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 theOmertà. And we donotgamble 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 toDiablo.
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 ofmetoday.
They were afraid ofhim.
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.
