Matteo's posture goes entirely rigid. The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. "What about him?"
Turi opens the folder, sliding a single, typed document across the marble. "He landed in South America on the private charter we provided. Our men intercepted him on the tarmac. He begged, Matteo. He offered to sign over the rest of his non-existent assets. He offered up the girl's name again."
A violent tremor rips through Matteo's massive frame. He lunges forward, his hands gripping the edge of the marble island so hard the stone groans.
"He offered Clara?" Matteo snarls, the feral rage breaking through his iron control. "After he already used her as collateral?"
"A coward stays a coward, figlio," Turi says softly, his kind eyes completely flat. "He believed she was still a bargaining chip."
I stare at the typed report. The words blur together. The betrayal is complete. My father didn't just sell me once. Given a second chance, he tried to sell me again.
There is no grief left in my chest. Just a cold, absolute void.
"Where is he?" Matteo demands, his voice a lethal, vibrating threat.
Dominic buttons his suit jacket, entirely unbothered by the violence radiating off his cousin. "He is gone. Permanently exiled. He was placed on a cargo vessel bound for South America, stripped of his passport, his funds, and his identity. If he steps foot in North America again, or if he makes contact with Clara, the order is immediate execution. He is a memory. The Arthur Reeves problem is closed."
Matteo turns to me. His dark, brooding eyes search my face, looking for tears, looking for a breakdown, looking for any sign that the news has broken me.
I reach out and place my hand over his massive, white-knuckled fist resting on the counter. His skin is blazing hot.
"Good," I say, my voice steady and clear.
The single word echoes in the massive kitchen. Dominic pauses, raising a dark eyebrow in faint, detached approval. Turi offers a sad, knowing smile, nodding his silver head slowly.
Matteo stares at me, his chest heaving. The violent rage slowly recedes, replaced by possessive awe. He turns his hand over, tangling his thick fingers with mine, completely anchoring me to him.
"Are we done here?" Matteo asks, glaring at his cousin.
Dominic picks up the burner phones. "We are done. Keep the shutters down for another forty-eight hours. The compound is on high alert. If you need anything, call."
"I have everything I need," Matteo growls, his grip on my hand tightening.
Turi buttons his wool coat. "Stay safe, figlio. The blood is just beginning to spill."
The two men turn and walk back to the private elevator. The heavy steel doors slide shut, swallowing them back into the violent, shadow-filled underworld of Chicago.
The penthouse falls silent again.
Matteo pulls me flush against his chest. His arms wrap around me, blocking out the rest of the world. He buries his face in my hair, inhaling sharply. His deep, rhythmic breaths rumble against my spine.
"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice raw.
"I'm okay. Truly."
I wrap my arms around his waist, resting my cheek against his heavy, hair-roughened chest. The gold medallion presses into my skin.
"He was a stranger, Matteo. The man who raised me died a long time ago. The man on that tarmac was just a coward with a gambling problem."
He pulls back slightly, cupping my face in his large hands. His thumbs brush over my cheekbones. "He will never touch you. He will never look at you again. I swear it on my life."
"I know."
He stares at me, the twenty-year war in his mind completely visible in the depths of his dark eyes. The trauma of finding his own father bleeding out in an alley in the rain. The unending noise. The desperate, methodical baking at two in the morning just to drown out the silence.
I reach up and trace the sharp silver at his temple. "The battlefield in your head," I whisper. "Is it quiet?"
Matteo closes his eyes, leaning into my touch. A profound, bone-deep exhaustion washes over his features, followed immediately by absolute peace.
