same jolt of adrenaline felt cutting off that bastard’s fingers roaring back to life. Blood rushes south so fast I feel lightheaded, my cock hardening instantly against her hip.
“Are you trying to turn me on?” I whisper, the words scraped from my throat as the knife presses slightly deeper.
Her eyes widen fractionally, registering my reaction. Her lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile. “No, I’m trying to keep you honest,” she replies, pressing the flat of the blade more firmly against my skin. “No more half-truths. No more games.”
I swallow, feeling the blade move with my throat. “Ask me what you want to know.”
Her gaze travels from my eye to my eyepatch, curiosity mingling with determination in her expression. “Take it off,” she demands. “I want to see what you’re hiding.”
“No,” I decide.