Instead, he just looked at the mess. Then at me.
His expression was calm. Almost amused.
"Feel better?" he asked.
"Fuck you."
"That's a no, then." He brushed egg off his shirt with one hand, examining the damage. "You can throw tantrums if it makes you feel better. But it won't change anything. You're still here. I'm still in control. And you're still going to do what I tell you."
He left without another word.
I stood there breathing hard, adrenaline singing through my veins, and realized I'd just made everything worse. Matteo hadn't reacted the way I'd expected. Hadn't given me the fight I was looking for. He'd just... absorbed it. Like my defiance didn't even register as a threat.
Like I didn't matter enough to punish.
That somehow felt worse than violence would have.
The lock clicked again ten minutes later.
Matteo came back carrying cleaning supplies. A bucket. Rags. Spray cleaner. He set them on the floor and gestured at the mess I'd made.
"Clean it up."
"No."
"That wasn't a request." His voice was still calm. Patient. Somehow that made it more threatening than if he'd yelled. "You made the mess. You clean it up. Now."
We stared at each other.
I wanted to refuse. Wanted to stand my ground and force him to make me. But I could see in his eyes that he would. That he'd drag me to the floor and make me scrub if necessary. That this was a battle I'd already lost.
I grabbed the rags and bucket and started cleaning.
It was humiliating. Deliberate. A reminder that Matteo was in control and I wasn't. He sat in the chair by the window and watched me the entire time. Didn't help. Didn't speak. Just watched as I scrubbed egg off the wall and picked up pieces of broken plate and sopped up coffee that had stained the concrete floor.
I plotted murder in graphic detail while I worked.
Matteo's death would be slow. Painful. I'd use broken plate shards to slit his throat. Or strangle him with the rags. Or bash his skull in with the bucket. Every violent fantasy I'd ever had crystallized around the man sitting in that chair watching me humiliate myself.
When I was done, he inspected my work. Nodded once.
"Good. You're capable of following instructions after all."
"Go to hell."
He left again without responding to the insult.
I sat on the bed and tried not to cry from sheer frustration and rage. My hands were shaking. My chest felt tight. Everything about this situation was designed to break me down. To prove I was powerless. To make me understand that I belonged to Matteo now whether I liked it or not.
I hated him.
Hated my father for sending me here.
Hated myself for being stupid enough to think I could succeed.
An hour later, the lock clicked again.
Matteo brought a sandwich and a bottle of water. He set them on the table—now clean thanks to my work—and looked at me.
