This was new. Over the past few days, Matteo had stopped just visiting for chess games and sex. He'd started staying.Bringing his work. Setting up his laptop on the table and typing while I read or watched TV or just existed in the same space.
It was domestic in a way that should have felt wrong. Should have reminded me that this entire situation was insane—that I was falling for my captor, that Stockholm syndrome was probably a factor, that I had no idea if my feelings were real or just a response to isolation and trauma.
But it felt right anyway.
"You didn't have to bring food," I said, sitting up.
"You need to eat." He pulled out containers and set them between us. "And I was hungry. Two birds, one stone."
We ate together. Matteo worked on his laptop between bites, frowning at whatever he was reading. I watched him and tried to reconcile this version—casual, almost relaxed, bringing me Thai food—with the brutal enforcer whose reputation preceded him.
"What are you working on?" I asked.
"Security protocols. Elio wants everything tightened before the trial starts." He glanced up. "Boring logistics. Nothing interesting."
"Tell me anyway."
So he did. Explained the security system at Inferno. The layers of protection they'd built around their operations. The contingency plans for if things went wrong during the trial.
I listened and asked questions and slowly learned how his world actually worked. Not the violence and brutality everyone talked about. The strategy. The planning. The careful orchestration of an empire built on blood and loyalty.
"Your turn," Matteo said eventually. "Tell me something about you that I don't know."
"Like what?"
"Anything. Your childhood. Your interests. What you wanted to be before your family decided your future for you."
I was quiet for a moment. No one had ever asked me that before.
"I wanted to be a translator," I admitted. "For the UN or something similar. I'm good with languages—they come easily to me. I thought maybe I could use that. Travel. Help people communicate across barriers." I laughed bitterly. "But Giuseppe said that was a waste. That the family needed me for appearances, not for actual work. So I got degrees in business and political science instead. Learned to smile and make small talk and look good in expensive suits."
Matteo's expression darkened. "Your father's an idiot."
"He's practical. In his world, I'm more useful as decoration than as anything else."
"Fuck his world." Matteo reached across and took my hand. "You're brilliant, Stefan. The way you play chess. The way you read people. The languages. The strategic thinking. You could have been incredible at anything you chose. Your father wasted you."
The words hit harder than they should have. Made my chest tight and my eyes burn.
"Tell me about you," I said, needing to shift focus before I started crying. "You grew up in Chicago?"
Matteo nodded. "South side. My father was an enforcer for the outfit there. Low-level. Expendable. Someone killed him when I was fifteen—I never found out who. Could have been a rival family. Could have been his own people cleaning up a problem. Doesn't matter. He was dead and I was alone."
"How did you end up in New York?"
"Survival. I did what I knew how to do—fight, enforce, collect debts. Worked my way east. Met Sandro when I was eighteen. He saw something in me besides just violence. Taught me strategy. Gave me purpose. Made me a partner instead of justmuscle." Matteo's voice was soft. "He gave me a family when I had nothing."
"You're loyal to him."
"Completely. He saved my life. Not just literally—though he did that too. He saved me from becoming just another dead enforcer like my father. Gave me a reason to be more than what I was born to be."
I understood that. The desperate need to be more than what your family decided you were. The hunger for someone to see your potential instead of just your utility.
"I never wanted to be part of my family's world," I admitted. "I've always felt trapped by their expectations. By the role they assigned me. Coming to Inferno was supposed to be rebellion. My one chance to prove I could be more than decorative."
"And instead?"
"Instead, it became the best thing that ever happened to me." The admission felt dangerous. True in ways I wasn't ready to examine. "Even though I'm technically a prisoner."
