But I don’t.Because this… This moment is mine.Even if it guts me.
I stay there, holding my breath, somewhere between the girl I was before all this happened and the woman standing here now, trembling just enough for me to feel it, hate it, try to hide it.
Matteo watches, and he waits.One hand rests on his gun, calm but ready.The other… Probably just waiting to catch me if I fall apart.
I push open the door, and step inside.The air feels different here.Stiff, sterile.The smell of polished wood and something faintly chemical fills my lungs, making my stomach tighten.
Every movement is slow, deliberate, as if I’m waiting for the floor to crack beneath me, for the walls to close in and suffocate me.
“Stay behind me,” Matteo mutters, his voice low, as he steps in front of me, watching everything, protecting me like it’s the only thing that matters.
I can’t stop the shiver that runs through me as he leads me inside.The cold, polished beauty of the place.It’s too perfect.Too clean.A place that feels like it was designed to be looked at, not lived in.
The floors are smooth, gleaming under the soft lighting.The walls are a mix of sleek, dark wood panels and glossy, white surfaces that reflect the light like it’s something precious.The furniture is sparse, minimalist.Neutral tones.Grays, whites, and blacks.
There’s no warmth here.No personal touches.Nothing that feels human.Just cold, perfect emptiness.The art on the walls is modern, and abstract.
I can feel the shift in Matteo before he even moves.His breath changes, deeper, measured.His stance shifts like a switch has been flipped.All soldier, all instinct.
We move through the first room; the silence surrounds us.The kitchen looks used, but it is empty.Cabinets left half-open.Dishes still in the sink.The place feels...abandoned, but not by choice.The house feels hollow now.The servants have vanished, and the life it held has slipped through the cracks, lost to time.Now, it’s just him, left to do everything himself.
Then as we move forward, I see him, just beyond the narrow entryway, past the hallway leading to the back den.
My father.
He’s sitting in an old armchair, facing the window.One leg casually crossed over the other, the cigar smoldering between his fingers, its smoke curling toward the ceiling in slow, lazy spirals.And there beside him, resting on the arm of the chair, just out of reach is a gun.
He’s sitting there, watching the main road, unmoving, like a fucking statue—completely unaware that we’ve come through the back, that we’ve already breached the perimeter, already standing behind him, ready to strike.
Matteo moves first, just a fraction, a controlled shift, his hand shooting out behind him.His palm is open in a silent command.
Halt.
I obey, heart hammering in my chest, eyes locked on my father as Matteo takes slow, deliberate steps forward.Every movement is quiet, controlled.But beneath that calm, I can feel the rage in him, like it’s boiling under the surface, ready to tear through everything.
The floorboard creaks beneath Matteo’s boot.It’s soft, barely audible, but it’s enough.
My father flinches, his head snapping to the sound.In an instant, his hand shoots toward the gun resting on the arm of the chair, years of instinct kicking in like it’s second nature.
But Matteo’s faster.
Way fucking faster.
Before my father even knows what’s happening, Matteo is there, arm extended, the barrel of his gun pressed hard against the back of my father’s head.I can see the tension in the way Matteo holds his gun like it’s an extension of himself.I’ve never seen him more alive.More lethal.
“Don’t,” Matteo growls, his voice low, and dangerous.“Don’t even fucking think about it.”
Matteo’s eyes are cold as he watches my father’s every breath, every twitch.
My father freezes.Fingers hovering inches from the grip of his gun.Breath shallow.Eyes wide.Lips parted like he’s trying to speak but choking on the truth instead.
“Matteo,” he rasps, voice torn and brittle, scorched from choking on his own sins for far too long.
“I said don’t,” Matteo snaps.
He presses the barrel harder against his head, while his other hand rips the weapon from the chair beside him and hurls it across the room.It hits the floor with a brutal clunk and skids across the hardwood, spinning out like it’s trying to escape the moment.
“You fucking move again,” Matteo says, voice low, dark, vibrating with threat, “and I’ll fucking drop you where you sit.”His eyes narrow, venom bleeding into every word.“Try me.Blink the wrong fucking way, and I’ll paint the walls with your blood.”
