Chapter 19 Sierra
SIERRA
Sleep’s not happening.
My body is exhausted. My mind, though? It’s running laps around the inside of my skull like it’s training for a marathon I never signed up for.
I stare at the ceiling of Matteo’s bedroom, counting the shadows. Counting my breaths. Counting the minutes since bullets ripped through my apartment while I cowered behind a kitchen island in the home I’d made for myself.
The crackers Matteo left for me sit on the nightstand. Such a surprisingly thoughtful gesture from a man who looks like he doesn’t have a gentle bone in his body.
I’m not hungry, but I eat them anyway, and having something in my stomach helps. The gnawing emptiness settles into something more manageable.
But I still can’t sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Viktor’s face. The cold rage in his expression when he hit me. The gun in his hand. The way time seemed to stretch when that bullet grazed my arm, white-hot pain blooming across my skin.
If Matteo hadn’t been there...
I keep circling back to that. If I’d walked into my apartment alone. If he’d dropped me off and driven away. If he’d stayed on his phone longer out in the hall.
I’d be dead. Or worse.
Matteo saved my life. I know that. But watching him fire back at Viktor, his face going completely blank like someone flipping a switch—it drove home what I already knew but hadn’t fully absorbed.
This is his world. Violence isn’t abstract to him. It’s a tool he wields without hesitation.
I’m grateful. God, I’m so grateful. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make everything feel more real. Like I’ve stepped through a door I can’t walk back through.
I knew both of them were in the mafia. I knew they lived criminal lives, operated in shadows I’d only glimpsed from the edges. It’s easy to tell yourself you can stay separate from all that. Easy to believe you can be with the man without touching the violence.
Then you end up with a bullet graze on your arm and surgical glue pulling at your skin every time you move.
I trace my fingers over the bandage. The wound throbs beneath the gauze, a steady reminder that this is real. That I’m not watching some crime drama on Netflix. This is my life now.
So much for sleep. My brain apparently didn’t get the memo that we survived today and can stand down now. It’s too busy replaying every terrible moment on a loop, like some masochistic highlight reel.
I throw off the covers and pad toward the door, figuring I’ll find Matteo. Maybe being near him will help settle the noise in my head.
The hallway is dark, but the hushed murmur of voices pulls me toward the living room. I recognize Matteo’s voice immediately, but the other voice is unfamiliar.
I move quietly down the hall, my bare feet silent on the hardwood.
“...you know, I’m starting to think they all should go. Kozlov. Viktor. The whole goddamn organization.”
I freeze just outside the doorway.
“You think we’ll need to wipe out the entire Bratva?” Matteo’s question sounds way too calm for the subject matter. Like they’re discussing whether to order pizza or Thai.
My stomach drops. The rest of their conversation blurs as those words echo through my skull. Wipe out the entire Bratva. This is what I’ve stepped into.
“...you’re right.” Matteo’s voice cuts through my spiral. “This won’t end until one of us is gone.”
“Let’s make sure it’s them.”
Footsteps move toward the front door. No goodbye. Just the click of the latch and then silence.
I count to ten before stepping into the living room.
Matteo sits on a recliner, shoulders slumped forward, one hand rubbing his eyes while the other fists against the cushion beside him. He looks tired. More than tired. He looks like a man carrying weight he never asked for.
A small part of me thinks I should let it go. Pretend I didn’t hear anything. He looks exhausted, and I came out here for comfort, not a confrontation.
But I can’t unhear what I just heard. Wipe out the entire Bratva. This won’t end until one of us is gone.
I need to understand what I’m in the middle of.
His head turns toward me. The concern that floods his eyes makes it hard to swallow. “You okay? You should be resting.”
“I heard you. Just now.” I move to the couch, curling into the corner. “Wiping out the entire Bratva?”
His jaw tightens, but he says nothing.
“I knew you and Viktor were enemies. I knew this thing between us was about getting to him.” I pull my knees up, wrapping my arms around them. “But I thought it was personal. You and him. I didn’t realize it was... this.”
“A war,” he says flatly.
“Yeah.” The word feels strange in my mouth. Too big. Too real. “A war.”
He doesn’t offer anything else. Just sits there, shoulders tight, watching me process.
“Help me understand,” I beg. “Please.”
“I really shouldn’t talk about this, Sierra.”
“I know.” I pull my knees tighter against my chest. “But I’m in it now, aren’t I? Whether you tell me or not.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. I watch him wrestle with something, his expression shifting through emotions too quickly for me to read. Eventually he scrubs a hand over his face. “Fuck. You’re right.”
He stands from the recliner and settles next to me on the couch. “You know Viktor’s in the Bratva.” It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. “The Bratva and the Italians here in Vegas don’t get along. Never have.”
He shifts, angling his body toward me. Even exhausted, he’s alert. Watchful. Like some part of him is always scanning for threats.
“There’s always been friction, right from the beginning.
The Italians won’t admit this, but the Bratva was here first. Moved into Vegas back in the forties.
” He spreads his hands. “But they were smaller. Couldn’t keep the Italians out by force.
