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 withher.
“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’remine.”
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 exhaledagainst 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.
