Chapter 13 Stefan
SANDRO OFFERED ME my own room three days after the guards appeared.
He called me into his office—not Matteo, just me—and made the offer with that calculating expression he wore like armor.
"You've been staying in Matteo's apartment," he said. It wasn't a question. "But you should have your own space. Your own room. Somewhere that's yours."
I understood what he wasn't saying. That living in Matteo's apartment made me look like property. Like a kept thing instead of a person making choices. That having my own room would give the appearance of independence even if everyone knew I'd still sleep in Matteo's bed most nights.
"Thank you," I said. "But I'm fine where I am."
Sandro raised an eyebrow. "You're turning down privacy? Your own space?"
"I'm choosing to stay with Matteo." The distinction felt important. "If I take my own room, it looks like I need to escape him sometimes. Like I'm only with him by default instead of by choice." I held his gaze. "I choose to be with him. I want people to know that."
Something shifted in Sandro's expression. Not quite approval, but close.
"The offer stands," he said. "If you change your mind. If you need space. If things between you and Matteo become... complicated."
"They're already complicated."
"More complicated, then." He leaned back in his chair. "Matteo told me about the FBI surveillance. About the restrictions. That can't be easy for you."
It wasn't. The guards were a constant presence. The inability to leave without escort made my skin crawl. The feeling of being back in a cage—even a gilded one, even one I'd agreed to—sat heavy in my chest.
"It's temporary," I said. "Three months until the trial. I can handle three months."
"Can you?" Sandro's voice was gentle. Too gentle. "Because Matteo's obsessive. Once he starts protecting something, he doesn't stop. Three months could easily become six. Then a year. Then permanent."
The fear I'd voiced to Matteo. Spoken aloud by someone who knew him better than almost anyone.
"I'll deal with that if it happens," I said. "Right now, the restrictions make sense. The FBI is a real threat."
"They are." Sandro pulled out a folder and slid it across the desk.
"Which brings me to the other reason I asked you here.
I need help with our legitimate operations.
Someone who understands finance and can make our legal businesses more profitable.
Someone who can review our books with fresh eyes. "
I stared at the folder. "You want me to work on your financial records?"
"Yes. You have degrees in business and political science.
You speak four languages. You're clearly intelligent despite what your father believed.
" He tapped the folder. "This is a job offer, Stefan.
Not a request. Not a way to keep you occupied.
An actual position with actual responsibilities and actual pay. "
"You'd trust me with your books? I'm Giuseppe Romano's son."
"You're the man who chose to cut ties with Giuseppe rather than go back.
The man who told his brother to fuck off when asked to return.
The man who's been living here for months and hasn't tried to contact the FBI or gather intelligence or do anything except follow Matteo around like a lovesick puppy. "
I flushed. "I'm not—"
"You are. And it's mutual, which is the only reason I'm making this offer.
" Sandro's expression was serious. "I need someone I can trust handling our finances.
Matteo trusts you. That's enough for me to give you a chance.
But Stefan—if you betray that trust, there won't be a second chance. Are we clear?"
"I won't betray you."
"Good. Then you start tomorrow. Nine AM. Bring coffee. The books are a mess."
***
The books were indeed a mess.
I spent the first week just organizing the legitimate business records—the restaurants, the real estate holdings, the investment properties. Everything was technically legal but buried under layers of complicated shell companies and accounting practices that made my head hurt.
Sandro gave me a small office on the second floor. Not far from Matteo's office, I noticed. Close enough that Matteo could check on me easily. Close enough that the guards stationed in the hallway could watch both doors.
The cage, even while I was being given responsibility.
Elio watched me with open suspicion for the first two weeks.
He'd appear in my office doorway at random times. Ask pointed questions about what I was working on. Review my analysis with an intensity that suggested he was looking for evidence of sabotage or intelligence gathering.
I didn't blame him. I was the enemy's son living in their home and touching their financial records. If I were him, I'd be suspicious too.
But eventually—three weeks into the job—Elio admitted I was good at what I did.
