Chapter 18 Matteo #2
"Good." I kissed back up his body. "That's the point."
I prepared him thoroughly. Three fingers stretching him open while I kissed his neck and murmured praise against his skin.
"So perfect. So responsive. So mine."
"Please—" Stefan was shaking. "Matteo, please, I need—"
"I know what you need." I positioned myself. "Look at me. Let me see you."
His green eyes met mine. Pupils blown wide. Completely vulnerable. Completely trusting.
I pushed inside slowly. Inch by inch. Watching his face. Watching the pleasure bloom across his expression.
When I was fully seated, we both groaned.
"My husband," I said. The words felt significant. Weighted. "My Stefan."
"Yours." His legs wrapped around my waist. "All yours. Forever."
I started to move. Slow. Deep. Making every thrust count. Making sure Stefan felt exactly how much this meant to me.
"I love you," I said between thrusts. "Love you so much. Can't believe I get to keep you. Can't believe you chose me."
"Always choose you." Stefan's nails dug into my shoulders. "Always."
I changed angles slightly. Hit that spot inside him that made his back arch off the bed.
"There," he gasped. "Right there—"
"I know." I aimed for that spot with every thrust. "I know exactly what you need."
I kept the pace slow. Maddening. Building pleasure gradually instead of rushing toward the end.
My hand wrapped around him. Stroked in time with my thrusts. The dual stimulation made Stefan tremble.
"Matteo—I can't—it's too much—"
"You can. You will." I leaned down to kiss him. "Come for me, husband. Show me how good this feels."
The word—husband—seemed to push him over the edge.
Stefan shattered. His body clenched around me. His release pulsing over my hand. My name on his lips.
The sight and sound of him coming undone destroyed my control. I thrust hard once, twice, and came with his name on my lips.
Collapsed against him. Both of us trembling. Both overwhelmed.
"I love you," Stefan whispered. "So much. Forever."
"Forever," I agreed. "Starting now."
We lay tangled together while our breathing slowed. Both trying to process what we'd just made official.
We were married. Husbands. Partners legally and permanently.
"Thank you," Stefan said quietly.
"For what?"
"For giving me this. For letting me choose. For making me feel like I matter." His voice was thick.
"You gave me the same thing." I held him tighter. "A family. A partner. A reason to be more than just violence and control."
"We saved each other."
"Yeah. We did."
We fell asleep like that. Tangled together. Wedding rings catching the light. Both overwhelmed and happy and exactly where we wanted to be.
***
Married life felt different in ways I couldn't quite articulate.
More solid. More permanent. More real.
Small moments became significant. Morning coffee together while Stefan wore my t-shirt and nothing else. Working in adjacent offices during the day. Coming home to our apartment—our home—every night. Falling asleep tangled together.
Stefan wore his ring constantly. Simple gold band. He caught himself looking at it throughout the day, still slightly amazed it was real.
"Still can't believe it?" I asked one morning.
"No. I keep thinking I'll wake up and it'll be a dream. That I'm still Stefan Romano trapped in my father's house." He smiled. "But then I see the ring and remember. I'm Stefan DeLuca. I chose this. It's real."
"Very real." I kissed him. "And permanent."
We'd settled into routines. Stefan worked on the financial reports. I handled security. We had lunch together most days. Dinner in our apartment most nights.
The club operated normally around us. The trial was over. The verdict was in. We'd won. Life continued.
Probation was easy—monthly check-ins with a probation officer who didn't actually care what we did as long as we paid our fines and didn't get arrested again. The fines were substantial but manageable. Community service was assigned but not onerous.
Everything felt stable. Normal. Like we might actually get to keep this.
Thursday evening. Five days after the wedding. Stefan had made pasta for dinner—he'd been teaching himself to cook and was getting good at it. We sat at our small kitchen table with wine and comfortable silence.
My phone rang. Elio.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said. His voice was tight. Controlled. "But we have a situation. You need to come to my office. Now."
"What kind of situation?"
"The kind you need to see for yourself. Bring Stefan if you want—this might be relevant to him."
I looked at Stefan. He raised an eyebrow.
"We're on our way," I said.
The club was busy. Normal Thursday night crowd. Music pounding. Beautiful people dancing and drinking. Nothing seemed unusual.
But Elio wouldn't call unless it was serious.
His office was on the second floor. Private. Secure. When we knocked, his voice called: "Come in."
We entered.
