Chapter 16 Matteo
MATTEO
The sight of her in this room is the last thing I expect to see. It hits me like a blade between the ribs.
Rose stands beside my father’s chair, pale and wide-eyed, guilt already written across her face before she even opens her mouth. Nori is sprawled in Moreno’s lap like he belongs there. Wasabi is hissing from the corner, fur puffed, furious at the world.
Every instinct in me goes rigid.
“Rose,” I say, and I hate how cold my voice sounds even to my own ears. “What are you doing here?”
She starts to speak immediately. “Matteo, I…”
She hesitates, like she’s trying to come up with an acceptable explanation. Which cannot exist, of course. There’s only one that makes sense.
She saw me leaving for the day and took advantage.
Even as I think it, I know it can’t be true. Rose isn’t that kind of person.
But then again, I haven’t known her long, have I?
“The cats,” she rambles. “They ran, and I didn’t realize where I was and I swear I wasn’t—”
“That’s enough.”
The words cut her off sharp.
I step fully into the room, positioning myself between her and my father without meaning to. My chest feels tight, breath shallow, anger and fear tangling so badly I can’t tell them apart.
“Wait outside,” I say.
Her eyes flick to Moreno, then back to me. “Please, I can explain—”
“Outside,” I repeat, harder this time.
The room goes very still.
For a second, I think she might argue. Instead, her mouth trembles. She bends quickly, scoops Nori into her arms, and nods once, like she’s bracing herself against something breaking.
“Okay,” she says quietly.
She turns and leaves without another word, Wasabi darting after her like a loyal shadow. The sound of her footsteps fades down the corridor, each one landing heavier than the last.
The door closes.
Silence settles, thick and suffocating.
“There was no need for that,” Moreno says gently.
I don’t turn around. My hands are clenched so tight my knuckles ache.
“She wasn’t supposed to be here,” I say. “This wing is off-limits.”
“She followed two rowdy cats having a chase,” my father replies mildly. “And behaved with more courtesy than most men who’ve stood in this room.”
I finally face him. “You don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand very well,” Moreno says. His voice stays calm, but there’s steel beneath it. “You think you’re protecting her by keeping her in the dark. By keeping yourself hidden.”
I shake my head. “She doesn’t need to see this. She doesn’t need to see me like this.”
“There can’t be love without honesty,” he says simply. “And there can’t be honesty if you treat your own heart like a liability.”
The word love hits too close.
“I’m not here to discuss philosophy,” I snap. “I’m here to make sure you’re not disturbed.”
Moreno studies me for a long moment. “You look disturbed enough for the both of us.”
I don’t answer.
Because if I do, I might admit the truth—that seeing Rose in this room terrified me more than any enemy ever has. That for a moment, I imagined losing her the way I lost Marco. That the fear drove the anger, and the anger came out sharp and cruel.
I straighten, forcing my face back into something hard and controlled. “Get some rest,” I say. “I’ll have someone check on you later.”
He sighs softly, disappointed but unsurprised. “You can build walls all you want, Matteo,” he says. “Just don’t pretend you don’t know what they cost.”
I leave before he can say anything else.
Out in the corridor, the house feels colder.
I find her near the steps in the garden, standing too still, arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to hold something together.
“Rose.”
She turns at the sound of my voice, eyes already bright. “Matteo, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to cross any lines, I swear, I just—”
“I’m moving you,” I cut in.
The words land between us, heavy and final. “You’ll be transferred to my penthouse in Brooklyn. Tonight.”
She blinks. “What? Why? I don’t understand—”
“I don’t want explanations,” I say. My voice is flat now, stripped of heat but no less sharp. “And I don’t want apologies.”
She takes a step toward me anyway. “Please, just let me explain. I never meant to betray your trust.”
That’s what twists the knife.
“You already did.”
Her breath stutters. For a second, she looks like she might argue, then thinks better of it. Her hands curl into fists at her sides, knuckles white.
“This isn’t a punishment,” I tell her, though I’m no longer sure that’s true. “The Brooklyn penthouse will suit you better. Less people around. And you'll be safer, too.”
“Safer from what?” she asks softly.
“From everything you don’t know,” I answer.
Silence stretches. The wind lifts a strand of her hair and lets it fall again. She nods once, slow and careful, like she’s trying not to crack.
“Okay,” she says. “If that’s what you want.”
I glance at my watch. “You have an hour. Pack what you need. Ottavio will handle the rest.”
She swallows, eyes dropping to the ground.
I turn away before I can soften, before I can take any of it back.
Behind me, I hear her breathe in—sharp, shaky—but she doesn’t call after me.
That might be the worst part.
And for the first time in years, I’m not sure whether the danger is outside these walls or entirely of my own making.