Matteo stares at me for a long, flat second. Then, a dark chuckle escapes his throat. He leans his forearms on the marble island, closing the distance between us. The gold chain swings forward, clinking softly against the stone.
"You mock me in my own kitchen, Clara."
"Someone has to keep your ego in check. You did just orchestrate a major tactical strike."
"I am a very dangerous man."
"I'm terrified. Pass the butter."
He reaches out, grabbing the small dish of whipped butter and pushing it toward my plate. The domestic normalcy of the actionis surreal. The juxtaposition of a heavily armed, blood-stained mobster serving me fresh bread at four in the morning is the exact definition of my new reality.
I spread the butter on the warm bread. The silence stretches between us, but it is no longer the heavy, pressurized quiet of an impending explosion. It is comfortable. It is the silence of two people who have finally stopped fighting the inevitable.
"What happens to my father?" I ask quietly, not looking up from my plate.
The question needs to be asked. Arthur Reeves is the catalyst for this entire disaster. He is the reason my apartment is gone. He is the reason I am sitting in this penthouse.
Matteo's posture instantly stiffens. The domestic ease vanishes, replaced by the cold, calculating Underboss.
"He is marked," Matteo states flatly. "The Bellantis will hunt him for losing the logs. We will hunt him for bringing the threat to our door."
"Do not let the Bellantis find him first," I say, my voice completely devoid of emotion.
Matteo's eyes narrow. He studies my face, searching for a trace of grief or hesitation. He finds nothing. Arthur Reeves died to me the moment he signed my life away on that piece of paper. He ceased to be my father the moment he traded his daughter to save his own miserable skin.
"You want me to handle him," Matteo confirms.
"I want the loose ends tied up." I meet his dark gaze squarely. "He is a liability to you. He is a liability to this family. I will not have him crawling back in six months, trying to leveragemy position here to clear another gambling debt. He made his choice. I am making mine."
The ruthlessness in my statement shocks even me. The third-grade teacher is truly gone. The ashes in the trash can represent more than a contract. They represent my old identity.
Clara Reeves, the dutiful daughter, burned to nothing.
Matteo's expression transforms into a mask of absolute awe. The feral possession in his eyes flares to a blinding intensity. He recognizes the shift in me. He sees the exact moment I fully accept the darkness of his world.
"It will be handled," Matteo vows softly. "He will never approach you again."
"Thank you."
I take another bite of the bread. The transaction is complete. The past is severed.
Suddenly, the heavy silence of the penthouse is shattered by a harsh, grating mechanical sound. The heavy steel security shutters, hidden within the ceiling architecture, begin to deploy. Thick panels of reinforced metal slide down over the bulletproof windows, locking into place with a series of deafening clangs.
The glittering Chicago skyline is completely erased. The rain and the storm are shut out.
The penthouse is plunged into artificial lighting. The ultimate lockdown protocol.
Matteo's head snaps toward the hallway. His entire body goes rigid. The predator is fully unleashed. Every muscle in his massive frame coils with violent tension.
The burner phone on his hip vibrates wildly.
He rips it from his pocket, bringing it to his ear without checking the screen. "Report."
I drop the bread onto the plate. Cold dread spikes in my chest. The war is not waiting for tomorrow night. The retaliation is happening right now.
"How many?" Matteo barks, his voice a lethal whipcrack in the enclosed space. "Where?"
He listens for a fraction of a second. The coarse hair of his beard brushes against the phone. His dark eyes lock onto mine from across the marble island. The absolute obsession and territorial rage swirling in his irises is terrifying to behold.
