Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Rachel
Matteo disappeared into his work. It was like some invisible hand yanked him out of the apartment, leaving behind only a few sticky notes, a still-warm breakfast, and Cassius perched on the dining table every day.
I went to work as usual, but Matteo's office door stayed shut. Sometimes empty inside, sometimes guarded by unfamiliar bodyguards stationed outside, fingers never straying far from their waistbands. They stood like they were bracing for an attack that could come any second.
I asked Cynthia. All I got was "schedule changes." I hated this feeling. I lived in his apartment, used his coffee maker, fed his cat treats, slept beside him at night. But when something actually went down, I was no different from anyone else at the company.
In the break room, I ran into George. George looked like he'd been through three days in hell—dark circles under his eyes, rumpled cuffs, coffee stronger than usual.
He forced a smile and hurried off with his cup. Back at the apartment after work, two new guys stood by the elevator. An unfamiliar guard stopped me, turned my bag inside out, and made me walk through the scanner three times.
Finally home, I collapsed on the couch and grabbed Cassius as he rubbed against me, burying my face in his belly.
"Busy. Everyone's so busy. Busy is good, right?" I muttered.
Past one in the morning, I'd just barely dozed off when I heard the front door click softly. Cassius and I both lifted our heads. I threw on a robe and padded downstairs barefoot.
Matteo was back. He stood with his back to me, taking off his coat in the entryway. My heart dropped back into my chest.
"Matteo."
He froze, turned to look at me. "Why aren't you asleep?"
"Heard the door." I came down the last few steps. "Why didn't you wake me?"
"Too late."
I walked over to take his coat. The moment I reached out, I saw it—a large dark stain spreading across the left side of his white shirt, near his ribs. The color had already turned blackish. His cuffs were blood-stained too. A faint metallic smell hung in the air.
My breath caught. "Matteo, you—"
He moved fast, pulling the coat back over himself, pushing down the exhaustion on his face, softening his expression. "I'm fine."
"You think I'm an idiot?" I slapped his hand away, grabbed the edges of his coat with both hands, and yanked. The smell of blood mixed with his cold woody scent hit me all at once.
"Let me see." My voice broke, my eyes already burning.
Matteo didn't dodge again. His jaw tightened slightly. I dragged him back to the bedroom, shoved him down on the edge of the bed, and yanked the first aid kit from the cabinet.
The fabric had stuck to the wound. When I peeled it away, the muscle in his jaw went taut. His left ribs—a gash, flesh torn open grotesquely, still seeping dark red blood.
I held the cotton soaked in antiseptic, barely daring to press down, cleaning the edges of the wound while tears streamed down my face. My vision blurred. I kept wiping them away with the back of my hand. But the tears still dripped onto his skin, mixing with the blood.
"How did this happen..." I choked out, chest tight and aching. "Where the hell were you?"
Matteo lowered his eyes and sighed. He raised his hand and slowly wiped the tears from my face.
"Doesn't hurt," he murmured. "Don't cry, baby. I'm fine."
The more he told me not to cry, the harder I cried. I bit my lip and bandaged him, wrapping clean white gauze around his ribs. When I finished, my hands were covered in his blood.
"Matteo, tell me the truth." My voice still shook. "How did this happen?"
He looked at me, too many emotions I couldn't read churning in those black eyes. His lips pressed into a thin line. His Adam's apple bobbed. Something seemed ready to spill out. But in the end, he said nothing.
"Just an accident." He stood up, avoiding my gaze, tossing the blood-soaked shirt into the trash. "I'll clean up. You should sleep."
The bathroom door closed. Water started running. I stood outside the frosted glass door, blood still on my hands, water rushing inside, his muffled groans barely audible beneath it.
My heart twisted. This wasn't some simple business dispute. What kind of world was he struggling in? What kind of abyss was he keeping me from?
The door opened. Matteo emerged in a black robe, wet hair still dripping. Seeing me frozen outside, something helpless flickered in his eyes. He strode over, swept his arm around me, and pulled my rigid body hard against his broad chest.
Then he bent down and scooped me up. His stride was steady, but pressed against his chest, I could feel his breathing was heavier than usual. The smell of blood mixed with cold air, tobacco, and disinfectant filled my nose. My tears came again.
He laid me back on the bed and tucked the covers around me. "Sleep." He sat beside me. "Sleep, and when you wake up, everything will be better."
I stared at him wide-eyed. He simply lay down and pulled me into his arms. Usually, when he held me like this, I'd fall asleep quickly, safe. But that night I lay listening to his breathing, smelling the faint medicinal scent on him, my mind full of blood.
The next morning, I woke with a pounding headache, stuffy nose, throat like sandpaper. His side of the bed was empty as usual. On the nightstand—cold medicine and a note. I called in sick. The housekeeper brought soup. I forced down a few spoonfuls.
I opened my laptop, just planning to check my email. But there was an unfamiliar sender. Just a string of random characters. Subject line: two words—the truth.
My heartbeat slowed. Logic told me not to click it. Every woman in every horror movie who opens a strange email discovers she's walking into an even worse chapter. But clearly, my life had stopped being a romantic comedy a long time ago.
I clicked it. No greeting. No signature.
Just a few paragraphs and a pile of attachments—organized files on old Vitale family cases, a timeline of smuggling investigations at New York ports, news clippings of a Manhattan murder.
I clicked through. Each one shocking. Every piece of evidence tied the Vitale name to crime, violence, underground networks.
The body of the email ended with this:
"You think you know him? Rachel Kane, the closer you get, the faster you die."
I felt like I'd been thrown into ice water—whoever sent this knew my name. They even knew about me and Matteo.
I slammed the laptop shut. Cassius jumped off the bed, startled, and meowed in protest.
"Sorry."
He came back over and rubbed his head against my hand. That tiny bit of warmth almost made me cry.
Who sent it? Samantha? Charles? The people chasing Leona's debts? Or someone I'd never even met who was already watching me from the shadows?
I rushed into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face.
"Calm down, Rachel," I told my reflection. "You're not sixteen. You can't fall apart over a few articles and an anonymous email."
But I couldn't pretend nothing happened either. I went back to the computer, cleared the browsing history, deleted the download records, and emptied the trash.
That evening, Matteo—who hadn't been home on time in ages—actually showed up at the dinner table. I stood at the stove stirring soup, didn't turn around. But his presence closed in first. That cold woody scent, mixed with a bit of night air. No blood this time.
His hand landed on my waist. I trembled slightly.
"Why are you shaking?" He frowned, pressing the back of his hand to my forehead. A few seconds later, his brow relaxed. "No fever."
"Kitchen's a little cold. Don't worry."
That whole dinner, I couldn't taste a thing. For the first time, I really looked at this man who slept beside me—carefully, like he was a stranger.