Chapter Eight
Emery
I’ve been sitting in the same spot for what feels like hours.
And all I can hear, on repeat, is Matteo’s voice, spelling out the truth like it was nothing.
How my father put my name out there, knowing exactly what that meant.
Knowing Alessandro DeLuca, Matteo’s father, the goddamn king of blood-soaked vendettas, would slit my throat without blinking.
No hesitation. No mercy. Just a name on a list. Just leverage. Just me.
I’ve always known my father was disappointed in me. Hell, it wasn’t a secret.
The disappointment started the second I was born, when the doctor said, “It’s a girl,” and his dreams of a loyal little monster to carry his name died right there in the delivery room.
He wanted a son.
Someone he could mold into a weapon.
Someone cruel and cold, cut from the same brutal cloth.
He followed Alessandro De Luca’s orders without question.
Matteo’s father wasn’t just powerful, he was the power.
The kind of man whose name carried weight in every room, whose silence alone could break weaker men.
He didn’t need threats. He didn’t need violence.
He taught my father everything he knew. How to lead without mercy, how to control without raising his voice.
Because when Alessandro De Luca spoke, the world listened, and when he didn’t, it trembled.
My father was his loyal dog. His blade in the dark. The one who did the dirty work, spilled the blood, kept his hands steady while other men broke, begged, bled. He never questioned. He never flinched.
Until he did.
Until greed, fear, and desperation snapped whatever loyalty he had left. And just like that, he went from asset to liability. From trusted to hunted.
And when he ran, he didn’t run alone. He dragged me down with him, tied me to his sins, an anchor I never asked for.
That day… my father looked me in the eyes and told me to run. Told me to fear for my life, because the monsters were coming. Told me to vanish so deep, so far, that even the ghosts wouldn’t find me.
And I did.
I ran until my legs gave out, until the fear became a constant hum in my bones. I didn’t go to Matteo. I couldn’t. Because even back then, I knew I’d already lost him. He was too far gone, swallowed by that world, bleeding himself dry just to earn a nod from the man who never once saw him as a son.
Matteo was busy proving he could be the monster Alessandro De Luca needed.
Not the boy who used to trace promises on my skin.
Not the boy who said he'd never let anything touch me.
Not the one who kissed me like I was his only truth in a world built on lies.
Matteo buried that softness, choked it out of himself one order at a time.
Every scar, every shattered look in his eyes, was just another step closer to becoming the man his father could finally be proud of.
A soldier. A weapon. A loyal fucking shadow.
And maybe that’s the part that hurts me the most. Is that I was never enough to make him stay the boy he once was.
Not when he could be his father’s perfect creation instead.
I’m so fucking pissed I can’t see straight.
Not at Matteo. At him. My father.
If what Matteo said is true and I don’t doubt it, not with the way he’s got me locked in this life like I’m collateral. My father has sold me out. Traded my life to save his own. And now I’m the one left carrying the weight of his betrayal. The one paying the price for a deal I never agreed to.
He whispered my name into the dark, fully aware it would reach Alessandro De Luca’s ears like a signal flare.
He knew what he was doing. Knew they’d come for me.
They’d get me no matter the cost. He didn’t just throw me to the wolves.
He gift-wrapped me. Laid me at their feet with a bow on my back and a knife buried deep in my spine.
And when they came for me, I bet he didn’t even flinch.
Didn’t hesitate. Just watched the flames catch, lit the match himself, and called it strategy.
All while I burned.
And now… I wonder if he thinks I’m dead. If he sleeps better pretending my bloods already soaked into someone else’s floor. If he closes his eyes and imagines a body bag zipped shut with my name on it.
Maybe that’s easier for him. Cleaner. No guilt if the problems already buried. But I’m not in the ground yet. I’m still here thanks to Matteo, still breathing for how long, I do not know.
A sound snaps through the silence. My body jolts before my mind catches up, instincts yanking me out of the chair and into the shadows—pure muscle memory. Every breath feels too loud, a betrayal in the quiet.
Matteo left hours ago. Said something about supplies. Something to eat. He didn’t look back when he said it. He just disappeared into the night.
Now the silence, it just feels… different. Tighter. Tense in a way that scrapes against my skin. It feels off.
I press myself against the cold wall, heart pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out. For a second, I wonder if this is it. If De Luca’s men have finally found me. Or if Matteo never planned on coming back.
Or worse… if he led them right to me.
My pulse spikes as the sound comes again. It’s closer this time. Then I hear footsteps. Measured. Unhurried. Like whoever it is knows I have nowhere to go.
I scan the room in a panic, eyes darting for something, anything.
A weapon.
A defense.
A fucking chance.
My gaze lands on the fireplace poker leaning beside the cold hearth. I move fast, quiet, grabbing it with trembling fingers, the weight of it both reassuring and completely useless against men who know how to kill without blinking.
The footsteps grow louder…heavier.
Closer.
Each step punches through the silence like a warning, a promise, death dressed in leather shoes and patience.
I press myself tighter into the corner, the poker clutched in white-knuckled hands, breath locked in my throat.
And I wait.
For a face.
For a reason to swing.
The footsteps pause, just on the other side of the wall.
My breath stutters.
My grip tightens on the fireplace poker.
My heart hammers, pounding out a warning… run, fight, fucking do something.
