Chapter 4 Matteo
I COULDN'T STOP thinking about Stefan Romano.
I was supposed to be focused on the RICO trial.
On Diana Martinez's defense strategy and the suppression motions and the eight months of evidence the federal prosecutors had compiled against us.
Sandro needed me sharp. Elio needed me calm.
Luca needed me to stop making impulsive decisions that could destroy everything we'd built.
Instead, I was obsessed with the man locked down the hallway from my office.
I sat in my apartment at two AM staring at intelligence files spread across my kitchen table.
Files my security team had compiled on the Romano family over the years.
Most of the information focused on Giuseppe and his two older sons—Antonio and Luca Romano, both deeply involved in the family business, both with arrest records and known associates in organized crime.
But there was a separate file on Stefan.
Thinner. Cleaner. Different.
I read through it for the third time that night.
Stefan Romano. Twenty-three years old. Youngest of three sons.
Graduated from Columbia University with dual degrees in business administration and political science.
Spoke four languages fluently—English, Italian, Spanish, and French.
Never been arrested. Never been questioned by police.
Never been photographed with known criminals except his own family members at public events.
He was the one Giuseppe kept clean and separate. The acceptable face of the Romano family for legitimate society. The son who could attend charity galas and political fundraisers without raising eyebrows. The pretty trophy who made the family look respectable.
I pulled up security footage on my laptop.
We'd collected video from dozens of events over the years—our people embedded as catering staff or security or guests, cameras hidden in lapel pins and buttonholes. Standard intelligence gathering. Know your enemies. Know their families. Know their weaknesses.
I found footage from a charity gala six months ago. The camera angle showed the Romano family table. Giuseppe held court with politicians and businessmen. Antonio and the other son flanked him like enforcers in expensive suits.
And Stefan sat at the edge of the frame looking bored out of his mind.
He wore a tuxedo that probably cost five thousand dollars. His hair was perfectly styled. His smile was polite and empty as he made small talk with the woman beside him—some senator's wife, from the notes. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
I watched him through three more videos. A political fundraiser. A museum opening. A business dinner at an exclusive restaurant.
Same expression in every single one. Polished. Perfect. Completely dead behind the eyes.
This was a man who'd been suffocating in a gilded cage his whole life.
Coming to Inferno wasn't just about gathering intelligence for his father. It was about rebellion. About proving he could be more than the pretty trophy his family paraded around. About doing something—anything—that made him feel alive instead of decorative.
I understood that impulse.
I'd grown up being my father's weapon. Dominic DeLuca had seen his youngest son's capacity for violence and honed it like sharpening a blade. By the time I was fifteen, I'd broken bones for him. I'd killed for him. I was his favorite tool for teaching lessons to people who crossed him.
When he died, Sandro had taken me in. Given me purpose beyond just being a weapon. Taught me strategy and control. Made me a partner instead of a blunt instrument.
But I still remembered what it felt like to be trapped by other people's expectations. To have no choice in what I became.
The difference was I'd broken free through violence.
Stefan was trying to break free through information and cleverness.
And he'd walked straight into a trap.
I closed the laptop and stared at the frozen image of Stefan's face. Even in a grainy security photo, even bored and playing a role, he was beautiful. Not in a soft way. In a way that had edges underneath. Defiance hiding behind politeness. Strength masked by smiles.
I wanted to see what he looked like when he stopped pretending.
Wanted to strip away the polish and the perfect manners and find out who Stefan Romano really was underneath the performance he'd been giving his whole life.
Wanted to know if that person would be as fascinating as I suspected.
At five AM, I gave up on sleep and went back to Inferno.
The club was closed. Silent except for the hum of HVAC and the distant sounds of traffic outside. I took the stairs to the second floor and walked down the hallway to Stefan's room.
I should leave him alone. Should give him space to adjust to captivity. Should focus on extracting information instead of indulging this obsession.
Instead, I swiped my keycard and opened the door as quietly as possible.
Stefan was asleep on the bed, still fully clothed in the t-shirt and sweatpants I'd given him. He lay on his side with one arm tucked under the pillow, the other curled against his chest. His face was relaxed in sleep, lips slightly parted, light brown hair falling across his forehead.
He looked younger like this. More vulnerable. Less like the defiant man who'd thrown a breakfast tray at me and more like the scared young man his father had sent into enemy territory expecting him to fail.
I should leave.
I walked to the chair by the window and sat down instead.
The room was dim, only the light from the hallway spilling through the small window in the door. Enough to see Stefan's face. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. The way his fingers twitched slightly in sleep like he was dreaming.
I watched him for ten minutes. Twenty. Lost track of time.
This was dangerous. This obsession growing in my chest like something with teeth and claws. I'd spent thirty years learning to control my violence, to channel it productively, to use it as a tool instead of letting it use me.
But this wasn't violence.
This was something else. Something darker and more complicated. Something that made me want to protect and possess in equal measure.
Stefan shifted in his sleep. Made a small sound—distressed, maybe. A nightmare.
His hand moved under the pillow, reaching for something.
Then his eyes opened.
For a second, he looked disoriented. Confused about where he was. Then his gaze found me sitting in the chair and his entire body went tense.
"You always been this stubborn?" I asked.
"I've always been underestimated."
"That won't be a problem here." I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "I see exactly what you're capable of, Stefan. The intelligence. The planning. The courage it took to walk into enemy territory even if it was stupid as hell. You're not what your father thinks you are."
