18. Mateo
18
MATEO
A lessio delivers the numbers in person, folder in hand like he knows I won’t tolerate another delay. The name on the transaction is buried under three layers of false registration, but the movement is clean—tight routing, no spikes. It took planning. Patience. Someone on the inside knows how to play this game.
“It went through Madrid,” he says, flipping the last page. “Private equity firm. Asset masking. No digital trail left on our end—just like the last two.”
“And the authorization?”
“Luca had the key code last quarter. No direct signatures. But we traced the IPs. One pings near his apartment.”
Of course it does.
Anton trusted Luca with his dirty money back when he thought loyalty meant leverage. I knew better. Loyalty means nothing if it costs you power. And now Luca thinks he’s owed something just for surviving.
I sit back in the chair and look at the final page again. Four hundred thousand, folded through a paper firm and hidden like a corpse under someone else’s name. Not personal, but deliberate. The kind of theft that expects forgiveness when it’s caught.
“Do we know the next transfer window?”
“End of week. We can trace it.”
“No,” I say. “We intercept it. Follow the collection. Let them make contact, then drag the name into the light.”
Alessio nods. “And the asset?”
“We burn it after.”
He leaves me with the silence, which I prefer. I stay where I am, let the rage settle under my ribs, coiled and clean. It’s not about the money. It’s about the principle. Someone thinks this operation is leaderless just because the last man in charge is rotting in the ground. They forgot I’m not Anton. I don’t let rats eat from the family plate.
When the door behind me opens again, I don’t turn.
The footsteps are lighter. Bare. Measured.
Lila steps out onto the terrace and says nothing. No greeting. No questions. Just the touch of her hand on my shoulder like she’s felt what I’ve been thinking.
She doesn’t ask permission.
She moves into my lap, slowly, like she’s testing the weight of her own choice. Her body settles against mine, soft and warm, a contradiction I’m tired of trying to reason with. Her mouth brushes mine, barely a whisper, but there’s nothing hesitant in the way she looks at me.
I let her start it.
She kisses me with intent. No nerves. No performance.
But the second her mouth parts, she stops being in control.
My hand slides into her hair and holds her steady as I deepen the kiss. Harder. Slower. Not tender. Not kind. Just deliberate. Possessive. She shifts closer, her breath catching, and I feel her give in to it, that edge of anger folding into something else entirely.
She moves like she’s surrendering.
I don’t ask her to.
I just take what’s mine.
She moans against my mouth, fingers clutching my shirt, and the sound is a drug in my veins. When I break the kiss, her breathing is ragged, her eyes darker than midnight.
“You’re a whore for my cock, aren’t you, Lila?”
In response, she arches her head back, baring the sharp curve of her neck as invitation and trust. My restraint snaps, and I grip her by the hips, pulling her onto my lap, grinding our hips together. Lila whimpers, undone by the idea of me in control, by the way it makes her feel. Of how much she’s wanted to submit to me this whole time. I clench my jaw and force myself to go slow. To tease every fucking inch of her until she’s squirming with need against me, half-begging for release.
My teeth find her pulse point and bite down before I suck. She splays her palms on my chest and I feel the heat of her skin through the thin material of my shirt. Her skirt bunches around her waist, panties creating a barrier I have to navigate. Soft whimpers escape her lips as I bite and suck her neck.
“You like it when I dominate you, don’t you ?” I growl into her ear as my fingers slip inside her drenched panties, finding her clit. She cries out at the invasion and arches her back further.
“Y–Yes, please…” she moans, her voice now little more than a whimper as I circle her clit. Her nails dig into my shoulders.
“Say you’re my little cum slut,” I demand, my other hand sliding up to grip her throat, my fingers just shy of constricting.
“I–I…” Lila pants, growing indignant but aroused nonetheless by the power play. “I–I…” she stutters again, her voice nothing more than a pleading whine. “I… I’m your cum slut.”
I thrust two fingers inside her, stealing her concentration. “Say it again. Louder.”
“I’m…” A moan escapes her lips as I curl my fingers inside her, hitting just the right spot. “I’m your cum slut,” she whimpers, her voice dripping with lust and submission.