Then a shadow moves first, stretching across the floor.
I don’t hesitate. I swing. Hard, fast, all instinct and fear. The poker whistles through the air, aimed for a skull, a throat, for something.
But the bastard moves fast, jerking back just in time. And in the split second it takes me to recover, a hand lashes out and grabs my wrist, tight enough to make my fingers go numb.
“What the fuck, Emery?”
Matteo.
His voice is low and furious, jaw tight, eyes burning into mine like I just betrayed him. He yanks the poker from my grip and lets it crash to the floor.
He stares at me, as if I’ve lost my goddamn mind. His grip tightens around my wrist, just enough to remind me who’s in control. His eyes, cold and dark, bore into mine, searching for the truth, trying to rip it out piece by piece.
“I thought we were past this shit,” he snarls, voice like gravel and gasoline.
“You think I dragged you out here just to put a bullet in your fucking skull?” He steps in closer, heat radiating off him, fury bleeding through every word.
“If I wanted you dead, Emery, you’d be in the fucking ground already. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Next time maybe don’t sneak around like a fucking predator, Matteo.”
He stares at me. Not with anger. Not entirely. There’s something else simmering behind his eyes, something darker, hungrier. I swear for a second, he leans in.
It coils low in my stomach, that look—uncertain, dangerous, torn between slamming me against the wall or fucking me against it.
Then he blinks. And just like that, the spell breaks.
He lets go of me.
The loss of contact hits hard, cold and sudden, as if he took something with him the moment his fingers left my wrist.
He turns and walks further into the room. The bag slung over his shoulder lands on the counter with a solid thud. Food. Supplies.
He doesn’t look at me. Just reaches into the bag, pulls out a takeout container, and sets it down on the edge of the counter, closer to me than to him.
“Penne with extra garlic,” he mutters, voice low and rough, as if saying it out loud costs him something. As if he’s trying to make it sound casual.
But it’s not. He remembers. Not just the dish, but exactly how I like it.
And that shouldn't matter. But fuck, it does.
He turns back to unpacking the rest, like he didn’t just toss a memory between us and walk away from the fallout.
I move to the counter, close enough to feel the tension radiating off him, but neither of us says a word. It hangs there as if we breathe wrong, the whole thing will crack wide open.
Matteo opens a drawer and pulls out a fork. He sets it on top of the container without looking at me, without saying a word. He’s not trying to take care of me… but he still is.
His head stays down, pretending to focus on unpacking the rest of the bag, pretending the food suddenly matters. Doing everything he can to avoid looking at me.
So, I look at him. Really look at him. For the first time.
He’s changed.
Sharper around the edges, more shadows in his eyes, more silence in his movements. But he’s still him. Still Matteo.
His hair’s a little longer than I remember. Messy like he ran a hand through it too many times. His jaw is tight, the kind of tension that’s lived there for years now.
But it’s the ink that catches my attention. Just above the collar of his shirt, peeking out along the side of his neck. Black lines and shadowed edges, curling up his skin.
I don’t recognize this one. It’s new. Bold. A piece of him that wasn’t there before. A piece of the life I wasn’t around to witness. A piece of something private he never meant anyone to see.
And God, he’s beautiful in the way only something broken can be. In the quiet way he exists in this room, full of shadows and restraint. He’s different now, harder, sharper, but somehow still familiar.
“You done eye-fucking me, Em, or should I take my shirt off and save you the trouble?” His voice is smooth, sharp, lethal in that low drawl that coils heat straight through my gut. “I mean, if you wanna drop to your knees, sweetheart, just ask.”
“If I wanted to drop to my knees, Matteo,” I say, voice laced with wicked intent, “I’d already have your cock down my throat, and you’d be the one begging me to let you come.”
His breath stutters, just once. Almost imperceptible. But I see it.
The way his jaw locks. The way his fingers curl into fists at his sides. Like he’s holding himself back by a thread, and I just lit a match.
His eyes burn into mine, all darkness and restraint barely hanging on. “You think I’d beg?” he growls, voice rough and lethal.
“I don’t think,” I purr, voice sweet and slow, “I know.” I step a little closer, letting the words hang in the air like a challenge.
“From memory, you used to beg me not to stop when I sucked your cock,” I tease, my eyes locked on his.
“So, tell me, what’s changed, Matteo? Or are you just too proud to admit you want me to do it again? ”
His eyes flare, pupils darkening as the words hit him like a punch. He breathes out, rough, barely a growl, and for a split second, I see it, the moment where he almost loses it.
“If you think I’m about to beg, you're fucking delusional," he snarls. "If we fuck, it’s nothing more than me getting off. Nothing more than me using you like I always have."
"You can keep pretending it’s nothing more than a fuck," I say, my voice cold. "But we both know that’s a lie."
I watch his eyes, the flicker of anger, the hesitation behind the mask he’s trying to wear.
I smirk, grabbing the takeaway container with all the fake calm I can muster as if I didn’t just set the air on fire between us.
Then I turn, walking away slowly.
Every step is a reminder.
Every sway is a tease. And I make damn sure he sees exactly what he’s not getting.
“Thanks for the penne,” I say, tossing a look back at him over my shoulder.
His eyes burn into me, and I feel the heat of his gaze as it follows me across the room. I can practically feel the frustration radiating off him, and I fucking love it.