Chapter 18 Matteo
MATTEO
Ishouldn’t have said it like that.
The thought needles at me as I move through the house, refusing to be buried under routine or authority or the familiar comfort of control. Wait outside. It’d sounded cold and final. Like she was a problem to be managed instead of a person I cared about.
I tell myself it was necessary. That I was protecting my father. Protecting her. Protecting the fragile balance that keeps everything from collapsing.
It rings hollow.
I see her face again in my mind — the way she nodded, the way she didn’t argue, the way she gathered her cats like she was used to leaving places quietly. Like being sent away was something she already knew how to do.
That’s when the truth lands, heavy and undeniable.
I don’t want to lose her.
Not like this. Not because I was too much of a coward to be honest.
Moreno’s voice echoes in my head, calm and infuriatingly right. There can’t be love without honesty. I’ve built my life on control and secrets, on knowing everything before anyone else does. Letting someone see the fault lines feels reckless.
But if I get the chance—if I can fix what I broke—I won’t hide anymore.
She’ll know about my father. About Marco. About what I am and why. She’ll see the parts of me I keep locked away, even if it costs me everything.
I turn toward the stairs, already rehearsing the words I’ll say to her.
But then I feel it in the air.
Something is wrong.
The house has a way of holding sound, of carrying movement, and right now it feels hollow. Too quiet. Like a held breath that’s gone on too long.
“Rose?”
No answer.
I check the rooms she’s been using first, irritation sharpening when I find boxes half-packed, clothes folded with too much care. She could have left them behind, I suppose.
But her cats are still here. Rose would never leave her cats behind.
My phone is already in my hand when Ottavio’s name lights the screen.
“Boss,” he calls, and his tone is off. Tight. “We’ve got a problem.”
I don’t bother pretending otherwise. “Talk.”
“One of the perimeter cameras caught a vehicle leaving five minutes ago. Didn’t trigger the alarms. Slipped clean through.”
My jaw locks. “That’s not possible.”
“It shouldn’t be,” he agrees. “But it happened.”
I’m already on the move before he finishes the sentence, heading for the security room. Screens bloom to life as I step in, feeds lining the walls. Ottavio is already there, rewinding footage with quick, efficient movements.
“Show me.”
The video plays.
A dark sedan rolls through the outer gate like it belongs there.
But I know it doesn’t.
“Zoom,” I snap.
Ottavio does.
The image sharpens just enough for the face in the passenger seat to resolve. Pale. Familiar. Smiling like he’s enjoying himself.
The room goes very still.
“Son of a bitch,” Ottavio mutters.
One of the Pavlov brothers.
“Merda!” I roar.
Of all the ways this could have gone wrong.
Heat floods my chest, fast and violent. My hands curl into fists, nails biting into skin. “How long?”
“Less than three minutes on the grounds,” Ottavio says. “In and out. Whoever did this knew the schedule.”
This is on me. I left her alone. I was cruel to her, and sent her to pack without so much as a single guard.
I turn away from the screens and start pacing, back and forth across the security room, my steps sharp against the floor. Anger wants somewhere to go, but it keeps collapsing in on itself, turning sour.
I hear my own voice in my head. Wait outside. Cold. Final. Like a door slammed without warning. I see her face again when I said it—how she nodded, how she didn’t fight me, how she left like she was used to being sent away.
I drag a hand through my hair and curse under my breath.
It’s up to me to fix it.
“Boss,” Ottavio says, and there’s a hesitation in his voice I don’t like. “There’s something else. I ran a background on her.”
“You did what?”
“On my own initiative,” he adds quickly. “After the first incident. I wanted to know if there was anything we missed.”
Anger spikes, sharp and immediate. “She’s under my protection. You don’t dig into people I haven’t cleared.”
“I know,” he says. “And you can shoot me later. But listen.”
I don’t answer. My silence is permission enough.
“She’s a ghost,” Ottavio continues. “Rose Brown doesn’t exist. No school records. No family. No financial trail beyond what she earns and spends. Clean as a wiped drive.”
That alone would have been unsettling.
“But,” he says, and glances at the paused frame on the screen, “I ran facial recognition through some… older databases. Private ones.”
My stomach tightens.
“One hit,” Ottavio says. “Different name.”
He taps the keyboard and pulls up a file.
Brooklyn Lark.
The air seems to leave the room.
The Larks.
Old money. Ruthless money. The kind of family that eats cities alive and calls it investment. They’d sell their own mothers if it turned a profit.
Or their daughters.
A thought crosses my mind.
There’d been rumors, years back. A scandal buried under settlements and silence. A daughter who vanished just before a high-profile engagement. Whispers about a forced marriage to a man so dangerous even the Larks kept their hands clean by feigning ignorance.
I stare at the screen, the pieces locking into place with sickening clarity.
“Jesus Christ,” I murmur.
If I'm right, Rose is in more danger than I thought.
Which means I can't waste a second.
I turn to Ottavio. “Get the men.”
His head snaps up. “All of them?”
“All of them,” I say. My voice is low, deadly calm. “Lock down Brooklyn. Pull every favor. I want eyes on every road in and out.”
“And the Pavlovs?”
I stare at the frozen frame on the screen, at the smug curve of that bastard’s mouth.
“We’re taking her back,” I say. “And when we do, they’re going to regret ever setting foot in my territory.”
I don’t wait for confirmation.
This time, I won’t be too late.