An uncontrollable growl rumbles through me and I stand up abruptly, almost slamming her against the cold railing behind us. Her beautiful slickness soaks my pants as she slides off my lap. Lila yelps, her fingernails digging into my arm as I turn her around and forcefully bend her over the table. She gasps when I flip her skirt up over her back.
“You like being fucked like a whore, don’t you?” I press my hand along the back of her neck, pinning her down as with my other hand I undo my pants and pull my swollen dick out.
Lila struggles against my grip, her body trembling with desire and anticipation. "Oh, God," she pants, her voice raw with need. Her chest heaves under the weight of my hand pushing her down. I use a single finger to curl around the crotch of her panties and tear them open, exposing her moisture to my touch.
"You want me to fuck you so hard you'll be sore for days?" I growl into her ear, teasing the tip of myself against her wet opening.
"God, yes," she moans, arching her back to meet my unspoken demand. I can feel her quivering against my palm, desperate for release. Sliding my dick up and down her soggy slit, I let my fingers curl around her neck harder, finding her pulse point and pressing it.
“You hate me so much, then why are you shaking under me?”
“I… I don’t—” her words are broken by a moan as she presses back against my grip. “I don’t know! Just… just fuck me already, you bastard.”
A wicked grin spreads across my face as I position myself at her entrance. “I can feel it—right here. That twist you get when you hate needing me.” My tip pushes in, feeling her clench, not in resistance but in pleasure.
“Shut up,” she hisses, hands splayed on the table on either side of her body. I hold my cock to her entrance as I slowly dip in, then smack her ass hard. She yelps and jerks, but she takes it willingly.
I plunge myself inside her tight heat, driving her into the cold stone tabletop with a force that knocks the air out of her. Lila arches back with a high-pitched keen, her nails clawing against the stone.
“ Dio mio ,” she pants, her hips already starting to rock back into mine. I bite her neck again, harder this time, eliciting a stifled shriek from her as she contracts around me. I set a punishing pace, thrusting into her so hard it rocks the table.
“Every time you whimper, you get tighter. Don’t bother hiding how badly you need this.” I set a punishing pace, watch her hand squeeze between her hips and the table so she can touch herself. “You're not scared of me. You're scared of how much you want this.”
“Shit… oh, God,” she moans, her hips rocking up to meet my every thrust. “Mateo…” Her panting is so hot I might lose it.
“I fuck you like I own you because I do—and your body knows it better than you do.” The first tremors of her orgasm come slowly, pussy clamping down on me so hard it makes it difficult to push in. It’s hot, and I want to fuck her so hard her walls tear, so I thrust harder and the feet of the table tap on the stone tiles beneath it.
Lila begins to spasm and jolt, her body snapping loose like a sprung piano spring. “That’s it. Come on my cock like a filthy little slut—just like that.” She twitches, pushes back against me so I go deeper, and it makes my balls draw up. “You were made to break under me. Look at you now. Shaking for it.” Her release begins to simmer while mine ramps up.
Her pussy clenches again and again, milking me, and I let go. “Fuck! Lila— God!” I bite her shoulder as I fill her up, her walls squeezing me, milking every drop of cum from me. The world slides into nothing but white-hot pleasure and I pump into her until I feel my seed drain out of her around my balls and slick her thighs.
I pull out slowly, watching the mess drip down her thighs, then drag her back into my lap without a word. Her body is limp but not weak—just spent. Her back rests against my chest, legs draped over mine, dress still bunched around her waist. My pants are half-open, cock still slick, breath still catching.
I take the cigarette from the tin, strike the match, and light it one-handed. The first drag burns clean. I exhale over her shoulder, then press it to her lips. She takes it without hesitation, inhales deep like she needs the smoke to ground her, then hands it back. I let my arm curl low around her waist, hold her there, let her feel the weight of me even when I'm still.
Neither of us speaks.
She doesn't move to fix her dress. I don't fix my pants. The air’s thick with the smells of sweat, sex, and smoke.
This is what silence feels like when no one’s pretending anymore.