Chapter 2 Matteo
MATTEO
Ihave a clear view of every exit from the lounge, and I track them without thinking. It’s habit. Same with the way I keep my attention loose enough to follow movement without committing to it. People mistake stillness for distraction. It isn’t.
Rose sits at the bar with a mocktail she hasn’t finished. She hasn’t finished any of them, not once in weeks. She keeps her bag looped around her ankle, posture careful, shoulders tight. Every time the door opens, her head lifts a fraction too fast.
Someone who isn’t me has been watching her.
I know that with the kind of certainty that doesn’t come from paranoia or instinct, but experience.
I’ve followed her home more than once now, careful enough that she never notices, wide enough that no one else notices me either.
And still, I’ve felt it. A presence moving where I don’t expect it to be, slipping out of reach when I push too close. Whoever it is knows what they’re doing.
Dinner is winding down.
Luca and Riccardo left before dessert, each of them with a woman in their arms and an excuse that fooled no one. That leaves me with Giovanni and Niccolò in the back booth, the noise of the restaurant softened by distance and money.
Giovanni catches me looking toward the bar and smirks. “You’re going to burn a hole through the florist if you keep staring like that.”
I don’t bother denying it. “You’ve been watching the bartender all night,” I shoot back. “I figured we weren’t policing hobbies.”
He laughs quietly and lifts his glass in mock surrender. “Fair.”
Niccolò rolls his glass between his fingers, ice clinking softly. He hasn’t touched the drink in a while.
When he finally looks up, his eyes are sharp.
“We’ve got product moving through the Bronx that didn’t come from us,” he says, looking between us. “It’s showing up too fast, too evenly distributed, and nobody’s paying respect on the way in.”
Giovanni exhales slowly. “Fuck. You too? We’ve got the same problem over at Staten Island.”
“And Brooklyn,” I add through gritted teeth. “Seems it’s a fucking operation.”
“Shit.” Giovanni shakes his head. “How long has this been going on?”
“Couple of weeks that I can confirm,” Niccolò says. “Probably longer. Whoever’s running it knows how to stay quiet.”
“And they’re cutting into your territory,” Giovanni adds, glancing at me.
“They’re cutting into all of ours,” I conclude. “Getting a little too comfortable for my tastes.”
Giovanni leans back in the booth, jaw tightening. “Comfortable is not something I like outsiders feeling in this city.”
“Neither do I,” Niccolò says. “That’s the problem. This doesn’t look like some small crew trying their luck. The product’s consistent. The supply chain’s organized. Whoever’s behind it has money and backing.”
“Bratva?” Giovanni asks, like he’s naming a disease.
“Sì,” Niccolò agrees. “Quei cazzo di russi. Most likely operating through smaller crews so they don’t show their hand too early.”
I nod. “Testing the water. Seeing how much they can move before someone pushes back.”
“And no one’s pushed yet,” Giovanni says.
“Because no one’s sure where to hit,” Niccolò replies. “You can’t shut down a pipeline if you don’t know where it starts.”
Giovanni drums his fingers on the table. “So what are you thinking?”
“We slow it down,” Niccolò says. “Increase presence on the street. Talk to people. Take prisoners instead of bodies.”
This time, a scoff leaves Giovanni lips. “Since when did we start caring what junkies have to say?”
“Since they started being useful,” Niccolò answers calmly, ignoring the obvious sarcasm. “Dead men don’t tell you who paid them. Scared men do.”
I glance between them. “You want intelligence before escalation.”
“I want to know who’s funding it, who’s protecting it, and whether this is a probe or a declaration,” Niccolò says. “If it’s the latter, we handle it differently.”
Giovanni considers that. “You think Luca and Riccardo should be looped in?”
Niccolò shakes his head. “Queens and Manhattan have their own Bratva problems. Let them handle their territory unless this spreads.”
“And Brooklyn?” Giovanni asks, eyes directly staring at me.
I meet his gaze. “Brooklyn is mine. I’ll handle it.”
Niccolò studies me for a beat, then nods. “I figured you would.”
Giovanni smirks. “You always did like homework.”
He’s right. It’s why I always start with research.
It’s the part of this job I was trained for, back when I wasn’t supposed to wear the crown.
I was the second son. Support. Structure.
Strategy. Then Marco died, and my father nearly followed him, and suddenly ink and books were replaced with guns and funerals.
Ruthlessness suits me. It always has. I don’t pretend otherwise.
Still, my attention drifts back to the bar.
Rose has a book open now, one of those old ones with illustrated plates and cracked spines. She reads the way scholars do, slow and absorbed, fingers careful with the pages. It pulls at something I don’t indulge. Nostalgia, maybe. Or the memory of a life where learning was the point, not a luxury.
I don’t allow myself to linger there.
Her arrangements have always been precise.
Intentional. If you know flower language, they’re practically confessions.
Last week, after Donald tried to short her pay, she sent out a mix of yellow carnations, striped tulips, and basil.
Contempt. Rejection. Ill will. I caught the meaning immediately and had to hide a smile behind my glass. It takes a lot to make me laugh.
Lately, though, she’s changed. Quieter. Thinner. Dark circles under her eyes that no amount of sleep would fix. She looks over her shoulder more than she used to. She stays until closing now, every night, like she’s afraid of the dark streets but more afraid of being alone in them.
That’s when I started following her home.
A month in, I felt it too. Someone else in the shadows. Someone careful enough to avoid me while still staying close to her. It’s been a month-long stalemate since then, neither of us willing to move first. I can’t risk exposing myself to her. Not yet. Not until I know who I’m dealing with.
Giovanni raises his glass, snapping me back. “To kicking the Russians out of our city.”
I clink mine against his and Niccolò’s. “To that.”
Across the room, Rose finishes her drink and stands.
I straighten without thinking, already tracking her path. Bratva problems or not, I’m not going to take my eyes off her.
Not even if it fucking kills me.