I caught the fabric—a t-shirt and sweatpants, both too big, like they'd grabbed whatever was available.
"Matteo—"
"Save it." He walked to the door, then paused. "For what it's worth, you've got balls. Walking in here alone. Stupid balls, but balls nonetheless."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
His smile was sharp. "It's an observation."
He left, and I heard the lock click into place behind him.
I stood there holding the clothes, my disguise scattered across an office downstairs. My hands started shaking—delayed reaction, probably. Adrenaline crash.
I'd fucked up so spectacularly that I couldn't even process it.
I was trapped in a room above Inferno nightclub. My father wouldn't come for me—Matteo was right about that. Giuseppe had sent me here expecting me to fail, maybe even hoping I would. A convenient way to get rid of his disappointing youngest son while sending a message to the Vitales about Romano incompetence.
I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the water heat while I stripped off Dante's expensive jeans. The shower was basic but functional, and I stood under the spray longer than necessary, washing away the remnants of makeup and hair gel and the humiliation of being caught.
When I finally emerged, I put on the clothes Matteo had left. The t-shirt hung loose on my shoulders. The sweatpants were too long, pooling around my ankles. I looked like a kid playing dress-up in his father's clothes.
I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror—no disguise this time, just my real face staring back. Green eyes red-rimmed from the hot water. Brown hair damp and unstyled. Twenty-three years old and trapped in a cage because I'd been desperate to prove I was more than decorative.
Instead, I'd proven exactly what my father had always known.
I was too soft. Too stupid. Too naive to survive in this world.
The lock clicked.
I spun around.
Matteo stood in the doorway, his dark eyes finding me immediately. We stared at each other across the small room. He looked different somehow—less controlled, more raw. Like he'd shed some layer between the office downstairs and here.
"I should send you back to Giuseppe in pieces," he said quietly. "That's what anyone with sense would do."
"Then do it."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
He moved into the room, letting the door close behind him. "Because I saw your face at that auction a few weeks ago. When that investment banker bought you for the night. You looked terrified for just a second before you hid it. Then you saw me watching and something changed in your eyes. Like you were hoping I'd do something. Save you."
My breath caught. I remembered that night. Remembered being paraded on stage while men bid on me like I was a prize. Remembered the sick feeling in my stomach when the banker won. Remembered scanning the crowd and seeing Matteo DeLuca watching me with an intensity that had made my skin prickle.
"I didn't," I whispered.
"You did." He was close now, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "And I've regretted not doing anything every day since."
"So this is what? Guilt? Pity?"
"This is me not making the same mistake twice." His hand came up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing over my cheekbone. "You walked into my territory. That makes you mine. And I protect what's mine."
"I don't need protection."
"Everyone needs protection, Stefan. You just don't know it yet."
He stepped back, putting distance between us like he didn't trust himself to stay close.
