Matteo doesn't smile, but a dark, terrifying satisfaction settles over his features. He leans in and presses a hard, claiming kiss to my forehead. The touch is brief, but the possessive weight behind it sends a jolt of electricity straight down to my toes.
He steps back, pulling his burner phone from his pocket. He hits a single speed-dial button and brings the phone to his ear.
"Dominic," Matteo barks into the receiver. "The textile mills on the river. The old shell company. That's the staging area. The logs match the freight traffic." A pause. "No, do not send the strike team yet. Let them load the trucks. We hit them in transit. We take the product and the transport."
I watch him work. The brutal efficiency of the Costa family Underboss. He paces the length of the office, barking orders, coordinating the counter-offensive. The feral rage from the kitchen has been channeled into cold, tactical precision.
I lean back in the leather chair. The reality of my new life settles into my bones.
I am a Costa now.
Not by blood. Not by marriage. By choice. The transaction is dead. The debt is burned. Everything that happens from this moment forward is on my terms.
I chose the cage. I chose the monster guarding the door.
Matteo finishes the call and tosses the phone onto the desk. He rubs the back of his neck, the silver streaks at his temples catching the blue light of the monitors. The heavy burden of leadership weighs on his broad shoulders.
"It's set," he says, turning back to me. "Dominic is moving the soldiers into position. The hit will happen tomorrow night."
"And until then?"
"Until then, we are locked down." Matteo walks over, offering me his hand. "No one enters the penthouse. No one leaves. The biometric security is engaged. The elevators are disabled from the outside. We are completely isolated."
I take his hand. His calloused fingers wrap around mine, pulling me easily to my feet. The sheer size difference between us is a constant, dizzying reality. I barely reach the center of his chest. He could crush me with a single thought. Instead, he handles me like spun glass.
"Good," I say. "Because I am exhausted, and I still haven't eaten any of that focaccia you made."
A low rumble of amusement vibrates in his chest. "You want bread?"
"I want carbs. I survived a hit squad, a mafia initiation, and the complete destruction of my teaching career all in the span of six hours. If I don't get a carbohydrate immediately, I am going to become violent."
Matteo's mouth twitches. An actual, genuine micro-expression of a smile breaks through the hardened armor of his face. It transforms him completely. The terrifying mob boss vanishes, replaced by the man who desperately needs an anchor.
"Kitchen," he commands softly.
He keeps my hand locked in his as we walk back down the shadowed hallway. The storm outside rages on. Heavy rain lashes against the reinforced glass of the penthouse windows, distorting the city lights into blurred, neon streaks. The world out there is chaotic, violent, and utterly unpredictable.
The world in here is perfectly controlled.
We step back into the bright, pristine kitchen. The disposal sits quietly, concealing the ashes of the debt contract. The marble counters gleam under the recessed lighting. The massive industrial oven radiates a comforting, lingering heat.
Matteo guides me to one of the high stools at the island. He presses down on my shoulders until I sit. He moves to the opposite side of the counter, stepping into his designated territory.
He grabs the cutting board. He pulls a fresh loaf of focaccia from the cooling rack. He tears the bread with his hands, the crust yielding with a crisp, satisfying crunch. The smell of rosemary, sea salt, and baked dough fills the air, overpowering the faint, lingering scent of burnt paper.
He places a generous slice on a small ceramic plate and slides it across the marble toward me.
"Eat," he orders.
I pick up the bread. It is still perfectly warm. I take a bite. The flavor is incredible. A rich, savory masterpiece born from decades of insomnia and trauma. I chew, swallow, and look up at the massive man standing across from me.
He is watching me intently. Waiting for the verdict.
"This is ridiculous," I mutter, taking another bite.
Matteo frowns. "The salt ratio is wrong?"
"No. The salt ratio is perfect. The fact that the most lethal enforcer in the Chicago syndicate is secretly a Michelin-star baker is ridiculous. If the Bellantis knew about this, they wouldn't try to kill you. They would try to hire you for their catering events."
