Page 10 of Ruined By Protection (Feretti Syndicate #5)

Matteo

I kick my shoes off the moment I walk into my apartment, dropping my keys in the crystal dish by the door. The tension in my shoulders starts to melt away as the door clicks shut behind me, sealing out the chaos of the day.

My place is nothing like the Feretti mansion—no marble floors or priceless artwork—but it's mine. Clean lines, modern furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows with a view across the city. Worth every penny for the privacy and the escape it provides.

I shrug off my jacket, drape it over the back of a chair, and head straight for the bar cart in the corner of the living room. The cut crystal decanter catches the late afternoon light as I pour two fingers of scotch into a heavy glass. The first sip burns just right, warming my throat and chest.

With drink in hand I sink into the leather couch and close my eyes. The silence wraps around me like a blanket. No guards, no Damiano, no family business. Just me and the distant hum of the city below.

These moments are rare. Moments when I'm not Matteo Caruso, Feretti family enforcer and problem solver. When I'm just... me.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, shattering the peace.

"Fuck," I mutter and consider ignoring it. But in my line of work ignored calls have consequences.

I pull it out and check the screen. Noah Rivera. Even better.

I take another sip of scotch before answering. "What?"

"Good to hear your voice too, asshole," Noah says, his tone casual but with that underlying edge he always carries. "You busy tomorrow?"

"Why?" I'm already dreading whatever he's about to say.

"Need you to come with me to JFK to pick up Evelyn's cousin."

I sit up straighter, irritation flaring. "You're joking, right? Since when am I your personal chauffeur?"

"Since never. But I need backup."

"For an airport family pickup?" I can't keep the sarcasm from my voice. "What, is her cousin some kind of ninja assassin?"

"Funny," Noah says flatly. "Look, it's a security thing."

"Then take Daniel. Or literally any of the other guys whose actual job is security."

"Damiano specifically asked for you."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Noah, I'm not your fucking problem solver. Go to the airport, pick up the girl, bring her back. How complicated can it be?"

"You think I want to spend my day at JFK? With you?" There's a hint of amusement in his voice now. "I've got better things to do."

"Then go fuck yourself," I say without heat. "I've got plans."

Noah laughs, the sound sharp and knowing. "No, you don't."

I drain my scotch, annoyed because he's right. "Still not going."

"Damiano insisted," Noah says, his tone shifting to serious.

I lean back against the couch cushions. When Damiano ‘insists’ on something it's not really a request. And if he's concerned about security for a simple airport pickup, there's more to this than Noah's telling me.

"What aren't you saying?" I ask.

"Nothing you need to worry about now. Just be ready at noon. Her flight lands at two."

I exhale slowly. "Fine. But you're buying me lunch."

"Whatever makes you feel better, princess," Noah says and I can practically hear his smirk through the phone.

"Fuck you," I reply automatically.

"Love you too. See you tomorrow." He hangs up before I can respond.

I toss my phone onto the couch beside me and stare out at the city skyline. The sun is starting to set, painting the glass towers gold and orange. It's beautiful in a cold, distant way—like so much of the life I've built.

With a sigh I push myself up and head back to the bar cart for a refill. If I have to spend tomorrow babysitting some civilian with Noah Rivera, I'm going to need to unwind tonight.

The scotch pours amber and smooth into the glass. I hold it up to the fading light, watching how it catches and transforms the color.

I take my drink to the windows, gazing out at the city lights beginning to flicker on across New York. Family. That's what it all comes down to with the Ferettis. Not just blood but the bonds we've built, the loyalty we've earned.

It's fucking ironic. I kill people for a living—or arrange for them to disappear, solve ‘problems’ and make threats that aren't empty—but the Ferettis treat me like one of their own. Like family.

I take another sip, letting the fine single malt scotch burn down my throat.

The Ferettis operate on a code most people wouldn't understand. Honor. Respect. Loyalty. Family above all. It sounds noble until you realize what ‘family business’ actually means. It means blood. It means dead bodies. It means making sure the right people are scared and the wrong people disappear.

And I'm good at it. Too good, maybe.

I run my thumb around the rim of the glass, thinking about how I got here. From a Brooklyn kid with no education other than street-smarts to Damiano Feretti's go-to problem solver. The climb wasn't pretty but it was effective.

With Alessio—Damiano's right-hand man—taking personal time, I've been picking up the slack. Usually I don't mind. I like being useful, being needed. But babysitting some civilian? That's not exactly in my job description.

I drain my glass and pour another. Three fingers this time.

The thing about working for the mafia—the thing no one tells you—is that it's mostly business. Boring, everyday business. Moving money. Making deals. Keeping records that will never see the light of day. It's meetings and phone calls and spreadsheets.

Until it's not.

Until it's a gun in your hand or blood on your shoes or a body that needs to disappear before sunrise.

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window. Below me the city moves on, oblivious. People going home to families. People who don't have to worry about whether tomorrow's job involves a gun or a handshake.

The compass tattoo on my forearm catches my eye—a reminder to stay true to my course, to remember what matters. Family. Loyalty. Finding my way through the darkness.

Fuck, I'm getting philosophical. Must be the scotch.

