He shoots me a dark, brooding glare. "It was an eighty percent hydration dough, Clara. It required a twenty-four-hour cold ferment. It's a tragedy."
"You are a ridiculous man."
I grab a damp rag from the sink and start wiping down the marble. Matteo steps in immediately, snatching the rag from my hand with an annoyed grunt.
"Sit," he commands, pointing to one of the tall leather barstools. "You don't clean. I clean. You sit there and look pretty."
"I'm a teacher, Matteo. I wipe down chalkboards and glue-covered desks for a living. I can handle a little flour."
"You are my woman. You don't scrub counters." He turns his massive back to me, aggressively wiping the flour off the marble with completely unnecessary force.
I roll my eyes but climb onto the stool, pulling my knees to my chest. Watching this terrifying, lethally dangerous mafia underboss angrily clean up baking ingredients because he refuses to let me do a chore is the most bizarre, endearing thing I have ever witnessed.
The security comms panel on the far wall chimes, a sharp, electronic chirp cutting through the quiet.
Matteo freezes. The domestic baker vanishes in an instant. The lethal enforcer returns. His shoulders bunch, the tribal tattooflexing as his hand instinctively drops toward the waistband of his sweatpants, right where he normally keeps his weapon.
He stalks over to the panel and punches a biometric code. A small screen flickers to life, showing the private elevator vestibule downstairs.
"Speak," Matteo barks into the comms.
"Unlock the vault, cousin," Dominic's cold, sharp voice filters through the speaker. "We need to talk. I brought Turi."
Matteo's jaw tightens. He glances back at me, his dark eyes scanning my face for any sign of fear or discomfort. I nod once. I am not running to hide in the bedroom. I chose this world. I am staying right here.
"Coming up," Matteo says, hitting the override switch.
The heavy hum of the private elevator engaging vibrates through the floorboards. Matteo walks over to me, boxing me in against the counter. He grips my hips, his massive hands warm and firm through the thin cotton of the t-shirt.
"Dominic is handling the cleanup downstairs," he says, his voice low. "Turi is bringing the final reports on the Bellanti strike. You don't have to stay out here. You can go to the room."
"I'm not hiding, Matteo."
His eyes drop to my mouth. "Stubborn."
"It's part of my charm."
The elevator doors chime and slide open, echoing through the massive foyer. Heavy footsteps approach the kitchen.
Dominic Costa walks in first. He is a terrifying mirror of Matteo—sharp, cold, wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that somehow makes him look even more dangerous. His eyes are dead, entirely devoid of the warmth Matteo hides underneath his brooding exterior.
Behind him steps an older man. Turi. He is in his late sixties, with a thick head of silver hair and a deeply weathered face. He wears a dark, old-school wool coat. His eyes are surprisingly kind, carrying a heavy, sorrowful weight that speaks of decades spent surviving this violent life. He carries a thick leather folder tucked under his arm.
"Figlio," Turi says warmly, offering Matteo a slight nod. His gaze shifts to me, lingering for a fraction of a second, before he offers a polite, respectful bow. "Signorina."
"Turi," Matteo says, his voice carrying a deep respect. He steps slightly in front of me, a purely instinctual, protective barrier. "Dom. Report."
Dominic drops a small stack of burner phones on the pristine marble counter. "The restaurant level is bleached. The five dead Bellanti men are untraceable. The bodies are already in the incinerator at the docks. We left the final man alive, just as we agreed. He delivered the message to the Bellanti boss."
Matteo crosses his arms over his chest. "And the response?"
"Silence," Dominic says smoothly. "They are regrouping. They lost a major shipment of munitions, and they lost their assault team. The war is fully active now, but they will not strike Il Corvo again. They know this penthouse is a fortress."
Turi steps forward, placing the leather folder gently on the counter. He looks at me again, his expression softening into something resembling pity.
"The other matter," Turi says, his voice raspy and quiet. "Arthur Reeves."
My stomach clenches. The name of the man who sold me. The man who raised me, lied to me, and handed me over to monsters to save his own skin.
