Chapter 25 Emilio #2
Matteo was staring at Stefan with an intensity that made the air feel electric. His hands were clenched on the armrests. His entire body was coiled like a spring about to release.
"Matteo?" Sandro's voice was quiet. "You interested?"
"That's Giuseppe Romano's youngest son." Matteo didn't look away from Stefan. "The one they always overlook. Too soft for the family business. They dress him up and parade him around at functions but never let him do anything real."
On stage, Stefan met Matteo's stare. Didn't look away. Didn't flinch. Just stared back with those defiant green eyes like he was challenging Matteo to see him. Really see him.
Something dark and possessive flared across Matteo's face.
"We'll start the bidding at fifty thousand," the auctioneer said.
Hands went up immediately. Stefan was from a powerful family. Buying his companionship was buying access. Influence. The kind of connections that couldn't be purchased anywhere else.
The bid climbed quickly. Seventy-five thousand. Ninety. One hundred.
Stefan stood perfectly still through all of it. His expression never changed. But I saw his hands clench slightly at his sides. The only sign this was affecting him.
"One hundred twenty-five thousand," someone called out.
"One hundred fifty," another voice countered.
The bidding continued. I watched Matteo watch Stefan. Watched the predatory focus. The absolute attention. This wasn't casual interest. This was fixation.
I'd seen Sandro look at me like that once. In the beginning. When he was deciding whether to pursue me or let me go. That same intensity. That same possessive calculation.
Nothing good had come from Sandro's fixation on me—or nothing traditionally good, anyway. We'd destroyed professional boundaries and ethical guidelines and probably several laws. We'd corrupted each other in ways that couldn't be undone.
And now I was watching Matteo develop the exact same obsession with a man being sold on a stage.
"One hundred seventy-five thousand," a woman called out.
Matteo's jaw clenched. His hands tightened on the armrests.
Don't bid, I thought. Don't do this to yourself. To him.
But I already knew it was too late. The decision was made. I could see it in Matteo's eyes. He was going to have Stefan Romano. One way or another.
"Two hundred thousand." A man in the front row. Confident. Final.
The auctioneer smiled. "Two hundred thousand. Going once—"
"Two hundred fifty thousand."
"Two hundred fifty thousand," the auctioneer repeated. "An excellent bid. Going once—"
I felt Matteo tense beside Sandro. Saw his hands grip the armrests until his knuckles went white.
Sandro's hand moved to Matteo's wrist. A warning. A restraint.
Matteo didn't move. Didn't bid. Just stared at Stefan with an intensity that made the air feel electric.
"Going twice—"
Stefan's eyes found Matteo's in the crowd. Held his gaze. Something passed between them. A challenge. A recognition. A moment of connection that felt far too intimate for a room full of strangers.
"Sold!" the auctioneer announced. "To Mr. Nicholas for two hundred fifty thousand dollars. Congratulations, sir."
An investment banker I recognized from the financial pages stood and acknowledged the win with a satisfied nod. He looked pleased. Like he'd just purchased a valuable asset instead of a human being.
Stefan's expression went carefully blank. The defiance that had flashed in his eyes when he looked at Matteo disappeared behind a professional mask. He was led off the stage by an attendant, walking with his head high despite the degrading circumstances.
But I saw the way his hands clenched at his sides. The only sign this was affecting him at all.
Matteo tracked Stefan's movement through the crowd. Watched him disappear into a private room with the banker who'd bought him. His entire body was coiled. Predatory. Like he was calculating. Planning. Deciding when to hunt.
The auction continued with a few more items. Luxury cars. Rare wines. Things designed to let the wealthy attendees feel like they were part of an exclusive club instead of criminals buying stolen goods and human beings.
I sat through it in numb silence. Processing what I'd witnessed. The casual cruelty. The sophisticated veneer over something fundamentally ugly.
When it finally ended, people stood and mingled. Networking. Making connections. Acting like this was a normal society event instead of something that should've resulted in arrests.
