Chapter 29
Present
Upper-East Side, New York City
A FEW DAYS PASSED, AND somehow the world softened around the edges.
It showed up in the small things – the way Matteo automatically filled my coffee cup when it was empty, the way I handed him his shirts in the mornings without thinking twice.
The way we moved around each other like we’d rehearsed it in another life.
We cooked together. He burned the food when he got distracted by me getting on my knees in front of him in the kitchen.
I ordered takeout and he pretended to be offended, only to steal food from my plate.
We fell asleep on the couch with a movie still playing, his arm heavy around my waist. In the mornings, he made espresso while I opened the windows, sunlight spilling in like it belonged to us.
It was domestic in the most dangerous way – easy.
And one of those mornings, we sat at the kitchen island in comfortable silence. Matteo leaned against the counter, bare-armed, sunlight pouring over him, turning his skin golden. I caught myself staring, tracing the lines of him with my eyes – the strength, the scars, the life written there.
I tilted my head. “How come you don’t have any tattoos?”
He glanced up like he’d never thought about it before, then shrugged. “Never found anything important enough to make permanent.”
Something warm settled in my chest at that. I leaned forward and kissed him. It was comfort.
He kissed me back just as softly, one hand coming up to hold my chin, thumb brushing my cheek like it belonged there. The world stayed quiet around us.
But as always, if it’s too good to be true… That’s probably because it is.
The penthouse hummed with that quiet, anticipatory tension I knew too well – the kind that settled in before nights where power gathered in one room and pretended to be civilized.
Francesca stood in front of the mirror, adjusting her earrings, all calm confidence and soft focus. Black dress. Clean lines. Deadly in the way only she could be. Watching her always did something to my chest – pride, desire, fear braided together.
I adjusted my cufflinks and met her eyes in the mirror. “You’re not leaving my side tonight.”
She glanced at me, amused. “Matteo, it’s a restaurant opening. Not a war.”
I didn’t smile.
“I’m serious,” I said, stepping closer. “You stay with me. The whole night.”
She nodded, but it was automatic, distracted – like she’d already moved on to the next thought. I could tell she wasn’t really hearing me, not the way I needed her to.
I swore under my breath and closed the distance in two strides.
I cupped her face in my hands, firm enough to stop her, gentle enough not to scare her. Her eyes snapped to mine, surprise flickering there – because I was never like this. Never commanding with her.
“Francesca,” I said quietly, but there was steel underneath it. “I’m not playing.”
The room seemed to still. Her breath caught, just slightly.
“There are too many people we don’t know,” I continued, my thumbs brushing her jaw as I forced her to really look at me.
“And too many who don’t like what you represent.
Five families in one room, recent hits all over the city, and half of them still choking on the idea of a woman becoming Underboss. ”
Her expression shifted then – focus sharpening, the Consigliere in her waking up.
“I need you next to me,” I said. “So I can see you. So I can protect you.”
For a second, she just stared at me, and I knew she didn’t like me thinking she needed protecting.
“I’m not protecting you because you’re a woman. I’m protecting you because you’re mine.”
Her features softened.
“Fine,” she said, this time real. “I promise.”
She leaned forward and kissed me – slow, reassuring, her hand slipping into my hair like an anchor. I exhaled against her lips, my forehead resting against hers for a beat longer than necessary.
“Good,” I murmured. “Because tonight, I don’t trust anyone else with you.”
She smiled softly, dangerous and brilliant all at once.
And as we headed for the door together, I already knew – whatever walked into that restaurant tonight, it would have to go through me first.
The restaurant was glowing – polished marble, brass accents, low amber light bouncing off crystal glasses. Power sat heavy in the air, disguised as laughter and expensive wine. Five families, one room, and for once, everything was… Smooth.
Francesca stood at my side, composed and lethal in heels, Gìo a few feet away talking to one of the Bronx guys. I leaned in close to her ear.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I murmured. “Stay with Gìo.”
She nodded easily, lips brushing my cheek. “I’ll be right here.”
I held her gaze for half a second longer than necessary, then turned and headed down the corridor toward the restrooms.
The bathroom was quiet – too quiet compared to the noise outside. I washed my hands slowly, grounding myself, watching the water run over my knuckles.
My phone rang.
Gìo.
“What’s up?”
“I just left the restaurant,” he said. “Francesca told me she was going to find you.”
“Alright. I’ll go find her.”
“I’ll see you Monday at the club. Have a good night. And make sure Francesca doesn’t cause any scenes.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, yeah. Goodnight.”
I ended the call and pushed through the bathroom door.
The noise hit me first – the music, the chatter, the clink of glasses. My eyes scanned instinctively.
Francesca wasn’t there.
Not by the bar. Not near the tables. Not with our people.
I pulled my phone out and called her.
Straight to voicemail.
I called again to be sure.
Straight to voicemail.
My jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
I checked her phone’s location.
No location found.
The room suddenly felt too big. Too open. Every face a question mark. Every shadow a threat.
My hand curled slowly into a fist at my side.
She promised she wouldn’t leave my side.
I stopped the first DeMone soldier who crossed my path, catching him by the arm before he could sidestep me.
“Where’s Francesca?” I asked, voice low but sharp enough to cut.
He stiffened immediately. “Uh – last time I saw her, she was with Gìovanni.”
My jaw tightened. “That was ten minutes ago.”
He swallowed. “That’s all I know, Boss.”
I released him and pivoted toward the bar, my eyes scanning faces as I moved. The bartender – a guy who suddenly looked very interested in polishing a glass – froze when I leaned in.
“Blonde. Red dress. Where did she go?”
“She – uh – went to the back,” he finally said. “With some of the other bosses.”
