“Lazy?” I whispered.
A slow smile pulled on the corner of his mouth. “I did not work this hard, to have a schedule, Francesca. The beauty of being rich is that no one tells you what to do.”
“Right, but shouldn’t you still be growing your empire?”
“What is the point of being richer?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
He smiled. “What is life without freedom?”
We were halfway through our pasta – mine a delicate cacio e pepe, his a spicy arrabbiata that smelled like home and heat – when I found myself watching him instead of eating. The way he leaned back, relaxed, one arm resting casually along the booth behind me. The way the jazz reflected in his eyes, warm and alive.
“Can I ask you something?” I said softly, swirling my fork absentmindedly through the pasta.
He turned his head slightly, those golden-brown eyes locking onto mine. “You can ask me anything,princesa.”
I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Live the way you do.” I gestured vaguely with my fork, then set it down and leaned my elbow on the table, turning toward him more fully. “You do whatever you want. You make your own choices. You don’t care what anyone thinks or expects. You live.”
A small, knowing smile curved Matteo’s lips, but he didn’t interrupt.
“I used to think I was like that,” I continued, almost surprised by my own honesty. “That I’d built this life for myself where no one could control me. Where I had power. Freedom. But somewhere along the way, I became exactly what I swore I’d never be.”
His gaze softened.
“I realized it in Hawaii with you,” I admitted, fingers brushing the rim of my wine glass. “My life isn’t mine. The Cosa Nostra says jump, and I jump. They say fly to Vegas, I fly. I’ve spent so long trying to prove I’m more than a soldier… But that’s exactly what I’ve become. A soldier who listens.”
The jazz music swelled for a moment, filling the silence between us like a sigh.
I looked at him then, really looked.Matteo Di’Ablo. The man who should’ve been the least free of all of us – a Boss in a blood-soaked empire – but somehow, he was the one who walked through life on his own terms. He didn’t bow, didn’t break. He bent the world instead.
“You’re free,” I said quietly. “Reallyfree.”
His smile faded into something more thoughtful. He tilted his head slightly, as if studying me from a new angle. “Freedom comes at a price, Francesca.”
I met his eyes, my heart thudding.
The band shifted into a slower tune, the saxophone melting into a smoky melody. Around us, couples leaned closer, laughter lowering, conversations softening.
Matteo reached for his wine, his fingers brushing mine briefly as he did. It wasn’t accidental. And sitting there, surrounded by music and roses and the heavy velvet night, I felt something shift inside me – like the quiet click of a lock turning, the start of something I couldn’t quite name.
The chocolate torte between us looked sinful under the low restaurant lights – dark, glossy, draped in a drizzle of espresso syrup and scattered with gold leaf like tiny constellations. I was still tracing the edges of my thoughts from earlier, but Matteo, of course, had found a way to coax me out of them without even trying.
He’d leaned into storytelling like it was a game – half business anecdotes, half ridiculous adventures from his younger years as Capo that had me tearing up from laughter. Before I knew it, the heaviness in my chest had lifted, replaced by that warm, reckless energy that always seemed to orbit around him.
“You didn’t,” I said between laughs, clutching my chest.
He smirked, swirling the last of his Barolo. “I did. I cut his head off.”
“After you made him trust you!” I shook my head, still laughing as I cut into the torte, letting the fork sink into the thick layer of chocolate. The jazz band had shifted into a livelier rhythm, something with a cheeky bounce to it, matching the sudden ease between us.
“A rat is a rat.”
“True.”