"And what does my father think I am?"
"Useless. Decorative. Too soft for the family business.
" I held his gaze. "He's wrong. You're clever and resourceful and brave in ways that have nothing to do with physical violence.
That's why he sent you on a suicide mission.
Because he's afraid of what you could become if you stopped playing the role he assigned you. "
Something flickered in Stefan's eyes. "You don't know anything about my father."
"I know men like him. I've worked for them.
Killed for them. They're all the same. They see people as tools.
As weapons or shields or bargaining chips.
Never as actual human beings with their own wants and needs.
Giuseppe sees his sons the same way. Your brothers are his enforcers.
You're his PR campaign. None of you are people to him. Just assets."
"And you're different?" Stefan's voice was sharp. "You're not keeping me here as an asset? As leverage against my family?"
"I'm keeping you here because I saw your face at that auction. Because I should've done something then and I didn't. Because you walked into my territory and now you're mine and I protect what's mine." I stood up. "That might not make sense to you yet. But it will."
I walked toward the door.
"Matteo."
I stopped. Turned back.
Stefan was sitting up now, feet on the floor, hands clenched on his knees. His green eyes caught the light from the hallway, reflecting it back like a cat's.
"What do you want from me?"
It was a good question. One I'd been asking myself since I'd caught him in that office.
"I don't know yet," I admitted. "But I'll figure it out."
I left before he could respond. Before I could give in to the urge to cross back to that bed and find out if his mouth tasted as good as it looked.
Outside in the hallway, I leaned against the wall and dragged in a breath.
This was getting worse. The obsession was spreading through my chest like an infection. Every conversation made it stronger. Every time I saw him—defiant or scared or sleeping—I wanted him more.
Wanted to break through his defenses.
Wanted to see him choose me instead of fighting me.
Wanted to prove that I was different from every other man who'd ever tried to control him.
My phone buzzed. Text from Sandro.
Meeting tomorrow, 10 AM. Diana has updates on the suppression motions.
Right. The trial. The federal investigation. The fact that I was potentially facing life in prison and should be focused on that instead of obsessing over Giuseppe Romano's youngest son.
I typed back: I'll be there.
Then I went to my office and pulled up the security footage again. Not the old videos from galas and fundraisers. The live feed from Stefan's room.
He was standing by the window now, looking up at the narrow slice of sky visible through the high opening. His posture was tense, shoulders tight. One hand braced against the wall like he was holding himself up.
He looked lonely. Lost.
I should feel guilty for keeping him locked up. Should question whether this was actually protection or just a different form of cruelty.
But I didn't.
Because I'd seen the alternative. I'd watched that banker buy him at the auction.
I'd seen the terror Stefan had hidden behind practiced smiles.
I'd heard the stories about what Giuseppe did with his sons—selling them to business partners, using them as incentives, treating them like commodities instead of people.
This cage was temporary. Once I knew Stefan was safe—once I'd dealt with Giuseppe and whatever retaliation was coming—I'd let him go.
Maybe.
If I could.
If the obsession growing in my chest didn't consume me first.
Stefan moved away from the window and sat on the bed. Buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook slightly.
He was crying.
Silently. Privately. Probably thought no one could see him.
Something in my chest cracked.
I grabbed my jacket and left the office. Took the stairs two at a time. Swiped my keycard and pushed open the door to his room.
Stefan's head snapped up. He wiped his face quickly, trying to hide the evidence. His eyes were red. His cheeks wet.
"Why are you crying?" I asked.
"I'm not."
"Stefan—"
"I said I'm not." His voice broke on the last word.
I crossed the room and sat on the bed beside him. Close enough to touch but not touching. Close enough that he could feel my presence without being threatened by it.
"You're allowed to be scared," I said quietly. "You're allowed to hate this. To hate me. To be angry and frustrated and fucking terrified about what comes next."
"I'm not scared."
"Liar."
He laughed—sharp and bitter. "What do you want me to say? That I'm terrified? That I have no idea what you're going to do with me? That every time you walk through that door I think maybe this is when you'll decide I'm not worth keeping alive?"
"I'm not going to kill you."
"You say that now—"
"I'm not going to kill you," I repeated. Firm. Certain. "You're safe here, Stefan. I know it doesn't feel like it. I know this is a cage and you hate being trapped. But you're safe from me. From my people. From whatever your father has planned."
He turned to look at me. His green eyes searched my face like he was trying to determine if I was lying.
"Why?" he whispered. "Why are you doing this?"
Because I saw you at an auction and something in me broke.
Because you walked into my club wearing a disguise and reminded me what courage looks like.
Because I'm obsessed with you in ways I don't understand and can't control.
"Because someone should've protected you a long time ago," I said instead. "And no one did. So I will."
We stared at each other.
The air between us felt charged. Heavy with all the things neither of us was saying.
Stefan's pupils were dilated. His breath was coming faster. Fear, yes. But something else too.
Want.
The same thing I felt every time I looked at him.
I stood up before I did something we'd both regret.
"Get some sleep," I said. "We'll talk more tomorrow."
I left before he could respond. Before I could give in to the urge to pull him close and promise him things I had no right to promise.
But as I walked back to my apartment in the grey light of dawn, I knew the truth.
I wasn't going to let Stefan go.
Not to Giuseppe. Not to anyone.
He was mine now.
And I'd burn down the entire Romano family to keep him safe.