I headed straight past the kitchen, past swinging doors and stainless steel counters, deeper into the guts of the building where the lights dimmed and the air turned stale.
The backroom door sat at the far end of a narrow corridor. Two. No – four men stood in front of it. Cosa Nostra low-ranks. Young. Overconfident. Armed with the kind of authority that came from borrowed power.
They shifted when they saw me.
I stopped inches from them.
“Is my wife in there?” I asked.
One of them scoffed. “Don’t worry about it.”
I stepped forward anyway, hand reaching for the door.
A hand slammed into my shoulder to pull me back. “Only Cosa Nostra.”
I laughed – once, sharp and humorless. “Are you fucking dumb?”
I tried to move past them without making a scene, but they blocked me again, hands out, posturing.
Something in me snapped.
I shoved the first one hard enough that he hit the wall, then drove my forearm into another’s throat, sending him stumbling back, choking. Someone grabbed my jacket – I twisted, elbowing him in the ribs.
“Get the fuck out of my way,” I snarled, rage vibrating through every word.
I barreled through them, swearing in Spanish.
I burst into the next room and stopped short.
Concrete walls. Exposed pipes running along the ceiling. A single metal door at the far end, industrial and heavy, the kind meant to keep things in – or out. A basement door.
Locked.
I slammed my fist against the metal, the impact ringing through my bones.
“Francesca!” My voice echoed back at me, swallowed by steel.
No answer. No sound. Nothing.
Something dark and feral crawled up my spine.
I pulled out my gun.
The first shot exploded through the room, deafening, sparks flying as the bullet hit the handle. The sound was violent – too loud, reckless. I barely registered the echo ripping through the building, only hoping the music and chaos upstairs swallowed it whole.
I fired again. And again.
Metal screamed. The handle warped. The lock buckled.
By the seventh shot, the door finally gave – a sharp crack – and swung inward.
I slammed it open and charged down the cement stairs, the smell of damp concrete and oil thick in the air. The light dimmed with every step, replaced by a low, sickly yellow glow.
The basement came into view.
Rough. Bare. A big room with mismatched chairs and crates, men sitting, standing, leaning like they had all the time in the world. Cigarette smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling. Conversations died the moment they saw me.
My chest heaved.
“Where is my wife?!” My voice filled the room, raw and unhinged, vibrating off the walls.
A man stepped to me – younger, stupidly confident – raising a hand like he could stop me with words.
I backhanded him with my gun, the crack of bone against metal sharp and final. He hit the floor like dead weight, groaning.
I stood there, breathing hard, gun raised, eyes burning as I scanned every face in that room. I was done asking nicely.
“Easy, Matteo–”
“WHERE. IS. MY. WIFE.”
The words ripped out of me, shaking the room. My gun was still raised, my finger tight, my vision tunneled red.
“Matteo?”
Francesca stepped forward from behind me, out of the shadows like she’d simply wandered into the wrong room, hair perfect, eyes sharp, very much alive. Untouched. Unhurt.
“Are you alright?” I crossed the room in three strides, grabbing her shoulders, my hands checking her instinctively – arms, waist, face.
“I’m fine,” she hissed, swatting my hand away. “What are you doing?”
The adrenaline drained too fast, leaving something colder behind. Heavier. The realization hit me square in the chest.
She hadn’t been in danger. She just hadn’t listened.
My jaw clenched hard enough to ache. I took her hand, grip iron.
“Come on,” I said flatly. “We’re leaving.”
“I’m not done – Matteo!” she protested under her breath as I turned, already dragging her toward the stairs.
She followed – not willingly, but smart enough not to turn it into something worse. Her heels clicked angrily against the concrete as we climbed, the basement door slamming open ahead of us like a warning shot.
We exited through the back of the restaurant, the night air slapping into us – cold, sharp, smelling like asphalt and exhaust. The bass from inside thudded faintly behind the walls, oblivious.
The moment the door shut, she yanked her hand back.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she snapped as we crossed the street. “You embarrassed me in front of everyone.”
We reached the curb. My G-Wagon sat across the street, black and hulking under a flickering streetlamp, engine still warm.
“You scared the entire room to death!” she said. “You pulled a gun in a basement full of unarmed Cosa Nostra men.”
“Because they wouldn’t let me come down to you.”
I walked around the front of the G-Wagon, yanked open the passenger door, and held my hand out to her anyway.
“Get in,” I said.
She scoffed but took my hand, letting me steady her as she climbed inside, still mid-rant. “And you don’t get to manhandle me because you’re angry!”
I shut the door a little harder than necessary and rounded the hood. By the time I slid into the driver’s seat, she was still going.
“You don’t trust me. That’s what this is.”
“I do. That doesn’t mean I’m going to stand by while you disappear in a room full of men who’d love a reason to make a fucking point.”
She leaned across the console suddenly, fire in her eyes. “You don’t own me, Matteo.”
I grabbed her face, thumb brushing her jaw, and kissed her – hard, angry, reckless. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was teeth and breath and months of tension colliding in a second that shouldn’t have existed.
She kissed me back, moaning into my mouth – the way she always did before palming my cock over my pants.
But tonight, she shoved me away and slapped me across the face.
The sound cracked through the car.
I barely felt it.
I rubbed my jaw slowly, a smirk tugging at my mouth despite everything. “You done?”
She stared at me, breathing hard, furious. “Don’t you ever do that again. I’m being angry with you right now!”
I pulled out onto the road, gripping the wheel tight. “Then don’t ever scare me like that again.”
We drove off into the night still arguing, the city lights streaking past the windshield.
And yet, beneath the anger, beneath the shouting, there it was.
That dangerous, undeniable thing between us.
Still burning.