Page 183 of Matteo

“Do what?”

“Talk like you already know what move everyone is going to make.”

I almost laugh, but there’s no humor in me. “That’s because I usually do.”

For a moment something old and familiar passes between us. A version of us that’s not so old. A version that was happy, and carefree and falling. It hurts that things have come to this.

He lets out a low groan. “We’ll do it your way. We’ll wait.”

I tell him that we need to get back to my desk, that I need my screens.

“Won’t Alex wonder what I’m doing at your desk?”

“He’s in the server room.”

Matteo follows me out and I feel the change in the air almost immediately. People notice when Matteo Knight leaves his office and plants himself near my desk. Sonny glances up from his workstation. Joel looks between us, then quickly back to his code.

No one says a word.

And I don’t really want to know what they might be thinking.

I sit, and Matteo pulls up another chair, puts it right beside me. It leaves little room between us and I quickly lose focus. For a few seconds I forget what I’m supposed to be doing because I’m overwhelmed by the scent of his cologne, something dark and rebellious. Unmistakably Matteo. Suddenly, I’m pulled back into moments of magic. His apartment, the kitchen stool, the hotel room, Dubrovnik. His mouth at my throat, his hand sliding under my clothes.

I drag my mind back to the screen. Minutes pass but there’s nothing. I keep one eye on the live activity, one on the mirrored log trail. Matteo is quiet beside me, but the silence between us speaks volumes. He’s all bunched up like a tight coil. I can feel the stiffness in his body. The way he wants to resist this, doesn’t want to believe it.

“You don’t have to stay here, if you can’t take it,” I murmur without looking at him.

“I can take it.”

“You’re wound so tight I’m worried you might snap.”

I think he chortles. It’s a peculiar sound I can’t quite place. “This isn’t funny.”

“Nor is being accused of something you’re not guilty of.”

Then it happens. The monitor blinks. It’s a tiny flicker, followed by another. My body is on high alert. There it is. The bait file awakens.

Someone’s touched it.

I sit up straighter, fingers moving quickly now on my mouse, opening the trace, following the interaction as it unfolds in real time. Access request. Internal route. Masked behind standard maintenance activity.

He’s clever, but not quite hacker-level clever. Beside me, Matteo goes still in a completely different way.

“What is it?” he asks, his voice weary. I don’t answer immediately, because I’m already drilling down, stripping the activity apart, peeling away the normal wrapper it’s hidden behind.

The same machine signature appears beneath it. The same route. The same origin point. My pulse starts hammering. “Oh my God,” I whisper.

“What?”

I turn the screen slightly toward him and point. “There. See that?”

He leans in, his shoulder brushing mine. “What am I looking at?”

“He touched the marker.”

“Who?”

I click twice, open the underlying origin trace, then the authentication record beneath it. The one I’d suspected was there but hadn’t been able to prove until now.