Sandro stood. "We should leave."
I followed him gratefully. Ready to escape this place. But Matteo wasn't with us. I looked back and saw him in a corner talking on his phone. His expression was dark. Focused.
Sandro saw it too. "Wait here," he said quietly.
He walked over to Matteo. Pulled him aside into a quieter corner. I couldn't hear what they were saying but I saw Sandro's serious expression. Saw Matteo's defiant one. Saw the tension between them.
After a few minutes, Sandro returned. Matteo followed but split off toward the exit without a word.
"What was that about?" I asked.
"Damage control." Sandro's hand found mine. "Let's go."
We found Thomas waiting outside. Got in. Matteo was already in the front passenger seat. Silent. Staring out the window with that same predatory focus.
The drive back to Manhattan was tense. Quiet. I watched the city pass by and tried to process everything I'd seen.
Those people on stage. Being sold. The fear in their eyes despite the claims of consent.
Stefan Romano's defiant stare. The way he'd looked at Matteo like he was seeing salvation. Or damnation. Or both.
The casual way everyone had participated in something fundamentally wrong and called it business.
When we reached Inferno, Matteo got out without a word. Still silent. Still focused on something none of us could see. He set off towards the parking garage to his own car.
Sandro and I went inside. He poured us both drinks. We stood in his living room and I finally asked the question that had been building all night.
"How can you be part of a world where people are bought and sold like property?"
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I don't participate in that part. I was there for information and connections. To see how the Costellos operate. To understand what leverage they might have." He took a drink. "Not to buy people."
"Does that make it better? Being there but not participating?"
"No." His voice was flat. Honest. "It doesn't make it better. I'm complicit by attending. By not stopping it. By being part of the system that allows it to exist."
"Then why go?"
"Because that's my world, Emilio. That's the reality of how power operates in the shadows. I can't change it overnight." He set down his glass and pulled me close. "But I can start changing it slowly. Starting by never attending another event like that."
I looked at him. Searched his face for signs he was just telling me what I wanted to hear.
But I saw sincerity. Shame, even. And determination.
"You mean that?"
"Yes. I saw your face tonight. Saw how much it disgusted you. And you're right to be disgusted." He cupped my face. "I want to be better than this. Better than my world requires me to be. If that means refusing invitations and losing connections, so be it."
"That could hurt your business."
"My business will survive. It survived before tonight. What I have with you is more important than maintaining relationships with people who traffic in human beings." He kissed me softly. "You make me want to be better. I'm going to try. Starting now."
I kissed him back. Believed him. Chose to believe him because the alternative was accepting that the man I loved was fundamentally irredeemable.
"What about Matteo?" I asked. "What were you two talking about?"
"He's fixated on Stefan Romano. I warned him that getting involved would be complicated. Dangerous. Potentially catastrophic for all of us." Sandro sighed. "He said he understood. But I don't believe him."
"Why not?"
"Because I recognize that look. I had the same look when I decided I wanted you." He pulled me toward the bedroom. "Matteo's going to do something stupid. I just hope I can minimize the damage when he does."
We went to bed without speaking. The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable—it was weighted with things we both needed to say but didn't have words for yet.
Sandro undressed me slowly. Carefully. Like I was something precious that the night had tried to damage. His fingers traced the lines of my shoulders, my chest, my stomach. Mapping me with a reverence I'd never felt from him before.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. His hands stilled on my hips. "For making you see that. For exposing you to that world."
"You didn't make me. I chose to go."
"Because I asked you to." His eyes met mine. Dark and full of guilt. "I wanted you to see all of it. To understand what my world really looks like. But I didn't think about what it would cost you to witness it."
I pulled him down to me. Kissed him to stop the apology I could feel building. "I'm still here. That hasn't changed."
"I know. That's what terrifies me." His mouth found my neck. "That you'd still choose this. Still choose me. After seeing what you saw tonight."
