Chapter 33
Raven
Pain slams through my skull like someone’s using a jackhammer against my temple. I try to open my eyes, but the world spins in sickening waves, forcing them shut again.
There’s something soft beneath me, not the hard concrete I last remember. The sheets smell like smoke, whiskey, and something else—something distinctly Matteo. My fingers curl into fabric that feels too expensive for any place I’d normally be.
Where am I? And, more importantly, where is he?
“Matteo,” I whisper. Or at least I think I do.
A voice breaks through the fog. “Lee?” It’s not him. “Oh, thank God. Can you hear me?”
I force my eyes open again, ignoring the nauseating swirl of colors. Daylight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating a massive bedroom done in charcoal gray and midnight blue.
Slowly, recognition clicks, I’m in Matteo’s penthouse. I’ve only been here once before, that first night when he showed me what it would mean to belong to him.
“Piper?” I rasp, my throat sandpaper-dry.
She sits beside the bed, her usually perfect appearance thoroughly wrecked. Hair pulled back in a messy bun, eyes red-rimmed and swollen, designer clothes wrinkled like she’s been wearing them for days.
“Here, drink this.” She helps me lift my head, and unholy fuck that hurts.
I swallow greedily from the glass of water she holds to my lips. The cool liquid both heaven and torture as it slides down my raw throat. When I try to sit up, lightning bolts of pain shoot across my ribcage, and those jackhammers in my head are set to max.
“Don’t move too fast,” Piper warns, easing me back against the pillows. “You’ve been out for over a day.”
A day? Images flash through my mind in violent bursts. Dying my hair pink, drinking with Piper, dancing at the Leone Room, Matteo’s rage as he cut off that asshole’s fingers, my knife against his throat, his empty eye socket staring back at me.
And… a giggle I’m unable to stop bursts out of me as I recall the blood on his chest where I cut him. God, maybe I’m the psycho since that’s distinctly not funny.
“Lee, are you okay?”
I squeeze my eyes closed and let my mind continue its leisurely stroll down memory lane. Darkness… so much darkness. Three bodies. Kayla’s throat slashed, Vito’s head… I swallow bile that rises suddenly.
Fuck, Gia trying to speak. What was it she said? She wanted me to do something, didn’t she? All I remember is Matteo shoving me—hard—out of the way. The wall rushing toward me.
Then… the gunshot.
Matteo.
My heart lurches painfully in my chest as memories crash into place. “Where is he?” The words tear from my mouth with desperate urgency.
Piper bites her lip, something flashing across her face that makes my stomach drop. “You need to rest—”
“Where. Is. Matteo?” Each word lands like a stone, my voice gaining strength even as my head threatens to split open.
“He’s…” She stops, takes a breath. “He’s alive. He’s here.”
Relief floods me so powerfully that for a moment I can’t breathe. But there’s something in her tone, in the way she won’t quite meet my eyes.
“I want to see him,” I demand, already pushing myself up despite the explosion of pain it causes.
“Lee, please.” Piper’s hand on my shoulder tries to guide me back down. “You have a concussion. Your body needs time to heal.”
“I need to see him, Pipes.”
“What you need,” she snaps, voice suddenly sharp, “is to get as far away from here as possible.”
I freeze, staring at her. “What?”
Tears well in her eyes, spilling over as she leans closer. “This is insane, Lee. You were almost killed. People were killed and someone tried to kill Matteo. You got caught in the crossfire of whatever the fuck he’s doing—”
“Stop,” I croak, hating how weak my voice is. “Stop it before it’s too late. Before you say something you can’t take back.”
“It’s his fault you were hurt,” she continues, her mouth set in a grim line that tells me she’s already made up her mind.
A startling cold settles in my chest, and for the first time since meeting Piper at college, I despise her. “Oh, really?” I challenge. “Is that how it is with you and Lorenzo? That if you get hurt, it’s his fault?”
“That’s different.” She wipes at her tears angrily.
“How?” I demand. “How is it different, Pipes?”
“I can help you,” she continues as if I haven’t spoken. “You could go anywhere. Back to Paris. Or to London, fucking Antarctica if that’s what it takes. You could start over somewhere safe.”
Even though the genuine fear in her voice tugs at my heartstrings, it can’t compete with the desperate need to see Matteo, to touch him, to verify with my own eyes and hands that he’s alive.
