6. Mateo
6
MATEO
T he study seems colder than usual today. Maybe it’s the low light. Maybe it’s the silence. The windows are open slightly, letting in that dull, gray aura that Rome gets when the sky can’t decide whether to rain or not. The room smells like old wood and cigar smoke, my breath like whiskey. I'm not the marrying type, but that's what this situation demands, so here I am.
The officiant stands near the window, flipping slowly through the paperwork he’ll sign once it’s done. He’s expressionless—paid to be that way. That’s why I chose him—someone with enough sense not to ask questions, not to comment on the lack of guests, the lack of emotion, the lack of anything resembling a wedding.
Lila walks in ten minutes late. I don’t comment and she doesn’t apologize, though I do have to fight to keep the scowl on my face. She’s wearing a pale dress with no lace, no jewelry, no real shape—just fabric meant to hide her body, her mood, her thoughts. She looks beautiful, even without makeup or fanfare. Anton was a lucky man.
She walks in like she’s reporting for sentencing, stops a few feet away from me, and folds her hands in front of herself. Her eyes don’t rise to meet mine. Her mouth is flat. No communication is necessary for this moment. I can read her like a book. She’s not interested in marrying me and she's only here under duress.
We don’t speak.
I don’t offer her a chair.
She doesn’t look for one.
The officiant waits another beat before he clears his throat and begins. His voice is calm, almost lazy in its cadence, like this is a favor he’s done a hundred times. “For the record, both parties are present. Mateo Giovanni Rossi and Lila Serafina Varo. There will be no ceremonial proceedings. This is a civil agreement under state authority.” He looks up briefly, eyes passing over her, then me. “Do you agree to this legal arrangement, Mr. Rossi?”
“Yes,” I say. I don’t elaborate. I don’t look at her, but I don't feel I need to. I've made myself clear. This is the path forward to keep Lev safely tucked away from her mother's talons. It's also the best way for me to absorb Anton's debts and protect her and her son from his creditors.
The officiant turns his attention to her. “Ms. Varo?”
Her voice is quiet, even. “Yes.” I see the vein bulging in her temple, the way her shoulders are tight. Her body language is loud in protest, but if the officiant notices, he says nothing. As long as she doesn't actively defy me, we'll be fine.
The officiant nods, makes a note, and continues with a few more acknowledgments that mean nothing. He doesn’t ask us to face each other. He doesn’t talk about love or promises or permanence. I told him not to. I don’t want the illusion of sentiment. Something tugs at my chest, a cord tied around that tender part of myself I never reveal, but it’s very real all the same, though. It is a weakness I won't allow to affect me, but it's present.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement in the hallway. Lev, peeking around the doorframe. He’s crouched low, watching from the shadows like he’s trying not to be caught, even though we both know he's allowed to be here. He just doesn't want to be seen. I let him watch. There’s no point in hiding anything.
When the documents are laid on the desk, I sign first. My pen doesn’t stutter. I'm making this choice in the best interests of the boy and my family legacy, though someday, Lev will be trained to follow another just as my father trained me and Anton. The boss is always proud of men who bring their sons into the fold.
She signs after me. Her signature is smaller than I expected. Tighter. She hands the pen back to the officiant without a glance in my direction.
The man collects the papers, gives us a final nod. “It’s done. You’ll receive certified copies by mail.” His eyes flick up to mine again and he tucks the papers under his arm. I lift my eyebrows in the direction of the door, and he lets himself out without fanfare, shutting the door quietly behind himself.
The ring box is already on the desk. Lila opens it without a word. There are two inside. She takes hers, slides it on like she’s putting on handcuffs, then closes the lid and leaves mine untouched. I don’t reach for it, though I do feel that tug again.
She doesn’t say anything. Not congratulations, not thanks, not even a dry comment about how absurd this all is or how much she hates me. She just walks out, picks Lev up, and vanishes.
I watch the space where she stood a moment longer before I turn toward the window, roll my sleeves up to the elbow, and sit in the chair she didn’t use.
It’s done.
Serafina can get fucked now. There's no way I will allow Lev to be taken. If she persists in her pursuit of him, I'll pursue legal adoption myself. For now, I have other business to worry about.
Alessio left two contracts on the corner—logistics paperwork tied to the port we’ve been consolidating, and a shipping ledger from Naples that needs my initials. I read everything twice, correct numbers that shouldn’t have made it past the first review, and start a third document before I hear the knock.
It’s not a soft one. It’s Alessio’s rhythm—no hesitation. He steps inside without waiting for a response and shuts the door behind him.
“There’s been an attempt to reach your wife,” he says as he pulls a folded sheet from his inner coat pocket. He stays standing. He smells like the damp courtyard, and his shoulders are dusted with faint specks of rain. Whatever this is, it didn’t come through the usual channels.
