Chapter 4 Matteo #2
We finish at the French doors. She wants air, and I want the same.
Outside, Milan unfolds. The cathedral spire cuts the sky, a tram hums below, and the arc at the wire throws a scatter of sparks like cold confetti.
She lists three parties she should attend and then says "pizza on a curb" as if she is naming a prayer.
I tell her to do that. She laughs. The sound is small and honest, and I enjoy it.
She glances at my jacket and reads more than cloth.
I shift my stance to obscure the holster and the ridge that gives away the shape beneath.
She asks for a secret. I do not offer one.
She is sharp and calls it security, pretending she knows the trade.
Close enough. The night is honest in its cold.
The chill writes itself across her shoulders.
I could take her back inside, hand her to the room, and let the night tidy itself.
Half my head says I should do that. I do not.
“Come with me,” she says. “There is a hotel across the street. The bar cares about the pour.”
It would be simple, and it would be careless. A Falchi runner leans at the far end of the balcony, pretending to smoke while listening. The hotel will be a stage, not a refuge. Eyes and phones will be everywhere. I want a place I control.
“My suite,” I say, turning my face to her. “If we go anywhere, it will be there.”
She searches for a hook and finds none. “Is it far?” she asks.
“No,” I say.
I steer us through the door and into the press of bodies. I do not take her hand. My knuckles part a service corridor and we move under a strip of office light that smells of paper and toner. She watches me, curiosity and caution balanced on the same line. She does not break it. Good.
The driver waits in the alley, engine low and eyes on mirrors.
I open the rear door and let her slide in ahead of me.
“The hotel,” I tell him, and he pulls us smoothly into traffic, keeping a straight line toward the river and the tower where I keep a suite under an alias, close to the cathedral and the exits.
The desk does not ask for a name. The keycard opens a high-floor suite that faces the Duomo, the spire bright enough to find without lights.
The room looks like money arranged to be invisible, stone and dark wood, a low sofa no one uses, a kitchen that exists to be admired, and stationery set squarely on the desk.
I clear the pistol and lock it in the room safe.
Weapons do not lie loose where there is softness.
“This isn’t a hotel,” she says, turning in a small arc, palms open.
“No,” I reply.
“It’s controlled,” she remarks. That is sharp. Control is easy to feel, harder to name.
I pour something meant to steady, not to wound, and hand her the glass. The paper on the desk is thick and white. If I write anything, it will be on that. She watches me the way someone watches an animal they would like to touch.
“What do you want from tonight?” I ask.
“Something that tastes real,” she says and smiles.
That is fair. I can give her the real and I can give her safe. I cannot give her what has not been decided. I hand her the glass and keep mine.
We talk more than I expect. She wants stories without names, whether I live in this city or only orbit.
I tell her I am everywhere and nowhere. She tests the line with one fingernail and finds the steel beneath it.
She stops testing. She tells me about a campaign shot on a glacier and how the crew cheered when the sun returned.
About a town where people watch each other the way Milan watches shoes.
About a mother who bakes, and the smell of cinnamon means morning.
She does not say why she tells me this. I listen and do not ask.
I keep my rules. The lights stay low enough to blind the cameras and high enough to show only what I allow. She stands at the window and says the spire looks close enough to touch. It is an illusion. Most good things are.
The city drifts away. She moves nearer on the sofa, careless now. My hand finds her hip. She turns and kisses me. There is no small talk in it, only heat and decision. She makes the choice. I respect that.
The night draws out, taut and deliberate. I make certain her body knows this was not a mistake. At one point, she laughs into my mouth, a sound so clean I let it stay between us. When I lift my head, I see softness that is hers, not mine. I leave it untouched.
Later, she lies with her head on my chest, one hand flat against my sternum as if claiming ground. This is the moment I should send her home, hand her the dress, call the car. I pull the blanket over her shoulders instead and keep my eyes on the door. Habit never sleeps.
There is a point when Milan goes quiet. Dangerous men consider rest. I map the day ahead—the airport by nine if traffic holds, a message to Vincent confirming closure.
The memory of this night will be gone before the plane climbs.
I will not bring a woman from a balcony into our war.
I will not carry our war into her kitchen.
The phone hums at two. The line holds. Benedetti stays off the list. The brand keeps Russo at the top. The Falchi runner checks in far from my building. Good. I turn the phone face down and cover the light. The door viewer shows an empty hall. Good.
She shifts and murmurs something I do not catch. She says Mama like a child might say it in a dream, and something old in me stirs. I ignore it. I have ignored softer things. It keeps me alive.
The window pales. The city edges into morning. Light touches the curtain and writes a thin line across the floor. I could rise now, write the note I have written before.
Grazie. You deserve better than my world.
It would not be a lie.
I tell myself basta. Enough. And still, I stay.