"Always." I arched into his touch. "Stop apologizing and show me something beautiful. Remind me that there's more to your world than what I witnessed tonight."
He made a sound low in his throat—half groan, half surrender. Then his mouth was on mine and he was kissing me like I was oxygen and he'd been drowning.
There was desperation in the kiss. Apology and need and something that felt like fear. Fear that I'd pull away. That I'd realize what I'd signed up for and run.
I kissed him back with equal intensity. Showing him I wasn't going anywhere. That I'd meant what I said. That loving him meant accepting all of it—the beauty and the ugliness intertwined.
His hands mapped my body with exquisite slowness. Learning me all over again. Like he needed to memorize every response. Every place that made me gasp. Every touch that made me arch.
"Sandro—" His name came out breathless. Pleading.
"I've got you." His mouth moved lower. Kissed down my chest. My stomach. "Let me take care of you. Let me make this good."
He took me in his mouth and I stopped thinking about auctions and stolen art and people being sold like property. There was only sensation. Only pleasure. Only Sandro's mouth and hands worshipping me like I was sacred.
When I was trembling and desperate, he pulled back. Reached for supplies. Prepared me with gentle fingers that took their time. That made sure I was ready. That prioritized my pleasure over his own need.
"I need you," I gasped. "Please—"
"I know. I've got you." He positioned himself. Pushed inside slowly. Carefully. Watching my face for any sign of discomfort.
I wrapped my legs around his hips and pulled him deeper. "Don't hold back. I'm not fragile."
"Tonight you are." He kissed me softly. "Tonight I need to be gentle with you. Need to prove that this—" he moved, slow and deep, "—is real. That what we have is beautiful."
He made love to me with a tenderness I'd never experienced before. Long, slow strokes that built heat gradually. That weren't about reaching the peak but about the journey there. About connection more than release.
His hands framed my face. His eyes stayed locked on mine. Like he was trying to pour everything he felt into the physical connection. Everything he couldn't articulate with words.
"I love you," he said against my mouth. "God, Emilio, I love you so much it scares me."
"I love you too." I pulled him closer. Deeper. "Don't be scared. We're in this together."
"Together." He repeated it like a vow. Then he shifted angles and hit that spot inside me that made stars explode behind my eyes.
I cried out. Dug my nails into his shoulders. He did it again. And again. Building the pressure until I was shaking with it.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let go. I've got you."
When I came, it was with his name on my lips and his eyes on mine and the certain knowledge that this—this intimacy, this connection, this love—was worth every compromise I'd made to have it.
He followed moments later. Buried deep inside me. Shuddering with the force of his release. My name a broken prayer against my neck.
Afterward, he held me close. Both of us breathing hard. Sweaty and satisfied and utterly undone.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"For what?"
"For still being here. For not running. For choosing this even after seeing the worst of my world."
I turned in his arms to face him. "The worst of your world doesn't change the best of you. And you—this—" I gestured between us, "—this is the best thing I've ever had."
He kissed me. Soft and sweet and full of emotion. "I'm going to spend the rest of my life proving you didn't make a mistake. That I'm worth what you've sacrificed."
"You already have."
We lay tangled together, skin to skin, hearts beating in sync. The ugliness of the auction felt distant now. Abstract. Like it had happened to different people in a different lifetime.
This was real. This warmth. This connection. This love that had grown in the darkest soil and bloomed anyway.
I traced patterns on his chest and let myself drift. Content. Safe. Exactly where I belonged.
Afterward, lying in his arms, I thought about Stefan Romano. About the defiance in his eyes. About Matteo's predatory focus.
About how their story was just beginning while ours was still being written.
And I hoped—desperately hoped—that whatever Matteo did, it wouldn't destroy us all.
But hope felt fragile tonight.
After seeing what I'd seen.
After understanding how deep the darkness went.
After realizing that loving Sandro meant being complicit in a world I'd once believed I could fight.