Chapter 27
Present
Upper-East Side, New York City
I WANTED TO SURPRISE MATTEO.
The bass thudded low through the empty club – lights dimmed, a haze of dust still floating where sunbeams from the back door cut in. It still smelled of fresh paint, despite the whiskey, and cash. I liked it.
I climbed the metal stairs toward the VIP balcony, heels soft against steel, excitement buzzing under my ribs. The place wasn’t open yet – but I knew Matteo would be here finalizing details.
Maybe I’d drag him out for coffee. Maybe I’d win another round of our stupid game, remind him who was in control.
Halfway up, voices drifted down – laughing.
His.
And hers.
My body froze midway up the steps, fingers tightening around the railing.
From where I stood, I saw them only in stolen pieces between the railing bars – Matteo leaning against the DJ booth, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark eyes warm with amusement.
And the woman – that gorgeous woman – from months ago.
She laughed at something he said, threw her hair back, looking at him like she wanted to devour him whole.
He didn’t move away.
Didn’t shut it down.
Just kept talking.
My stomach dropped – sharp and ugly. Heat shot through me, rising like fire up my throat.
It was irrational. It was insane.
We weren’t in love. We weren’t real. This marriage was business, a game – convenience wrapped in rings and paperwork.
But watching her look at him like that made something vicious coil inside my ribs.
Before either of them could notice, I turned. Fast. My heels hit the stairs too loud, too hard – panic drowned in fury. I pushed through the back door into cold morning air, lungs burning.
I wasn’t jealous. No. Just… Annoyed. I didn’t care.
My heart didn’t get the memo.
Anger tasted like blood on my tongue. My pulse hammered so hard I felt it in my teeth. I walked faster, practically jogging across the empty lot, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
I hated the wash of heat behind my eyes.
I hated that I felt everything.
I never had to deal with anything like this before meeting Matteo.
He could flirt. He could fuck. He could laugh with whoever the hell he wanted.
Because we were just messing around.
And I could walk away.
I got in my car, slammed the door, and the driver took off.
My knuckles went white on the handbag as the city smeared past my window in motion-blurred lines.
Because fury was easier to swallow than heartbreak.
I was in the middle of a business meeting at DeMone Tower when my phone buzzed. While the CFO and financial team went on about potential risks, I checked my phone, only for my face to turn red from anger.
Matteo <3 : Hey baby
Matteo <3 : I want to take you out tonight
Matteo <3 : You owe me a date
I changed his name in my contacts and gave a dry text back.
Me : I’m busy
Jerkoff : Something wrong mi amor?
I ignored him.
Jerkoff Missed call
Jerkoff : Call me.
Jerkoff Missed call
Jerkoff Missed call
Jerkoff : Francesca.
I blocked him.
An hour later, I was at one of the Family’s spots in Little Italy to handle some business. I was already in a shit mood and the dumbass forty-year-old toddlers I had to straighten out were not helping.
I always had to do this type of shit once in a while. Show up to some low-rank who was fucking up my money because he didn’t take orders from a woman. Then when he disrespected me, I had to beat the shit out of him in front of his friends.
Today’s genius was Rocco Giuseppe, a Made Man who’d only gotten vowed in at thirty, because he married a woman in the Mob.
I was one wrong word away from backhanding him into the wall of liquor behind him, when his face suddenly lit up.
He stood from his chair and gave a salute to someone who’d just entered the underground bar. A frequent spot for lower-end mobsters, closed for today’s meeting.
Glancing over my shoulder, my heart jumped in my chest when I saw my temporary husband walk in and command the room.
Matteo, dressed in a relaxed suit, walked right up to me and leaned down to press a kiss to my cheek.
“You alright?” He murmured in my ear.
I nodded, turning back to the men across the table.
Matteo’s cologne – dark, expensive, infuriatingly familiar – filled my lungs as he took a seat next to me. My pulse tripped. I hated that it did. Hated that one kiss on the cheek could smoke out every thought I’d been holding together with spit and willpower.
I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t.
Instead, I focused back on the men across the table – five assholes with more ego than brains. The underground bar smelled like old cigars, stale whiskey, and cheap testosterone – bare bulbs overhead flickering like a headache.
Matteo spread into the chair, his knee brushing mine. Casually territorial. A silent warning dressed like affection.
I didn’t react.
I just straightened, spine steel, jaw set sharp.
“Where were we?” I said, voice cool enough to frost the liquor bottles behind them.
Rocco shifted, tugging nervously at his gold chain. “We were just saying – ”
“No,” I cut him off. “You were making excuses.” My tone could slice a throat. “You’re running streets like cowboys. Causing noise. Eyes. Heat. We do not attract attention. We do not break the Omertà. And we do not gamble with the Family’s name.”