I push the covers back, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. Every movement sends daggers of pain through me.
“What are you doing?” Piper rushes to my side. “You can’t—”
“Watch me.” I grit my teeth, forcing myself to stand. The room tilts alarmingly, but I lock my knees and refuse to fall. I’m wearing one of Matteo’s t-shirts, nothing else.
“You have a concussion,” Piper explains desperately, hovering like she’s afraid I’ll topple over. “A mild wrist sprain, bruised ribs, and… you could have died. The doctor said—”
“I don’t care what the doctor said.” I take a step toward the door, then another, each movement a triumph of will over pain. “Where is he, Pipes? Where’s Matteo?”
Now that I’m upright and moving, I’m hit with an overwhelming need to pee. Which is just so fucking typical. Because with the way my bladder’s screaming at me, it can’t wait.
“I need the bathroom,” I grind out, turning around.
Piper follows me into the adjoining bathroom, leaning against the closed door while I take care of business. It’s far from the first time we’ve made a trip out of something as basic as peeing, but this time her hovering is annoying me.
When I stand back up, the room spins, and my stomach lurches threateningly, but I plant my feet and wash my hands. When I’m done, I look her directly in the eyes.
Piper has been my best friend for so long. She’s stood by me through every disaster of my own making. She loves me. But she doesn’t understand.
“I need him, Pipes,” I say, my voice steadier than it has any right to be. “Not later. Not when it’s safe. Now.”
“You don’t—”
“When you decided you wanted Lorenzo,” I cut her off, “after he literally stalked you for months, after he basically forced you to work for him and abused his power as your employer in ways that would make any HR department run in the other direction, what did I say?”
She falls silent, looking away. “You wanted me to call the police.”
I can’t help but smile. “That was after he broke into your apartment and basically sleep-raped you—”
“He did not,” she gasps.
“Did too,” I volley. “Neither of us can claim the moral high ground here, okay? Both our men are fucked up, and we’re worse for loving it.
But it is what it is. I didn’t understand it with Lorenzo.
I thought you were making the biggest mistake of your life.
But I stood by you because it was your choice to make, not mine. ”
Piper’s shoulders slump in defeat. She sniffles, wiping at her tears with the back of her hand. “He only just agreed to leave your side an hour ago. He’s in the kitchen with his cousins.”
Relief washes through me, so powerful my knees nearly give out. He’s here. He’s alive. He’s just down the hall.
“Take me to him,” I say, the words somewhere between a command and a plea.
Piper sighs, resignation and worry warring on her face. But she nods, offering her arm for support as we leave the bathroom.
Each step is agony, but with every painful inch forward, I’m closer to him. And that’s all that matters.
The hallway stretches like a never-ending tunnel, each step a special kind of torture. My ribs scream with every breath, and my head feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise. Okay, it’s not that bad. But close. Kind of.
Piper hovers beside me, her arm supporting more of my weight than I want to admit. My bare legs wobble beneath me, goosebumps rising on my skin despite the June warmth filtering through distant windows.
“Slow down,” Piper whispers, tightening her grip on my waist as I stumble. “You’re going to fall.”
“I don’t care.” The words come out harsher than intended, but they’re honest. I’d crawl if I had to.
We round a corner, and the hallway opens into a massive kitchen. Sunlight floods through floor-to-ceiling windows, bouncing off stainless steel appliances that look like they’ve never been used.
The granite island in the center gleams with not-quite-reflected light, surrounded by four men whose quiet conversation stops abruptly as we appear. The kitchen itself is a study in contradictions.
Professional-grade everything that appears untouched beside scattered coffee cups and abandoned whiskey glasses. A chef’s knife block sits next to what is very obviously a handgun, both treated with equal casualness.
Lorenzo stands nearest to us, his fingers curled around a steaming mug, his expression hardening when he sees me. Dick. Beside him, a man leans against the counter, arms crossed, face unreadable. Another sits on a stool, already looking amused at whatever’s about to unfold.
And then there’s Matteo.
He stands with his back to the sink, shirtless, dark ink sprawling across his torso. A white bandage wraps around his left bicep, stark against his tattooed skin. The eyepatch is back, the strap disappearing into his disheveled hair.
