But he didn't control me.
Not yet.
And I'd make damn sure he never did.
CHAPTER 4: MATTEO
I COULDN'T STOPthinking about Stefan Romano.
I was supposed to be focused on the RICO trial. On Diana Martinez's defense strategy and the suppression motions and the eight months of evidence the federal prosecutors had compiled against us. Sandro needed me sharp. Elio needed me calm. Luca needed me to stop making impulsive decisions that could destroy everything we'd built.
Instead, I was obsessed with the man locked down the hallway from my office.
I sat in my apartment at two AM staring at intelligence files spread across my kitchen table. Files my security team had compiled on the Romano family over the years. Most of the information focused on Giuseppe and his two older sons—Antonio and Luca Romano, both deeply involved in the family business, both with arrest records and known associates in organized crime.
But there was a separate file on Stefan.
Thinner. Cleaner. Different.
I read through it for the third time that night.
Stefan Romano. Twenty-three years old. Youngest of three sons. Graduated from Columbia University with dual degrees in business administration and political science. Spoke four languages fluently—English, Italian, Spanish, and French. Never been arrested. Never been questioned by police. Never been photographed with known criminals except his own family members at public events.
He was the one Giuseppe kept clean and separate. The acceptable face of the Romano family for legitimate society. The son who could attend charity galas and political fundraisers without raising eyebrows. The pretty trophy who made the family look respectable.
I pulled up security footage on my laptop.
We'd collected video from dozens of events over the years—our people embedded as catering staff or security or guests, cameras hidden in lapel pins and buttonholes. Standard intelligence gathering. Know your enemies. Know their families. Know their weaknesses.
I found footage from a charity gala six months ago. The camera angle showed the Romano family table. Giuseppe held court with politicians and businessmen. Antonio and the other son flanked him like enforcers in expensive suits.
And Stefan sat at the edge of the frame looking bored out of his mind.
He wore a tuxedo that probably cost five thousand dollars. His hair was perfectly styled. His smile was polite and empty as he made small talk with the woman beside him—some senator's wife, from the notes. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
I watched him through three more videos. A political fundraiser. A museum opening. A business dinner at an exclusive restaurant.
Same expression in every single one. Polished. Perfect. Completely dead behind the eyes.
This was a man who'd been suffocating in a gilded cage his whole life.
Coming to Inferno wasn't just about gathering intelligence for his father. It was about rebellion. About proving he could be more than the pretty trophy his family paraded around. Aboutdoing something—anything—that made him feel alive instead of decorative.
I understood that impulse.
I'd grown up being my father's weapon. Dominic DeLuca had seen his youngest son's capacity for violence and honed it like sharpening a blade. By the time I was fifteen, I'd broken bones for him. I'd killed for him. I was his favorite tool for teaching lessons to people who crossed him.
When he died, Sandro had taken me in. Given me purpose beyond just being a weapon. Taught me strategy and control. Made me a partner instead of a blunt instrument.
But I still remembered what it felt like to be trapped by other people's expectations. To have no choice in what I became.
The difference was I'd broken free through violence.
Stefan was trying to break free through information and cleverness.
And he'd walked straight into a trap.
I closed the laptop and stared at the frozen image of Stefan's face. Even in a grainy security photo, even bored and playing a role, he was beautiful. Not in a soft way. In a way that had edges underneath. Defiance hiding behind politeness. Strength masked by smiles.
