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He watches me, his gaze unreadable. “You have got to stop thanking me. I gave you my word and I intend to keep it, regardless of whatever is in store for us.”

I swallow, the weight of his words settling in my chest.

I take a step back, intending to put some space between us, but my heel catches on a stone. Before I can fall. Matteo’s hand shoots out, gripping my arm and pulling me against him.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

His chest is solid beneath my hands, his grip firm but careful. I look up, and our faces are closer than they should be.

His gaze drops to my lips.

I don’t know who moves first, but the air shifts, and suddenly, we’re leaning in—

A sharp knock from inside shatters the moment.

Matteo steps back immediately, his expression unreadable as he turns toward the door.

Valentino appears in the entrance, his face tight. “Boss, we’ve got a problem.”

Matteo’s entire demeanor changes in an instant.

He's no longer the man that looked at me with desire a few seconds ago.

He’s a Bellanti again.

“What happened?” he asks.

“Massimo’s on the move.”

Matteo exhales, tension coiling in his stance. He looks at me once before turning away.

The moment is gone.

And I’m not sure we’ll ever get another one.

6

Matteo

TheundergroundroombeneathClub Velvet is dimly lit, the scent of whiskey and burning cigars thick in the air. It’s neutral ground—one of Isabella’s establishments.

A place where the Bellanti Syndicate’s fixers meet to decide the things that never make the headlines but shape the city, nonetheless.

When I step inside, they’re already seated around the long mahogany table.

The five men who hold the strings behind our family’s operations.

They don’t get their hands bloody in alleyways or leave bodies in dumpsters.

They operate in the shadows—dealmakers, strategists, manipulators.

They glance up, sharp eyes assessing. No greetings. No pleasantries. We’re here to handle a problem.

I stride to the head of the table and drop a USB drive onto the polished wood. The small device looks almost insignificant against thebackdrop of crystal tumblers, scattered documents, and the distant gleam of a few loaded firearms.

“This,” I say, voice steady, “is everything we need to burn Massimo Caruso to the ground.”

A beat of silence. Then—