"Eat."
"No."
"Stefan—"
"I said no. You can't make me."
He smiled slightly. "You're right. I can't. But you'll get hungry eventually. And when you do, the food will be here."
He left.
I stared at the sandwich and hated that he was right. That I was already hungry. That my stomach was cramping from not eating since yesterday. That my body was betraying me just like everything else.
I lasted until evening.
By then I was starving. My hands shook. My head ached. The sandwich sat on the table mocking me with its existence.
I ate it.
Hated myself for it. Hated Matteo for being right. Hated the whole fucking situation.
The bread was fresh. The turkey was good quality. The cheese was the expensive kind. Even imprisoned, they were feeding me well. Like I mattered. Like I was worth keeping alive and comfortable.
I didn't understand it.
That night, Matteo visited again.
He didn't bring food. Didn't speak. Just walked into the room and sat in the chair by the window. Then he stared at me.
I stared back.
I refused to look away first. Refused to give him that victory. If he wanted to play psychological games, I could play too. I could sit here and meet his dark eyes and pretend my heart wasn't racing. Pretend I wasn't terrified of what he might do next.
We sat in silence for twenty minutes.
It was the longest twenty minutes of my life.
Matteo didn't blink much. His gaze was steady, focused, cataloging every detail of my face like he was memorizing me. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle and I was the key piece that didn't fit.
I watched him back. Noticed things I'd been too scared to see before. The scar through his left eyebrow. The strong line of his jaw. The way his hands rested on the arms of the chair—relaxed but ready, like he could move in an instant if needed. The silver chain around his neck that glinted in the overhead light.
He was beautiful in a brutal way. All hard edges and dangerous grace.
I hated that I noticed.
Finally, he stood. "Goodnight, Stefan."
He left.
I lay awake on the bed trying to understand what just happened.
Why Matteo hadn't hurt me when I threw the tray. Why he'd made me clean instead of beating me into submission. Why he kept visiting me like this—bringing food, sitting in silence, watching me like I was something precious instead of a problem to be eliminated.
Why I was being kept alive at all.
Nothing about this situation made sense.
Giuseppe had sent me here to fail. Matteo had said as much. So why not just kill me and send my body back to my father as a message? Why keep me locked in this room? Why feed me goodfood and give me clean clothes and watch me with that intensity that made my skin prickle and my breath catch?
