“I’m scared he’ll come back,” I whisper.
Matteo doesn’t speak. He doesn’t touch me. He simply stands beside me, solid and steady against the night.
Not a promise. Not a confession. Just quiet protection, offered without asking anything in return.
The wind bites at my skin, and before I can talk myself out of it, I let my shoulder rest against his—light, unassuming, almost accidental.
We stay like that as the wind grows colder, neither of us willing to break the fragile peace stretched between us.
15
MATTEO
I’m acting like a fucking stalker. I know it. I shouldn’t even be here.
And yet—Iam.
I tell myself it’s for her protection, that Valerio had to step away for a few hours and I’m simply filling in as a shadow. It’s a convenient lie, one I’ve repeated to myself for the past forty minutes while sitting in the far corner booth of this piano bar, my untouched whiskey sweating on the table.
At any moment she should walk in.
At least,that’s what I’ve been telling myself every time I look at my watch and feel that pulse of impatience crack down my spine.
I overheard her this morning in the hallway—she and her friends whispering about their reservation here. It wasn’t like I pressed my ear against the door. It wasn’t like I asked Adam, the doorman, which direction she went when she left.
I’m not obsessed.
I just… want to know she’s safe.
And maybe Iwant her to talk to me. After everything that happened between us, you’d think she would at least want to look me in the eye again.
Christ. I sound like a lovesick fool.
I runone of the most powerful syndicates in the state; women scramble for the privilege of being noticed by me, not the other way around. And yet here I am, pining after a woman who doesn’t even know how deep she’s cut me.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, swallowing a mouthful of whiskey and flinching at the burn. “What kind of spell did this woman cast on me?”
Then, without warning, I feel her.
It hitsme like a shift in pressure—subtle but undeniable. My body reacts before my mind does, spine straightening, senses sharpening, every instinct turning toward the door.
Lavender. Warmth. Beatrice.
And there she is, walking in with the two women I recognized from the background check I ran earlier—old college friends she hasn’t seen in years. I take a moment to drink her in, and something in me clenches painfully.
The red silk dress clings to her like it was stitched onto her skin, catching the low golden light of the lounge and sculpting her into every fantasy I’ve tried to forget.
She doesn’t see me at first. She’s laughing with her friends, head tilted back, eyes bright, lips painted the softest shade of temptation I’ve ever seen. She looks lighter tonight—looser, livelier—and Valerio was right. She seems… different. Like she’s breathing for the first time in months.
I don’t move. Don’t blink. Don’t touch the damn drink in my hand. I just watch her.
The piano croons a slow Sinatra number, the kind that makes the world feel softer than it actually is. Conversations fade into a quiet buzz. No one here is in a hurry. No one is pretending their world is on fire.
She flicks her hair back and leans in toward her friends, animated and glowing, and I swear I could stare at her for hours and call it prayer.
Then she turns.
And she sees me.