His jaw is darkened with stubble, his remaining eye bloodshot from what I’d guess is no sleep. He looks exhausted. Dangerous. Perfect.
“Raven—” Piper starts, but I’ve already torn myself from her grip.
Pain explodes through every nerve ending as I launch myself across the kitchen. My vision blurs at the edges, but I don’t slow down. I don’t falter.
Matteo straightens, his eye widening a fraction before I collide with him. My legs wrap around his waist, my arms around his neck as I crush my mouth against his. The impact sends fresh waves of agony radiating from my injuries, but I couldn’t care less.
He’s alive. He’s here. He’s mine. All fucking mine.
His hands instinctively grip my thighs, holding me steady as he returns the kiss with equal ferocity. I moan at the familiar taste of coffee and whiskey and Matteo. His tongue claims my mouth without hesitation, without the slightest acknowledgment that we have an audience.
There’s a choked sound from someone—probably Piper—and a low whistle that must be from one of the cousins since Lorenzo would never whistle at me. It all fades into the background noise.
Matteo is alive, solid and warm against me, his heart hammering against my chest where our bodies press together.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, he doesn’t set me down. Instead, he moves to the counter and places me on it, positioning himself between my spread legs. His hands slide up to cradle my face, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough with emotion I’m not sure he even recognizes.
“You got shot,” I counter, my hands moving to his bandaged arm. The white gauze is pristine—no blood seeping through. But the thought of how close the bullet came makes my stomach twist.
“Barely.” His lips quirk up at one corner, that dangerous half-smile I’ve come to crave. “It’s just a scratch.”
“I don’t care if it’s a fucking paper cut.” I grab his face between my hands, fingers digging into his jawline hard enough to leave marks. “If you ever die on me, I’ll bring you back to life just so I can kill you myself. Understand?”
A startled laugh bursts from his throat. “Is that your way of saying you missed me, Little Thief?”
“It’s my way of saying you don’t get to leave me.” My voice breaks embarrassingly, and I’m suddenly, acutely aware of our audience. But I don’t look away from Matteo. “Not ever. You claimed me, remember? So now you’re stuck with me.”
His expression shifts into something almost tender, so at odds with the violence that usually lives in his features that it steals my breath. “Not planning on it,” he murmurs, leaning in to press his forehead against mine.
“Jesus Christ,” someone mutters from somewhere behind Matteo. “Get a room.”
“We’re in my apartment,” Matteo growls without turning around. “Every room is my fucking room.”
Is it any wonder I love him with epic comebacks like that?
Another one laughs loudly in the otherwise quiet kitchen. “At least we now know why he wouldn’t leave her bedside for twenty-four fucking hours. I’ve never seen you so whipped, cousin.”
“Keep talking,” Matteo replies, still looking only at me, “and I’ll show you whipped in ways that’ll give you nightmares.”
“You have whips?” I murmur, strangely excited.
“Children, please,” Lorenzo interjects, and I feel Piper moving toward him, her presence shifting from my periphery to his side.
I want to look at her, to see if there’s disappointment or acceptance in her eyes, but I can’t tear my gaze from Matteo’s. Up close, I can see the exhaustion etched into the lines around his eye, the tension still held in his shoulders.
“You’re hurt,” he says, fingers gentle as they brush over the bump on the back of my head.
“So are you,” I counter, lightly touching the bandage on his arm.
“I’ve had worse.”
“So have I,” I dutifully point out.
“Doubtful.”
“Try me.”
“I’ve already tried you, Little Thief.”
The banter feels normal, necessary, like finding solid ground after an earthquake. I trail my fingers down his chest, over the tattoos I’m still memorizing, to rest above his heart. I can feel it beating, strong and steady, proof that he’s alive.
“Don’t do it again,” I whisper, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “Don’t push me out of the way.”
His eye narrows. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
“Then I hope you like being resurrected, because I meant what I said about killing you myself.”
I’m vaguely aware of movement around us—Lorenzo murmuring something to Piper, one cousin making a comment about finding breakfast, the other grabbing his phone. But none of it matters.
Not when Matteo’s looking at me like I’m the answer to a question he didn’t know he was asking.
“I chose you,” I tell him, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “I choose you.”
His hand slides into my pink hair, gripping just tight enough to send sparks down my spine. “I know,” he says simply, and then his mouth is on mine again, claiming, possessing.