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That night Matteo cradles me till sleep claims us both, and when daylight tries to steal me away, I find myself still ensnared in his arms, our fates irrevocably intertwined.

I'm lost in the haze of recollection, the ghost of Matteo's kiss still burning on my lips, when his voice slices through the fog. "You okay there, Princess?"

Startled, I snap back to now. My gaze lifts to find him leaning against the doorframe, a knowing smirk playing across his chiseled features. The air between us crackles with the same tension that's always simmering just beneath our skin.

The aroma of Tagliatelle al Giardino still hangs heavy, a fragrant trap that lures me straight back to the night that changed everything. And he knows it—the bastard. He's got that look, eyes glinting with dark amusement because he's aware precisely what that dish does to me. It's a time machine, pulling me back to the first taste of true love.

"I bet if I walked over there and kissed you, you would taste the same as you did twelve years ago," he says, and damn him, his voice is velvet draped over steel.

My cheeks flare up like they've been slapped,heat crawling up my neck. "I think you would be right," I murmur, cursing myself for going red. But it's involuntary—Matteo's effect on me is as certain as a bullet to the heart.

"Nice to see I still bring that color to your cheeks," he drawls, his tone dripping with satisfaction. But then he straightens, the playfulness fading into something more commanding. "But it’s almost time for the gym."

He turns, leaving me adrift in a sea of papers and smoldering thoughts. I watch the retreating lines of his suit, the broad set of shoulders that speaks of a life borne from brutality and control. Dark charm and danger rolled into one lethal package—that's Matteo Ricci.

"Okay, let me get changed; this dress is as uncomfortable as fuck," I grumble, maneuvering around mountains of receipts and contracts that litter the floor. The chaos of paper crunches under my feet as I make my way to the sanctity of our room.

Chapter Twenty-One

Matteo Ricci

I'm behind the wall, eyes narrowed as I watch Niko lumber across the gym floor. It's like he's got lead in his boots, each step booming like a goddamn gavel. I rub my temples, feeling the onset of a headache that's bound to be a bitch.

"Stealth, Niko. Light on your feet, for fuck's sake," I mutter under my breath, but it's no use.

Eleanor's next to him, tiptoeing with more grace, but Christ, her breathing's so loud it could wake the dead. She pants and gasps like she's run a marathon, not just crossed a room.

"Easy, Eleanor. Breathe through your nose," I instruct, voice low. But it's like telling a fish to climb a tree. Panic flares in her eyes, chest heaving fast enough to create a bloody breeze. Yeah, no Zen master shit for her. No quiet calm or inner peace. Just raw, unfiltered panic.

"Boss..." Spike's whisper is practically a hiss in my ear, and I nearly shoot the ceiling from the shock.

"Fucker," I snap, heart racing as my hand grips the cold metal of my gun before I realize it's him. "Jesus, you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Sorry, boss," he chuckles without an ounce of regret, "you were too busy watching those two dipshits being elephants."

My scowl deepens as I shove the gun back into place. "You're not fucking wrong there." I glance at Spike, taking in his smug grin.

"Want Angel and myself to take over the kids' training?" He nods towards Niko, who's now attempting – and failing – to meld with the shadows like some oversized, clumsy panda.

The sight is so ridiculous, so utterly hopeless, that laughter bursts out of me, bitter and sharp. "I was just thinking that," I concede with a heavy sigh, finally turning to face him.

Spike's already grinning, clearly relishing the thought of knocking some stealth into the pair. Fine by me. Let them deal with this circus act. I've got more giant demons to wrestle than teaching these two how to move like they're not about to bring the whole damn building down on our heads.

"So," Spike's voice cuts through the shadows. "Got some intel."

I lean back against the cold wall, arms folded across my chest. "Spill it."

"Chatter's up about Toni." He shifts his weight, hands in his pockets. "Gonna head out, sniff around for details."

"Take those two dipshits at the gate with you. It's achangeover. Make 'em sweat over time," I say, a cruel twist to my lips. The bastards had it coming.

Spike smirks, a glint of shared sadism in his eyes. "What'd they screw up?"

"Late for shift two days back," I tell him, eyebrow cocked. We both know the cost of slacking.

"Fucking dickheads," he mutters, shaking his head as we stride toward the front door. A silent command and our footsteps sync; a dance of death we've perfected over the years.

"Keep me posted. Every damn detail," I order.