Chapter 9 Stefan
I SPENT THE next few days trying to process what Matteo had told me about my father.
Giuseppe Romano was cooperating with the FBI. Feeding them information about the Vitale operations. Trying to take down his rivals while securing immunity for himself.
The more I thought about it, the more pieces started falling into place.
My father hadn't sent me to Inferno to prove myself.
He'd sent me to fail. To die, probably. Or at least to get caught and humiliated so he could finally justify cutting me loose from the family entirely.
One less disappointment to manage. One less pretty face that wasn't useful for anything except making the Romanos look respectable at charity events.
And separately—completely separately—he'd been working with federal agents. Betraying the code. Doing the one thing that was absolutely unforgivable in our world.
Two betrayals. Not one coordinated plan. Just my father being exactly who he'd always been: a manipulative bastard who used everyone around him as tools.
I was a pawn in his game. Again.
It shouldn't surprise me. I'd spent twenty-three years being used by my family. Paraded around. Sold at auctions. Treated like property instead of a person. I'd thought this mission—stupid and dangerous as it was—had finally been my chance to prove I was more than decorative.
Instead, it was just another manipulation. Another way for Giuseppe to use me and discard me when I was no longer useful.
It hurt.
God, it hurt more than it should have. I'd known my father didn't value me.
Had known for years. But some part of me had still hoped.
Had still believed that maybe, just maybe, if I succeeded at this one thing, he'd finally see me as more than the pretty one.
The useless one. The son who didn't fit the mold.
Now I knew the truth. Giuseppe had never intended for me to succeed. Had probably been relieved when I disappeared. One less complication. One less weak link to worry about.
I lay on the bed staring at the ceiling and tried to figure out how I felt about all of it.
Angry. Definitely angry. At my father for using me. At myself for being stupid enough to think I could prove anything to him. At the entire fucked-up world I'd been born into where family meant nothing except leverage and manipulation.
But underneath the anger was something else. Something that felt almost like relief.
Because if Giuseppe was a traitor—if he'd betrayed the families—then I didn't owe him loyalty anymore. Didn't have to pretend I was a good Romano son. Didn't have to go back to that life even if I could.
I was free.
In the most fucked-up way possible, I was finally free.
The lock clicked.
I looked up. Matteo entered carrying his laptop and a bag of food that smelled incredible.
"Thai," he said, setting everything on the table. "Thought you might be sick of Italian."
This was new. Over the past few days, Matteo had stopped just visiting for chess games and sex. He'd started staying. Bringing his work. Setting up his laptop on the table and typing while I read or watched TV or just existed in the same space.
It was domestic in a way that should have felt wrong. Should have reminded me that this entire situation was insane—that I was falling for my captor, that Stockholm syndrome was probably a factor, that I had no idea if my feelings were real or just a response to isolation and trauma.
But it felt right anyway.
"You didn't have to bring food," I said, sitting up.
"You need to eat." He pulled out containers and set them between us. "And I was hungry. Two birds, one stone."
We ate together. Matteo worked on his laptop between bites, frowning at whatever he was reading. I watched him and tried to reconcile this version—casual, almost relaxed, bringing me Thai food—with the brutal enforcer whose reputation preceded him.
"What are you working on?" I asked.
"Security protocols. Elio wants everything tightened before the trial starts." He glanced up. "Boring logistics. Nothing interesting."
"Tell me anyway."
So he did. Explained the security system at Inferno. The layers of protection they'd built around their operations. The contingency plans for if things went wrong during the trial.
I listened and asked questions and slowly learned how his world actually worked. Not the violence and brutality everyone talked about. The strategy. The planning. The careful orchestration of an empire built on blood and loyalty.
"Your turn," Matteo said eventually. "Tell me something about you that I don't know."
"Like what?"
"Anything. Your childhood. Your interests. What you wanted to be before your family decided your future for you."
I was quiet for a moment. No one had ever asked me that before.
"I wanted to be a translator," I admitted.
"For the UN or something similar. I'm good with languages—they come easily to me.
I thought maybe I could use that. Travel.
Help people communicate across barriers.
" I laughed bitterly. "But Giuseppe said that was a waste.