"You found twelve thousand dollars in tax deductions we missed," he said, dropping a report on my desk. "And restructured the restaurant holdings to save us another twenty thousand annually. That's... impressive."
"I told you I'd be useful."
"Useful and trustworthy are different things." But his voice was less sharp. "You're proving the first. Time will tell about the second."
It was the closest thing to approval I'd gotten from him. I'd take it.
Luca was friendlier from the start.
He'd wander into my office during lunch breaks and ask questions about my life before Inferno. Where I went to school. What I'd studied. What I'd wanted to be before Giuseppe decided my future for me.
I gave him edited versions that left out the worst parts. The suffocation. The constant feeling of being decoration. The auctions and expectations and slow death by a thousand indignities.
Luca seemed to understand anyway.
"Families are fucked up," he said one afternoon, sprawled in the chair across from my desk like he owned it. "Doesn't matter if they're criminals or legitimate. They all find ways to make you feel like you're failing just by being yourself."
"Speaking from experience?"
"Always." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "My father wanted me to be a lawyer. Respectable. Legitimate. When I chose this instead—" He gestured at the club around us. "—he disowned me. Said I was a disappointment."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I chose this. Just like you chose to stay. And honestly? I'm happier here than I ever was trying to be what he wanted." Luca studied me. "Are you? Happy here?"
Was I?
I thought about it. About the work that gave me purpose. About Matteo who made me feel wanted. About Sandro's trust and Elio's grudging respect and Luca's easy friendship.
About the guards who followed me everywhere. The inability to leave. The constant awareness that I was still in a cage even if the bars were invisible.
"I don't know if happy is the right word," I admitted. "But I'm more myself here than I ever was with my family. That has to count for something."
"It counts for everything." Luca stood. "Back to work. Sandro wants those quarterly projections by Friday."
***
The hardest part was the guilt.
I was helping the organization my father was trying to destroy through FBI cooperation. Every financial improvement I made strengthened the Vitales. Every tax deduction I found gave them more resources. Every restructuring made their legitimate businesses more profitable.
I was actively working against Giuseppe's interests.
The realization hit me one afternoon while reviewing restaurant revenues. I sat back in my chair and stared at the numbers, feeling sick.
This was betrayal. Real, concrete betrayal. Not just choosing to stay with Matteo—that was personal. But this? Using my skills to help the Vitales while my father worked with federal agents to bury them?
This was choosing sides in a war. And I'd chosen against my own blood.
I must have looked upset when Matteo appeared in my doorway.
"What's wrong?" he asked, concern clear on his face.
"I'm betraying my father." The words came out flat. "Not just by staying here. By actively helping you. Making your businesses more profitable while he's trying to destroy you."
Matteo closed the door and crossed to me. "Do you regret it?"
Did I?
I thought about Giuseppe sending me on a suicide mission. About twenty-three years of being treated like decoration. About Antonio calling to demand I come home and perform my role as the pretty son.
About the freedom I'd found here. The purpose. The feeling of being valued for my mind instead of my appearance.
"No," I said. "I don't regret it. But I feel guilty anyway. Like I'm supposed to feel worse about betraying my family than I actually do."
"That's because they were never really your family." Matteo pulled me up from the chair and into his arms. "They were the people you were born to. But family is supposed to care about you. Value you. See you as more than a tool."
"And you do? See me as more than a tool?"
"Stefan." His voice was rough. "You're the most important person in my life.
More important than this club. More important than the trial.
More important than anything." He tilted my face up.
"If helping us makes you feel like you're betraying Giuseppe, stop.
I don't need you to work on the books. I need you safe and whole and choosing this because you want to, not because you feel obligated. "
"I do want to." The certainty surprised me.
"I want to help. Want to use my skills for something meaningful.
Want to prove I'm more than decorative." I held his gaze.
"And if that means actively working against my father's interests, then that's what I'm choosing.
He betrayed the code first by cooperating with the FBI.
I'm just making sure his enemies survive his betrayal. "
"You're sure?"