Elio stood by his desk, arms crossed. His expression was cold. Assessing. The strategist evaluating a threat.
And sitting in a chair, soaking wet from the rain: a young man.
Twenty-one, maybe. Dark hair plastered to his head from the downpour outside. Sharp intelligent eyes—dark brown, almost black. Italian-American features. Educated bearing despite being drenched and clearly exhausted. Expensive watch. Designer shoes ruined by rain and running.
He was trying to maintain composure but I could see the terror underneath. The desperate edge of someone who'd run out of options.
"This is Julian Bianchi," Elio said. His voice was flat. Professional. "Son of Winston Bianchi from Chicago. He showed up twenty minutes ago asking for sanctuary."
My blood went cold.
Bianchi. Chicago family. Powerful. Dangerous. The rumors Elio had mentioned at the wedding.
"Why?" I asked.
Julian stood. Met my eyes directly. "Because I saw the media coverage during your RICO trial.
I saw you with Stefan Romano in the courthouse.
" His voice was steady despite the fear.
"I saw that the Vitales took in a rival boss's son and protected him.
I need the same protection. I need sanctuary from my family. "
Silence.
Stefan moved closer. Studied Julian with an intensity that said he recognized something.
"Why do you need sanctuary from your family?" Stefan asked quietly.
Julian's gaze shifted to Stefan. Recognition flickered—he knew who Stefan was. What Stefan represented.
"I'm engaged," Julian said. "Have been since I was fourteen.
Arranged marriage to Dante Caruso—he's older, powerful, connected to our operations.
The wedding is scheduled for next month.
" He paused. "I refuse to go through with it.
My family won't listen. They insist the alliance is too important. So I left."
"You ran away from an arranged marriage?" Elio's voice was sharp. Skeptical. "That's what you're risking war over?"
"Yes." Julian's jaw tightened. "I'm not marrying him. I don't care what my family wants. I don't care about the alliance. I won't do it."
There was something else there. Something Julian wasn't saying. Some deeper reason beyond just not wanting an arranged marriage. But I could see he wasn't ready to share it yet.
The fear in his eyes was real. The desperation was real. Whatever he was running from, it was serious enough to risk everything.
"So you came here," I said. "To your family's rivals in New York. Hoping we'd take you in."
"Yes. I saw how you protected Stefan. I'm hoping you'll do the same for me.
" Julian straightened his shoulders. Trying for dignity despite being soaked and terrified.
"I can work. I'm educated—Columbia, like Stefan.
I understand finance and operations. I'm not asking for charity.
I'm asking for sanctuary while I figure out my next move. "
Stefan moved closer. Studied Julian like he was seeing a reflection.
"How old are you?" Stefan asked.
"Twenty-one."
"And how long have you been planning this escape?"
Julian hesitated. Then: "Five years. Since I was sixteen."
Stefan's expression shifted. Understanding. Recognition. He looked at me.
"He stays," Stefan said. "We help him."
"Stefan—" Elio started.
"We help him," Stefan repeated. Firmer. "I know what it's like to be that desperate.
To be trapped by family expectations and arrangements you never agreed to.
To run out of options except throwing yourself at the mercy of people who could kill you.
" His voice was steady. "I was that desperate young man.
And Matteo gave me sanctuary. We do the same for Julian. "
"No." Elio's voice was hard. Sharp. "Absolutely not.
We just avoided federal prison by a miracle.
Taking in a Chicago boss's runaway son could start a war.
The Bianchi family will come looking for him.
And when they find out he came here—to us—it becomes our problem. This is enormous risk for zero reward."
"He's a person, not a risk assessment," Stefan said.
"He's both. And the risk outweighs any benefit.
" Elio looked at me. His expression was intense.
Urgent. "Matteo, you know I'm right. We should send him back before his family finds out he came here.
Before this becomes our problem. We don't need complications right now. We need stability. We need to lie low."
I looked at Julian. Really looked at him.
Saw a terrified twenty-one-year-old trying desperately to hide it. Saw intelligence and education being weaponized for survival. Saw someone who'd been planning an escape for five years—since he was sixteen. That wasn't impulsive. That was careful. Strategic. Patient.
Something had happened when Julian was sixteen. Something bad enough that he'd spent five years planning to run.
I saw Stefan reflected back at me.
Another young man trying to escape a cage. Another person trapped by family arrangements they never agreed to. Another desperate gamble on criminals who might help or might hurt.