Rocco opened his mouth with a sardonic laugh.
I slammed my fist on the table hard enough to make glasses jump, the echo cracking like a gunshot.
One of them – Paolo – looked like he wanted to spit back.
Instead, his gaze flicked to Diablo.
Matteo lounged beside me lazily. His eyes though – cold. Razor-sharp. A predator’s gaze scanning prey.
Just a look.
And every man at that table flinched.
“Do the smart thing, and listen to the woman.”
They weren’t afraid of me today.
They were afraid of him.
The meeting wrapped short. When I dismissed them, they rose stiffly, chairs scraping concrete like nails. Each gave me quick nods – tight, resentful, measured – and filed out with death in their eyes.
Normally, I’d feel powerful. Victorious.
Instead, unease crawled under my skin – because for the first time, I didn’t know whether they shut up out of respect…
Or because Matteo’s presence made rebellion suddenly look suicidal.
My hands were steady on the table, but my heart? A riot.
I finally looked at him. And the way he was already looking at me – it made something in my chest tighten painfully.
I cared. More than I should.
And I hated that I didn’t know if he did too.
Not able to look at him any longer, I got up and headed over to the bar. Matteo followed wordlessly.
The bartop was polished walnut, dark and glossy, reflecting us like a funhouse mirror – two people pretending they weren’t on the verge of burning everything down.
He leaned a forearm against it, watching me with that unreadable calm that always unnerved me. Like he could wait me out forever.
“I made reservations for tonight at seven,” he said, as subtle as a gun.
“I told you already I’m not free,” I snapped.
“Except I know that you are.” His voice lowered, softer, too perceptive. “What’s wrong?”
Everything.
“Nothing’s wrong.” I kept my eyes on the liquor labels instead of his face. “I just don’t want to spend time with you.”
A chuckle – warm, maddening. “You don’t want to spend time with me? C’mon, really? Everyone wants to spend time with me.”
His grin was sharp. Charming. The kind of grin that won over women.
Heat flared up my spine. Anger, jealousy – I couldn't tell the difference. I stepped closer, voice a hiss for only him.
“No. I don’t,” I bit out. “Not even your own brother likes you.”
The words left my mouth like a blade thrown too hard.
His expression didn’t change.
Not his jaw. Not his mouth.
But his eyes – God – his eyes did.
Something fractured there. Pain flashed quick, silent, raw before he shuttered it behind a blankness so cold it made the air between us ache.
He didn’t speak.
Just stared at me like I’d touched a wound I didn’t know existed.
My throat tightened. My chest burned. Guilt – unwanted and sharp – stabbed beneath my ribs.
Rocco emerged from the back room like he’d been listening for exactly the right moment to make me hate today more. His shirt was half-untucked, cigar still wedged between his teeth, and when he saw my face – saw the shine in my eyes I was desperately trying to blink away – his lips curled.
“Weak cunt.”
My pulse stuttered, breath locked in my chest. And before I could even process what he’d muttered under his breath, my eyes flicked to Matteo – instinct, like muscle memory, like something deeper.
One second Rocco was sneering, the next his body hit the wall with a sound I felt in my bones.
Matteo’s hand grabbed hold of his head, slamming his skull into the rock once.
Twice.
Crack.
Wet and final.
The room went silent.
Rocco’s body slid down the stone, leaving a smear of red like some macabre signature. A problem erased. Permanently.
My glass slipped from my hand, shattering red across the floor.
It shattered, shards skittering like little stars across the tile.
But I was already gone.
I moved on autopilot, heels hammering up the stairs, through the dim hallway, past the men who parted for me like I was a storm. The heavy door gave way with a rush of cold air and I was outside – running – running like the building was burning down behind me.
The car door slammed. My driver jerked awake behind the wheel.
“Home,” I choked out.
He didn’t ask twice. Tires screeched, city blurring beyond the tinted windows. I pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to hold myself together, but everything inside me was glass – cracking, splintering.
Everything that could’ve gone wrong… Had.
Rocco was dead. My father explicitly said no bodies.
And Matteo… God, I cut him open with words I didn’t truly mean.
What the hell was wrong with me?
“You okay, Miss?” my driver asked, voice low, worried. I realized then that tears were slipping down my cheeks, hot and silent. “Should I tell your father?”
“No,” I said quickly, wiping them away with the back of my hand. “Everything is fine.”
He hesitated, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. “Is… Matteo causing you problems? You know I have your back if he is.”
I let out a broken breath. Shook my head.
“No,” I whispered, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. “Matteo is really nice.”
Nice.
And there it was.
The truth I didn’t want.
The truth I was running from.
Matteo wasn’t the problem.
I was.