24. Mateo
24
MATEO
B runo is buried on a plot of land that’s been in his family for three generations. It’s not far from the river, a quiet cemetery pressed between two hills with headstones that lean like tired old men. The turnout is small—just enough to look respectful without drawing attention. The right people came, and the rest knew better than to show their faces.
Lev stands beside me in a black coat that hangs too long on his arms. He tugs at the collar every few minutes, uncomfortable in fabric he’s not used to. But he doesn’t complain, not once. He insisted on coming. Said Bruno let him pet his dog once, gave him a cookie with powdered sugar that got all over his sleeves. I didn’t argue. Some things you don’t talk kids out of.
The priest reads a short passage, something about the soul and the return to dust, but all eyes stay on the casket, on the hole in the ground. On the framed photo balanced on a folding table near the front—Bruno in a gray cap, smiling like he didn’t know what was coming.
I keep one hand on Lev’s shoulder the whole time. Just enough pressure to remind him where to stand, how to stay in position. He’s quiet and respectful, watching the coffin like it might do something. I'm sure it's scary for a five-year-old, but Lila has trained him well so far. I can do a lot with him when he gets older.
Bruno was a foot soldier under Anton. Loyal, blunt, and just smart enough to follow orders without asking questions. He had a wife for a while—no kids. The dog’s still alive—I paid for the kennel myself, though I'm not sure who will adopt the poor mangy bastard.
He was on gate patrol the morning of the blast. Wrong place, wrong shift, wrong fucking day. None of it should've happened, and it's yet another reason I don't feel even a hint of guilt that Rafe gave it to Ricci the way I told him. The order may not have been his but he carried it out. We're all pawns in someone's game unless we play our own, and he got played.
The priest finishes. A handful of dirt gets thrown. I nod once to Bruno's widow and steer Lev toward the SUV parked just off the gravel. The drunken wake isn't a place for a child. Even I know that.
Rafe’s already there, engine running, eyes on the tree line. I don’t like keeping the kid out this long, even less with the last week still hanging over us. Every move feels like a gamble now. The Bianchis know too much. They’re too bold. There’s no telling how long it'll be until they make their next move. When they couldn’t use Lila as leverage, they escalated, and now I fear they'll kill her and Lev both.
Before I open the door, I glance back toward the gravesite. Rain’s coming in off the hills, wind picking up. One of the mourners adjusts their collar and turns to leave.
“Was Bruno a good guy?” Lev asks, voice small. He stares up at me with large brown eyes that want answers. I remember Anton staring at me like that once upon a time, when we were young, when we were naive. I thought I could protect him. I was wrong. Now he's dead. I have to protect his kid.
I pause with my hand on the doorframe. “He did his job.”
Lev frowns. “But was he nice?”
“He gave you a cookie, didn’t he?” I almost chuckle at the innocence of a child. This kid has gotten to me. It's not just a duty to my familial legacy now. It's personal. He's becoming my son in more than just name.
Lev nods.
“Then yeah. I guess he was.”
He climbs into the SUV without another word, and I follow. The door shuts behind us as Rafe closes us in and then climbs into the passenger seat. We drive out slowly, headed home.
Lev stares out the window as the raindrops get fatter and the sky gets darker. A clap of thunder here and there makes him jump in fright. He looks to me. I keep my face calm. It's like when he sees me in control, he feels less fearful. It's the way it should be. A boy should look to the men in his life for stability until within himself, he's able to do it without aid.
Women, on the other hand… Just thinking of Lila, I shake my head. There are women like her who at times seem so strong and stable, and at other times seem to be scatterbrained or erratic. I don't think she even knows what she wants. But I know what I want.
I didn't want it at first. In the beginning, this was all about the boy, but somewhere, it morphed into this strange mess of hormones and lust. As much as I want to deny it, she's growing on me. I can't get her out of my head. I'm not sure if it's the way she is so tender with her son or if it's how beautiful she is. Maybe it's just the sex, but deep down, something about her challenges me, keeps me on my toes. I like that. I've never met a woman who does that to me.
"Uh, Mateo?" Rafe's hand rests on the back of Giorgio's seat, gripping it firmly, and I lean to the side to peer out the front window as the car starts to slow.
A large blue panel van pulls into the lane of traffic far enough ahead of us to give plenty of warning, and my danger signals shoot off immediately.
"Get us out of here. Now!" I'm already reaching for Lev, pulling him down across the seat and folding myself over him as the first shots ring out. The first bullet spiderwebs the windshield, and I push Lev down before the second shot cracks the passenger-side window. None of the rounds make it through—not yet—but the force is enough to rattle my teeth. I throw my body over his, pressing him flat across the floorboards.
“Move!” I shout. “Go, go!”
Giorgio slams the gas, tires squealing as we rocket forward. The SUV jolts hard, fishtailing as it surges through the intersection. Rafe’s already turned in his seat, pistol drawn, his elbow braced against the shattered frame of the window.
“They're giving chase,” he growls. “Passenger side shooter—he’s steady.”
More shots ring out. They’re clean and tight. This isn’t a scare tactic—this is a hit. They don't like what I've done to their men. I should've known better than to bring Lev out in this.
Rafe fires back, controlled bursts. “Windshield’s too thick for clean shots. I need a better angle.”
“Hold until the turn!” I shout, keeping Lev’s head tucked against my ribs. “Giorgio, get us out of their line!”
Giorgio jerks the wheel, cutting left down a side street slick with rain. The tires barely hold the pavement. Trash bins blur past the windows. In the mirror, I catch a glimpse of the van as it barrels after us, closing the gap.