Both sides were forced to share the city, carving out territories and running things within those lines. ”
“And someone got greedy?” I ask softly.
“Isn’t that always how it goes?” A ghost of amusement flickers across his features before disappearing.
“There’s been conflict. Spats over territory.
Fighting among lower-level members. Sometimes it escalated, but it’s mostly been manageable for the last couple decades.
” He pauses. “Then the current Pakhan took over.”
“Pakhan?”
“Their leader. Kozlov.” Matteo’s voice hardens. “He’s an arrogant piece of shit. Disrespectful. Power-hungry. He won’t stop until he takes everything we have, and there’s no line he won’t cross to get it.”
A chill runs down my spine.
“Viktor works for this asshole.” His hand moves to his shoulder, pressing against it. “He shot me a few years back. Left me for dead in the street.”
My stomach drops.
“I survived.” His mouth twists. “But I’ve got scars and a long memory.”
His eyes meet mine, and there’s something cold there. Something that reminds me he’s killed before.
“But outside of my personal vendettas, the Bratva has done terrible things. They’ve killed and dismembered our men. Tried to gun our people down in the street. Kidnapped our women. They created a drug that kills people, and Viktor was part of that too.”
His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining. The touch steadies something inside me.
“When I say he’s my enemy, I’m completely serious.
He stands for things that are hateful. He works for a power-hungry maniac.
” His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand.
“What happened at your apartment today... that wasn’t just about Viktor wanting you back.
It’s part of something bigger. A war that’s been building for a while now. ”
I let that sink in. A war. Not just a rivalry. Not just bad blood. An actual war, with casualties on both sides.
“So when you said this won’t end until one of you is gone...”
“I meant it.” His eyes hold mine, unflinching. “Kozlov won’t stop. Viktor won’t stop. The only way this ends is if we make it end.”
“By wiping them out.”
“Yes.”
I should be terrified. I should be running for the door, calling a cab, getting as far from this man and his world as possible.
But I’m not.
And I’m not sure what that says about me.
Matteo squeezes my fingers, his expression understanding. Like he can read the conflict playing out across my face. “Some people deserve to die, Sierra.”
I don’t argue. A few months ago, I would have. But that was before.
“Let’s go to bed.” He stands, offering me his hand.
I take it and let him lead me back to the bedroom.
Having Matteo beside me helps. The solid warmth of him. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek. His heartbeat in my ear, slow and sure.
I finally drift off.
But sleep doesn’t stay peaceful for long.
The nightmare comes in fragments. Gunshots. Blood spreading across linoleum. Viktor’s face twisted with rage. My own screams echoing off walls that keep getting closer. I’m running but my legs won’t work right, and he’s gaining, and the gun is rising, and—
I wake gasping, kicking off the blankets like they’re hands trying to hold me down.
But Matteo is there.
His arms wrap around me, pulling me against the solid wall of his chest. His lips brush my forehead. My temple. The curve of my jaw.
“It’s okay.” His voice is rough velvet in the darkness. “You’re okay, Sunshine.”
“Matteo.” His name breaks on my tongue.
I wrap my arms around him, my legs tangling with his. Clinging. Holding on like he’s the only solid thing left in a world that keeps trying to shake me loose.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against my hair. “I’ll keep you safe.”
I know he will. I believe it in a way I haven’t believed anything in months. Maybe I can’t fully trust him with my heart yet. Viktor damaged that part of me too badly. But this? The keeping me safe part? Matteo’s proven it. Over and over.
As my breathing steadies, other sensations filter through the fading fear. The heat of his body against mine. The way his hands spread across my back, steady and sure. The hard ridge of his arousal pressing against my stomach.
My face is buried in his neck, and I breathe him in. Cedar and soap and something distinctly him. My pulse shifts from panic to something else entirely. Something warm unfurling low in my belly.
I tilt my head back.
He meets me halfway.
The kiss is soft at first. Tentative. Like he’s giving me space to pull away if I need to. But I don’t need to. I need the opposite. I need closer. More. Him.
When I part my lips, something ignites between us. His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head to deepen the angle. I pour myself into the kiss, chasing the heat, letting it burn away the lingering shadows of my nightmare.
My fingers trail down his pecs, over the ridges of his abs, slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers.
Matteo stiffens. Breaks the kiss.
“We shouldn’t.” His voice is strained, his breathing ragged. “You’ve been through a lot. You might not be thinking clearly.”
I cup his face in both hands, keeping him close. I can’t see him in the darkness, but I can feel his breath mingling with mine. The tension coiled in every muscle. The way his body contradicts his words, pressing toward me even as he tries to pull back.
“I’m thinking perfectly clearly.” I brush my lips against his jaw. His throat. “Please, Matteo. I need this.” I pull back just enough to find his eyes in the darkness. “I need you. Not to forget. To remember.”
“Remember what?”
“That I’m still here. That I’m alive. That he didn’t win.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
Then his mouth crashes into mine, and the world narrows to nothing but sensation.