I knock back the rest of my drink and set the glass down harder than necessary. The sound echoes in the empty apartment.

It's not that I resent Alessio. The man's earned a break. He's Damiano's shadow, always on call, always in the middle of whatever shit is going down. But his absence means everyone else shifts up a rung and now suddenly I'm handling things that would normally be his problem.

Like whatever this airport situation is tomorrow.

Hazel

I keep my sunglasses on even though we're inside the plane. They hide the tears that won't stop falling, no matter how many times I wipe them away. Not that anyone's looking. The businessman beside me is too absorbed in his laptop to notice the woman quietly falling apart in seat 14B.

Two years of marriage. Two years of slowly disappearing inside my own home.

I didn't think it would come to this—running away with nothing but a hastily packed carry-on and the cash I'd been secretly stashing in my tampon box for months. The one place Elliott would never look.

The flight attendant passes along the aisle, her smile faltering when she catches sight of me. I turn to the window, pretending to be fascinated by clouds. I don't need her concern or questions. I've had enough of both to last a lifetime.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asks.

"Water, please," I murmur, my voice still raw from crying in the airport bathroom.

She hands me a plastic cup, her eyes lingering a moment too long on my face. I wonder if she can see past the makeup, the glasses, past the designer clothes that don't belong to the frightened girl wearing them.

I take a sip and close my eyes, remembering last night's phone call.

"Evelyn?" My voice trembled as I locked myself in the guest bathroom, the only room without cameras. "I need to run."

There was a pause then my cousin's voice, sharp with concern. "From Elliott?"

Just her understanding—the fact that she didn't need me to explain—broke something in me. A single tear slides down my cheek at the memory.

"Yes," I whispered.

"Come to New York," she said immediately. "I'll meet you at the airport. Just tell me when."

No questions about why. No lecture about trying to work things out. Just immediate, unconditional help.

"I don't want to drag you into this," I'd said, guilt already creeping in. "He has connections. Money."

"So do I," Evelyn replied with steel in her voice. "And I have friends who can help. Powerful friends."

I didn't ask what she meant. I didn't care. All that mattered was my escape.

The plane hits turbulence, jolting me back to the present. My hands grip the armrests, knuckles white. It's nothing compared to the storm I left behind.

Last night. God, last night.

Elliott came home in one of his moods. I'd learned to read the signs—the tight jaw, the precise way he hung his coat, the silence that wasn't really silent, merely a countdown to explosion.

I'd done everything right. Dinner was gourmet. The house spotless. I wore the dress he liked. I was the perfect, pretty doll he'd married.

But it wasn't enough. It never was.

I take another sip of water, letting the cool liquid soothe my raw throat. The bruise on my cheekbone throbs beneath the makeup, a constant reminder of what I'm running from.

It wasn't always like this. Or maybe it was and I just couldn't see it.

Elliott was charming at first—attentive in ways no man had ever been.

He noticed everything: my favorite flowers, how I took my coffee, which earrings I wore most often.

I thought it was romantic, the way his eyes followed me across a room, how he always seemed to know where I was and who I was talking to.

"I just want to take care of you," he'd say, his fingers brushing my hair back. "Let me handle everything."

And I did. God help me, I did.

It started small. He'd frown when I wore certain outfits. "That color doesn't flatter you, sweetheart," he'd say, voice gentle but eyes hard. Soon, clothes I liked would mysteriously disappear from my closet, replaced by things he'd chosen.

My phone started acting strangely six months into our marriage. Battery draining fast, apps opening on their own. When I mentioned getting a new one, Elliott insisted on handling it. "I know people in tech," he said. "Let me take care of it for you."

The new phone worked perfectly—and I never questioned why he needed my passwords.

The businessman beside me shifts and I flinch automatically. The reaction is instinctive now—a Pavlovian response to sudden movement. I hate that my husband has taken even this from me: the ability to exist in the world without fear.

I think about the cameras he installed throughout our house. "For security," he'd explained, kissing my forehead. "I need to know you're safe when I travel." It seemed reasonable at the time. He was protecting me. Loving me.

I didn't realize he watched the footage. Every second of it. Every day.

"Why did the pool guy stay for forty-five minutes on Tuesday?" he asked casually over dinner one night. "The pool only takes thirty minutes to clean."

My stomach had dropped. "He was explaining the new chemical system."

Elliott's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Next time don't invite him inside for water. It sends the wrong message."

I hadn't invited him in. The pool guy had asked to use the bathroom. But I knew better than to correct Elliott when that look was in his eyes.

The flight attendant passes again and I press myself smaller against the window. My thoughts drift to my friends—or the absence of them. One by one they fell away after my marriage. Elliott always had reasons: Lisa was jealous of our happiness, Jen was a bad influence.

Each time he'd comfort me through the ‘necessary’ distancing. "You have me," he'd whisper. "I'm all you need."

I trace the edge of my wedding ring, the diamond catching light from the sun beyond the airplane window. Elliott always said it was flawless, just like I needed to be for him. Perfect. Controlled. His .

The truth is that Elliott doesn't love me. He loves owning me. Possessing me. Controlling every aspect of my existence.

And the most terrifying part? He thinks that is love. In his twisted mind, the obsessive control is how he shows he cares.