Another round punches through the back window—this time just the glass, thank God—but it showers the rear seats with shards. Lev doesn’t scream, just squeezes his eyes shut, face buried in my coat.
Good. Brave. I've seen grown men fall apart under less pressure, like that kid in the warehouse a few days ago. That's why this is happening. Must've been somebody's kid.
“We need distance,” Rafe snaps, reloading fast. “I can’t hit shit with us bouncing like this.”
“Giorgio,” I bark, “next right—freight road, cut behind the warehouse district.”
He doesn’t hesitate. Giorgio takes the turn hard, skidding us onto a back road lined with old storage units and loading docks. The van follows, tires howling behind us. We’re not shaking them.
Rafe braces, leans out the shattered side window, and fires again.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
I peek up just in time to see one of the van’s headlights burst. The driver jerks slightly, and the whole vehicle sways, scraping against a parked car but staying upright.
“Hit the brakes,” I tell Giorgio. “Hard. Now.”
He slams them.
The SUV drops speed fast—and the tires lay rubber on the pavement. The van overcorrects, swerving to avoid rear-ending us, and that’s all the opening Rafe needs. He takes aim and squeezes off two rounds.
The first misses.
The second punches through their side mirror, sending it flying.
“Go!” I shout, and Giorgio floors it again.
We rocket forward. Rafe ducks back in just as another burst of gunfire cracks against our rear quarter. The whole SUV shudders, but the armor holds. We break through the chain-link gate of a forgotten storage yard, dirt kicking up behind us in heavy, wet clumps. Giorgio barrels between rusted containers, weaving us through tight turns the van can’t follow cleanly.
I glance down. Lev’s eyes are wide but dry. His small hand clenches the front of my coat.
“You okay?” I ask. He nods, barely. “I’ve got you,” I whisper. “They’re not getting you. You hear me?”
Rafe leans back, breathing hard. “Think we lost ’em.” His eyes meet mine.
“They’ll double back or go dark. Doesn’t matter,” I say. “We’re not stopping.”
Giorgio doesn’t need more than that. He keeps his foot down, weaving us through side streets until we hit the long, winding road back to the estate. No headlights behind us. No sound but the rain hammering the roof and Lev’s breathing under my arm. The kid stays curled against me, silent, not crying. Just holding on.
We reach the gate, security sensors pinging as we roll up. The guards open it fast—good. At least someone’s doing their job tonight.
As soon as we’re inside the garage, I open the door. “Kill the engine. Full lockdown,” I say over my shoulder, already stepping out with Lev in my arms. He tightens his grip as we cross the foyer. The house is warm, lit, untouched. Like nothing just happened. I keep walking.
Rosa appears in the hall, wiping her hands on a towel. Her eyes jump to Lev, to the shattered glass on my jacket, to the strain on my face I’m not even trying to hide.
“Senor Mateo?”
“He’s fine. Take him upstairs. To Lila.” She hurries to help, arms open at my orders.
Lev doesn’t budge at first. His fingers knot in the front of my coat.
“Hey,” I say, crouching down so when his feet touch the ground we’re at eye level. “You’re safe. They’re not coming here.” I hold him by the shoulders and his bottom lip quivers. It's the first indication that he's actually afraid.
He looks at me, eyes big and searching. “Did Bruno die like that? In a car?”
I shake my head. “No. Bruno died fast.” Then I press a hand to his face, the way I would if it were Lila, and it softens me. “And we’re not dying at all.”
He stares for a second, then nods, lets go. He walks into Rosa’s arms without a word and she picks him up. I wait until they disappear up the stairs to dust my shoulders off. Then I head straight for the basement.
The panic room was built during Anton’s days—reinforced, yes, but meant for hiding, not holding. That’s not good enough anymore. With the threat coming for my family, I need more.
Rafe joins me within minutes, already rolling his sleeves up. After that nightmare, he knows as well as I do that this fight is far from over. “We upgrading?”
“We’re fortifying.”
He cracks his neck and plants his hands on his hips. “You really think they're coming for Lila or the kid?”
“Both."
We spend the rest of the night in the basement. Rafe handles the wiring and backup systems while I focus on the structure—bolting steel plates into the doorframe, reinforcing the hinges, sealing off weak points. We install new locks, a manual override, backup oxygen tanks, rations, burner phones, flashlights. Everything we can think of. Anything to buy time if they breach the house.
No one says much. The silence between us is a kind of understanding. We’ve both been in this business too long to pretend one firefight means we’re in the clear.
By two a.m., the house is still. The storm has tapered off outside, just rain ticking softly against the windows.
I’m testing the new crossbar system on the panic room door when I hear footsteps behind me.
Lila's barefoot, wearing one of my shirts, hair tangled like she gave up trying to sleep. “You’re not coming to bed?” she asks, voice soft but laced with tension.
I don’t turn to look at her. I just finish locking the door, then gesture toward the upgraded wall.
“They’re going to try again,” I say. "They’re not going to succeed.”
She steps closer, takes in the oxygen tanks, the reinforced steel, the emergency lights.
Her arms cross. “You really think this will stop them?”
“No,” I say. “But it’ll slow them down. Long enough for you to get Lev inside and locked tight.”
She doesn’t argue.
She just nods once, then stands with me in the quiet hum of the lights. I've been on the defensive too long now, silently gathering information. But the storm is brewing, and when the first bolt of lightning hits, Bianchi won't know what hit him.
Hell hath no fury like Mateo Rossi when his family is threatened.
I grasp her hand and she doesn't pull away. It's how I know she is finally on the same page as me.