Chapter 1 Stefan #2
"I—" I swallowed against his palm. "I was trying to prove myself. To my father. He thinks I'm useless."
"And you thought breaking into my club would change his mind?"
"I thought gathering intelligence would show him I'm more than just decorative."
Matteo studied my face, his dark eyes cataloging every detail. The contacts I was wearing. The makeup contouring my features. The expensive shirt that wasn't mine.
"You're an idiot," he said finally.
"Probably."
"Giuseppe sent his youngest son into enemy territory on what? A test? A dare? A suicide mission?"
"Does it matter?"
His grip on my throat tightened slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind me who had the power here. "It matters because I'm trying to decide what to do with you."
"You could let me go."
"I could." His smile was cold. "But I won't."
Fear spiked through me, sharp and clarifying. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm keeping you."
"You're—what?"
"You walked into my territory wearing a wire and carrying a camera. You photographed sensitive documents. You compromised my security." His thumb stroked along my jaw, almost gentle. Almost tender. "That makes you mine until I decide otherwise."
"That's kidnapping."
"It's consequences."
I shoved at his chest, but it was like pushing against a brick wall. He didn't budge. "My father will come for me."
"Good." Matteo's smile turned vicious. "I've been looking for an excuse to go to war with Giuseppe Romano. You just gave me one."
He stepped back suddenly, releasing me. I sagged against the desk, my legs shaky.
"Strip."
I stared at him. "What?"
"The shirt. The contacts. Whatever else you're wearing that isn't yours. Strip. I want to see the real you."
"No."
"It wasn't a request."
We stared at each other. My heart was still racing, adrenaline singing through my veins. Every instinct I had screamed at me to fight, to run, to do something other than stand here and let this happen.
But there was nowhere to run. And fighting Matteo DeLuca would end with me bleeding on the floor.
So I reached for the contacts first, plucking them out with shaking fingers. My green eyes stared back at him, defiant despite the fear churning in my gut.
"Better," he said. "Now the shirt."
I hesitated.
"Stefan." His voice was patient in a way that was somehow more threatening than anger. "I can do this the easy way or the hard way. The easy way, you cooperate. The hard way, I rip that pretty shirt off you and you go home to daddy wearing nothing but shame. Your choice."
I unbuttoned the silk shirt with fumbling fingers and let it fall to the floor.
Matteo's eyes tracked over my bare chest, cataloging. Assessing. There was nothing sexual in his gaze—or maybe there was, but it was buried under layers of professional evaluation that made me feel like livestock being inspected.
"The makeup," he said.
I found tissues on the desk and scrubbed at my face until the contouring came off in streaks of beige and brown. My real face emerged, softer than the disguise, younger.
Matteo studied me for a long moment.
"There," he said finally. "That's the real Stefan Romano."
"Congratulations. You've humiliated me. Can I go now?"
"No."
He pulled out his phone and made a call. "Bring something up to holding room three. Medium... Yeah, now."
He hung up and grabbed my wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that I couldn't pull away. "Let's go."
"Where?"
"Somewhere you can't cause any more trouble."
He led me out of the office, past the security guards who didn't even blink at the sight of their boss dragging a half-naked young man through the hallway. We went through a door marked "Staff Only" and up a flight of stairs I hadn't known existed.
The second floor was nothing like the club below. No velvet, no strategic lighting, no beautiful people. Just stark hallways with concrete floors and fluorescent lights that hummed overhead. It looked like the back rooms of a warehouse. Utilitarian. Cold.
Matteo stopped at a door with a keycard reader. He swiped his card and the lock clicked open.
"Inside."
The room was small but not uncomfortable. A bed bolted to the floor. A bathroom with a sink and toilet visible through an open door. A single chair. A bookshelf with paperbacks that looked untouched. A TV mounted on the wall.
It was a cell pretending to be a guest room.
"You're keeping me here?" I asked, hating how small my voice sounded.
"Until I decide what to do with you."
"This is insane. You can't just—"
"I can." He stepped closer, crowding me against the wall. "You broke into my club. You tried to spy on us. You compromised our security. In my world, that has consequences."