That the family needed me for appearances, not for actual work.
So I got degrees in business and political science instead.
Learned to smile and make small talk and look good in expensive suits. "
Matteo's expression darkened. "Your father's an idiot."
"He's practical. In his world, I'm more useful as decoration than as anything else."
"Fuck his world." Matteo reached across and took my hand. "You're brilliant, Stefan. The way you play chess. The way you read people. The languages. The strategic thinking. You could have been incredible at anything you chose. Your father wasted you."
The words hit harder than they should have. Made my chest tight and my eyes burn.
"Tell me about you," I said, needing to shift focus before I started crying. "You grew up in Chicago?"
Matteo nodded. "South side. My father was an enforcer for the outfit there. Low-level. Expendable. Someone killed him when I was fifteen—I never found out who. Could have been a rival family. Could have been his own people cleaning up a problem. Doesn't matter. He was dead and I was alone."
"How did you end up in New York?"
"Survival. I did what I knew how to do—fight, enforce, collect debts.
Worked my way east. Met Sandro when I was eighteen.
He saw something in me besides just violence.
Taught me strategy. Gave me purpose. Made me a partner instead of just muscle.
" Matteo's voice was soft. "He gave me a family when I had nothing. "
"You're loyal to him."
"Completely. He saved my life. Not just literally—though he did that too. He saved me from becoming just another dead enforcer like my father. Gave me a reason to be more than what I was born to be."
I understood that. The desperate need to be more than what your family decided you were. The hunger for someone to see your potential instead of just your utility.
"I never wanted to be part of my family's world," I admitted. "I've always felt trapped by their expectations. By the role they assigned me. Coming to Inferno was supposed to be rebellion. My one chance to prove I could be more than decorative."
"And instead?"
"Instead, it became the best thing that ever happened to me." The admission felt dangerous. True in ways I wasn't ready to examine. "Even though I'm technically a prisoner."
Matteo was quiet for a long moment. Then he stood and walked to the door.
He swiped his keycard.
The lock clicked open.
"You're not a prisoner anymore," he said, his voice steady. Certain. "You could leave if you wanted to."
I stared at him. At the open door. At freedom I'd been craving for almost two weeks.
"Is that true?" My voice came out smaller than I intended.
"Yes." Matteo stepped away from the door. Giving me space. Giving me the choice. "Walk out. Right now. I won't stop you. You're free, Stefan."
My heart hammered.
This was it. The moment I'd been waiting for since Matteo caught me. Freedom. The ability to leave. To go back to my life—whatever was left of it.
I stood up slowly. Walked toward the door. My legs felt shaky. My breath came too fast.
I reached the threshold and stopped.
Looked out into the hallway. At the stairs that would take me down to the club. To the street. To whatever came next.
Where would I go?
Home? To a father who'd sent me here to die? Who was cooperating with the FBI and signing his own death warrant? Who'd probably disown me for getting caught and bringing shame to the family?
To my brothers? Who'd never valued me anyway? Who'd probably see my failure as confirmation that I was useless?
To friends? I didn't really have any. Not real ones. Just acquaintances from the events I'd been forced to attend. People who knew Stefan Romano the pretty trophy, not Stefan the person.
I had no money. No resources. No allies. Giuseppe had probably frozen my accounts when I disappeared. Assumed I was dead or a liability.
And even if I found somewhere to go, I wouldn't be safe. Matteo had explained it. Giuseppe's cooperation with the FBI made me a target. The other families would come after me to get to him. Or to punish him. Or just to send a message.
Walking out this door didn't mean freedom.
It meant running into a different kind of cage. Or more likely, running straight toward a bullet with my name on it.
But that wasn't why I wasn't moving.
I wasn't moving because some part of me—large and impossible to ignore—didn't want to leave.
Didn't want to walk away from Matteo. From the domestic intimacy we'd been building. From the way he looked at me like I mattered. From the safety I felt in his arms even though objectively I shouldn't feel safe with a man who'd kidnapped me.
Was this Stockholm syndrome? Trauma bonding? My brain doing mental gymnastics to justify feelings that didn't make sense?
Probably.
But it felt real anyway.