Page 37

Every pixel screams betrayal and abandonment. Yet herehe sits, giving me the keys to the past, no hesitation, no locks. It's a game of power and possession, and he's playing his hand close to his chest. But the look in his eyes tells me he's not bluffing—he's all in, betting everything on this twisted reunion.
The cursor blinks on the screen, a silent challenge. "Matteo, what happened to the stuff in my apartment?" My voice doesn't waver, but hell, my insides are a goddamn rollercoaster.
He shifts in his seat; those piercing blue eyes don't miss a beat. "It's in storage," he says, voice as soft as I've ever heard. "Packed it all up after you vanished. Thought I'd find a clue to where you were." His words hang heavy, tinged with a hope long lost.
"Did you want me to have it brought to the house?" Matteo's question snaps me out of the silence.
"Fuck yes," I breathe out, smirking at the thought of sifting through a past life. "I wanna see what ghosts we dig up."
"Matteo..." I lean into his name, tasting its power over him. He tilts his head, that half-grin playing on his lips like a devil's promise. "You still got that tattoo kit?"
"Always," he replies, pride swelling in his chest.
"Then ink me again," I demand, eyes locked on the laptop before they drag back to his. "M with a crown, ring finger."
Spike chortles from the doorway, "That's my cue." He knows when the storm's rolling in.
"Ask, and you shall receive," Matteo murmurs, clearly moved by the request. Fucking sentimentality might just be the death of him.
"Thank you," I whisper, more to the ghosts in the machine than to the man beside me. There's a weight in those two words, a history drenched in blood and love.
"Thank you for what, Princess?" Matteo's voice rumbles as he stands and prowls toward me like a panther eyeing its prey. The distance between us shrinks with each deliberate step he takes, his presence engulfing the room in a tangible aura of power.
"Thank you for not giving up on us," I start, my voice barely above a whisper while defiance courses through my veins, "and for not falling out of love with me." My chest tightens, remembering the miles and years that stretched between us, a chasm filled with regrets and what-ifs. I ran to escape the darkness, only to find it etched deeper within me, away from him.
Matteo's hand, rough from fights and caresses alike, cups my chin firmly, coercing my gaze upward to meet his stormy eyes. There's an ocean in them, deep and raging with emotions unspoken. "I know I ran away and didn't want to be found. But the whole time I was gone, I always felt like I was missing a piece of myself, and since I’ve been back, I feel like I’ve found it again."
"Princess," he growls, his thumb tracing my jawline with possessive intent, "you're mine. Told you that day on your doorstep, I had come toclaim what is mine." His words are a brand against my skin, searing and undeniable. "And I did. Nothing has changed since that day."
With an ease born of a life commanding others, Matteo leans over me, his shadow casting a dark blanket over my seated form. He reaches out and presses a button on theintercom, his other hand never leaving its claim on my face.
"Becky," he barks into the device, and a sultry voice slithers through the speaker like a snake in tall grass.
"What can I do for you, Mr Ricci?" she purrs, her tone dripping with more than a hint of longing.
"Hold all my calls and appointments till I say otherwise. Do not disturb me in my office," his command slices through the air, severing any hope she might have harbored.
"Of course, Mr Ricci," comes the honeyed reply, soaked with disappointment.
"Desperation oozes from that one!" I mutter under my breath, unable to hold back a snarl. The thought of her pining after him, after everything we've been through, ignites a fire in my belly.
"Princess," Matteo says, his voice low and dangerous, turning back to face me fully. "She can pine all she wants." His eyes lock onto mine, fierce and feral. "I've never touched my employees, and I never will." A promise or a threat, it's hard to tell with him. But Matteo's gaze doesn't waver, and in that moment, I believe him.
"Plus," he murmurs, his lips curling into a sardonic smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, "they are about to hear why." His thumb brushes over my lower lip, a possessive and achingly tender touch. It's a stark contrast to the ruthless man who commands respect and fear in equal measure—a contradiction that defines Matteo Ricci's complexity.
The silence stretches, charged with unspoken words and memories that cling to us like shadows. At this moment, within these four walls, we're not just a mafia boss and hisrunaway love. We're two halves of a twisted whole, bound by a past that refuses to let go.
As he leans closer, his breath hot against my skin, I realize that Matteo's claim on me is unwavering no matter how dark or dangerous our world gets. It's a tether that keeps me grounded in the chaos, a constant reminder that he loves me fiercely in his twisted way.
"Never doubted you," I whisper, my voice barely audible. But he hears it; I know he does because there's a softening in his eyes, a rare glimpse of the man behind the monster.
"Good," he rasps, his thumb leaving my lip to trace the line of my jaw. "Because, Princess, you're about to be reminded exactly who you belong to."
"Stand up," Matteo's voice slices through the stillness of his office, a command that brooks no argument. I rise to my feet, my heart hammering in my chest. There's something about the way he commands me, an edge of danger and a promise of pleasure, that makes my body respond without hesitation.
"Sit on the desk." He doesn't wait for me to move; his hand clears the mahogany surface with a swift, careless swipe. Laptops, papers, and expensive pens crashed to the floor in chaos. His world, his rules. And I—God help me—I revel in it. Even momentarily, the thrill of being the center of this powerful man's universe sends a shiver down my spine.
I perch on the edge, the excellent wood pressing against the backs of my thighs. The room feels charged, the heavy silence punctuated by our breathing. Outside, the city murmurs, a distant soundtrack to our tension.