"My father—"
"Your father sent you here to die, Stefan.
Or did you think Giuseppe actually believed you'd succeed?
You're the pretty one. The soft one. The one he parades at charity functions because you make the family look respectable.
" Matteo's voice was brutal in its honesty.
"This wasn't a mission. It was a test you were supposed to fail. "
The words hit like physical blows because some part of me had known. Had suspected. Giuseppe had seemed almost amused when he'd given me this assignment, like he was watching me walk into a trap and curious to see how long I'd last.
"So what?" I managed. "You're going to kill me to prove a point?"
"I haven't decided yet."
Someone knocked on the door. Matteo opened it and accepted a bundle of dark fabric from whoever was outside. He tossed it at me.
"There's a shower in the bathroom. Use it. Someone will bring you food later."
I caught the fabric—a t-shirt and sweatpants, both too big, like they'd grabbed whatever was available.
"Matteo—"
"Save it." He walked to the door, then paused. "For what it's worth, you've got balls. Walking in here alone. Stupid balls, but balls nonetheless."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
His smile was sharp. "It's an observation."
He left, and I heard the lock click into place behind him.
I stood there holding the clothes, my disguise scattered across an office downstairs. My hands started shaking—delayed reaction, probably. Adrenaline crash.
I'd fucked up so spectacularly that I couldn't even process it.
I was trapped in a room above Inferno nightclub.
My father wouldn't come for me—Matteo was right about that.
Giuseppe had sent me here expecting me to fail, maybe even hoping I would.
A convenient way to get rid of his disappointing youngest son while sending a message to the Vitales about Romano incompetence.
I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the water heat while I stripped off Dante's expensive jeans. The shower was basic but functional, and I stood under the spray longer than necessary, washing away the remnants of makeup and hair gel and the humiliation of being caught.
When I finally emerged, I put on the clothes Matteo had left. The t-shirt hung loose on my shoulders. The sweatpants were too long, pooling around my ankles. I looked like a kid playing dress-up in his father's clothes.
I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror—no disguise this time, just my real face staring back. Green eyes red-rimmed from the hot water. Brown hair damp and unstyled. Twenty-three years old and trapped in a cage because I'd been desperate to prove I was more than decorative.
Instead, I'd proven exactly what my father had always known.
I was too soft. Too stupid. Too naive to survive in this world.
The lock clicked.
I spun around.
Matteo stood in the doorway, his dark eyes finding me immediately. We stared at each other across the small room. He looked different somehow—less controlled, more raw. Like he'd shed some layer between the office downstairs and here.
"I should send you back to Giuseppe in pieces," he said quietly. "That's what anyone with sense would do."
"Then do it."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
He moved into the room, letting the door close behind him.
"Because I saw your face at that auction a few weeks ago.
When that investment banker bought you for the night.
You looked terrified for just a second before you hid it.
Then you saw me watching and something changed in your eyes.
Like you were hoping I'd do something. Save you. "
My breath caught. I remembered that night. Remembered being paraded on stage while men bid on me like I was a prize. Remembered the sick feeling in my stomach when the banker won. Remembered scanning the crowd and seeing Matteo DeLuca watching me with an intensity that had made my skin prickle.
"I didn't," I whispered.
"You did." He was close now, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "And I've regretted not doing anything every day since."
"So this is what? Guilt? Pity?"
"This is me not making the same mistake twice." His hand came up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing over my cheekbone. "You walked into my territory. That makes you mine. And I protect what's mine."
"I don't need protection."
"Everyone needs protection, Stefan. You just don't know it yet."
He stepped back, putting distance between us like he didn't trust himself to stay close.
"Get some rest," he said, his voice rough. "We'll talk tomorrow about what happens next."
He left again, and this time I was alone.
I stood in the middle of the room in clothes that weren't mine and didn't fit, my heart racing, my mind spinning.
Matteo DeLuca had kept me.
Not to kill me. Not to send a message to my father.
Because he'd seen something in my face a few weeks ago that made him want to protect me.
I didn't know if that made this better or worse.
I sank onto the bed and stared at the door, waiting for I didn't know what.
Whatever came next, I had a feeling my life would never be the same.