He lays the page flat on my desk and taps once at the corner. “Old email account. Archived—hasn’t been active in a few years, but still tied to her name. Someone sent a message this morning. It routed through multiple points, but I traced it.”
I scan the page. The message is brief. A time, a location, and nothing else, no names or introductions. It’s the kind of message meant for someone who already knows what it’s about. The address is a narrow street in Testaccio, a block of dead shops and burnt-out flats. It’s not subtle and neither is the sender.
“They used a VPN based in Cagliari, bounced off three others, but the signal originated from a Bianchi property,” Alessio continues, tone flat and focused. “Garbatella. Third floor. Unit’s registered to a shell, but it links back to Giulio Fontana. Bianchi’s runner.”
I press my fingertip to the edge of the desk and nod once. Giulio’s not the brains behind anything. He’s a foot soldier with enough clearance to do small jobs and not enough leash to act without direct orders. This wasn’t an ambush. This was bait. They wanted to see if she’ll respond—if she’s still reachable.
“She hasn’t seen it,” Alessio adds, answering before I have to ask. “The alert was flagged by our secondary filters. I pulled it down before it hit her inbox.”
He says nothing else, just watches, waiting for a command or a question. I don’t give either right away.
I study the printed message again, eyes tracing the time and place. Ten thirty tonight. A café that’s been shuttered for years. Just enough public exposure to make someone feel safe. Just enough shadow to make them disappear.
They’re getting impatient. Or they think she's getting flighty.
I reach for the corner of the page, fold it twice, and set it on top of the folder I still haven’t signed. Alessio doesn’t move.
“She doesn’t need to know,” I say finally. “They're looking for blood. And if she’s looking for a way out, she won’t find it through them.”
He gives a short nod. He agrees but won’t say it aloud. We both know what the Bianchis would do with a woman like Lila—and what they’d do with her son if it meant leverage. The message isn’t just bait. It’s a test. One she doesn’t need to be aware of.
“I’ll have the location watched,” Alessio says. “If anyone shows, we’ll track and record. No contact.”
“Good. Keep it quiet. If they think she never saw it, they’ll try again.”
Alessio doesn’t waste time lingering. He turns and leaves the way he came, coat trailing behind him as the door clicks shut.
I sit back in the chair and stare at the empty space across from me—the one she stood in when we signed our names.
They’re already circling.
The Bianchis won’t stop with a single attempt. They’re patient when they want something. And what they want isn’t just money. Anton’s accounts were valuable, sure, but money is noise in this business. Leverage is legacy. That boy is both.
They’ll use anything to get close—old connections, doubt, promises they won’t keep. The second they figure out how close she is to breaking, they’ll press harder. She’s not stupid, but desperation can make even smart people reckless.
Anton left behind too many debts and too few answers. Some of his offshore holdings are still frozen. Others vanished before I got to them, likely burned by the same people who put those bullets in his chest. Lev doesn’t know any of that, and he won’t—not if I can keep it that way.
The hours pass. The light changes. The house stays quiet, the way I like it.
By the time I leave the study, the halls are dim and nightfall has settled in again. I check the corridor outside Lev’s room without thinking about it, instinct more than anything else. The door is cracked open. Soft light spills out into the hallway. Lila steps out and pulls it shut behind her.
She sees me before I speak. She doesn’t jump or flinch, just straightens a little. Her hands are folded in front of her, and she’s barefoot. I wonder if she heard me coming.
“From now on,” I say, keeping my voice level, “any outside communication goes through me.”
She doesn’t answer right away, just looks at me with that same expression she wore in the study earlier—tight, unreadable, cold around the edges. She knows better than to ask why, and I know she understands exactly what I’m referring to. Anton trained her well, maybe too well. I can't see behind the facade what she's really feeling or thinking. The man was as volatile and persistent as Napalm, and her soul shows the effects of being married to him for so long.
“For your safety,” I add, not because I owe her clarification but because I want to see how she reacts.
Her chin lifts slightly, but she doesn’t argue. She nods once, controlled, begrudging. Her anger is quiet, but it’s there. I see it in her eyes as they narrow slightly. I see it in her shoulders that square and the line of her jaw that is tight.
She walks past me without another word and disappears down the hallway. I wait a moment before following. When I reach her door, I find it shut.
I try the handle. It doesn’t turn. She’s locked it—locked me out, on our wedding night, no less.
I stare at the door for a while, jaw clenched, arms crossed. I could say something—could knock. I could make a point of what today is supposed to mean, but I don’t.
There’s no use in forcing symbolism where there’s no feeling. She did what she had to do. So did I. The rest was never part of the agreement.
I walk back to my room, alone, and leave her behind the door she’s chosen to close. Something tells me she'll try to flee, and I'll be ready. Because she doesn't have to like it here, and she doesn't have to put on a charade that this marriage is anything but a contract. But she won't leave here with the boy.