Page 12 of Ruined By Protection (Feretti Syndicate #5)

Matteo

T he traffic on the Van Wyck Expressway crawls forward at a snail's pace.

Hazel. The bartender from Austin. The woman I fucked senseless in a hotel kitchen three years ago. The woman who disappeared before dawn, leaving nothing but a curt note.

She's sitting in the backseat right now.

And she's Evelyn's fucking cousin.

I glance in the side mirror again, catching her profile as she stares out the window. Same honey-blonde hair. Same delicate features. Same woman who's popped into my thoughts at random moments for three goddamn years.

What are the chances? One in a million? One in a billion?

My stomach twists with suspicion. This can't be coincidence. No fucking way.

Is she following me? Did she somehow track me down? Find out who I really am, who I work for?

The thought sends ice through my veins. If she's been stalking me, if she knows about the Feretti family...

I shift in my seat, fighting the urge to interrogate her right here in the car. My mind races through possibilities, none of them good. Could she be working for our enemies? The Volkovs? Law enforcement?

"You okay?" Noah asks quietly, his voice low enough that the women in the back can't hear.

"Fine," I bite out, not taking my eyes off the road.

But I'm not fine. I think back to that night in Austin.

Did I say something? Reveal anything about who I really was, what I really did?

I'd been careful, stuck to my cover story about import-export.

But what if I slipped up? What if she figured something out and has been planning this all along? What if she knew all along?

My jaw clenches as another possibility hits me. What if she's running from something serious? Something that could bring heat down on the Ferettis?

I need to get control of this situation. Fast.

As soon as we reach the mansion I'll find a moment alone with her. I'll figure out what game she's playing. Because there's no way this is just some cosmic coincidence. Life doesn't work that way.

"I need to make a call," I say, pulling my phone out. "Business."

It's an excuse to think, to calm the rage and confusion boiling inside me. I dial Daniel's number, watching Hazel in the mirror as I do. She's still looking out the window but her shoulders are tense, her posture rigid.

"Matteo," Daniel answers on the second ring.

"Just checking on security for tonight," I say, my voice all business. "Any issues with the perimeter?"

While Daniel gives me a routine update I don't need I observe Hazel's reaction. Nothing overt but she's listening closely. I can tell by the slight tilt of her head.

What's your angle, Hazel? What the fuck are you really doing here?

The memory of her beneath me, around me, flashes through my mind. The way she moaned my name, dug her nails into my back.

And now she's back, connected to my world in the most unexpected way.

I end the call with Daniel and catch Noah watching me with narrowed eyes. He knows something's off. He always does.

"Everything good?" he asks.

"Perfect," I lie.

When the mansion comes into view I hear Hazel's soft gasp from the backseat. The sprawling estate tends to have that effect on people seeing it for the first time—the manicured grounds, the imposing stone facade, the obvious wealth and power it represents.

But all I can think about is getting her alone, demanding answers. Finding out if she's a threat.

Hazel

The Feretti mansion looms before us, sprawling and magnificent against the morning sky. My breath catches as we approach the enormous gates that swing open automatically, revealing Italianate landscaped grounds that stretch in every direction.

This isn't a house. It's a fortress disguised as a palace.

I press my forehead against the cool glass window, trying to calm my racing thoughts. The proximity to Matteo in the car’s confined space has my nerves fraying. His broad shoulders fill the seat in front of me, his strong hand grips the center rest— a hand that once explored every inch of my body.

Stop it.

That night meant nothing. It was just sex.

Amazing, mind-blowing sex, but still just a one-night stand.

That's why I left before dawn, slipping out while he slept.

I didn't want the awkward morning-after conversation, the empty promise to call, the inevitable waiting only to be followed by disappointment.

The car rolls to a stop at the huge entrance, where massive double doors of dark wood and ornate iron await. My stomach twists with anxiety. What am I doing here?

"We're here," Evelyn announces unnecessarily, squeezing my hand. "You're safe now."

Am I? I glance at Matteo as he exits the car, his movements fluid and controlled. He hasn't given any indication he remembers me, which is both a relief and oddly painful.

Noah opens my door, offering his hand with a gentle smile that doesn't match his intimidating frame. "Welcome to the Feretti residence."

I step out on shaky legs, clutching my small bag to my chest like a shield. The mansion is even more impressive up close—limestone walls rising three stories high, windows gleaming in the sunlight, every detail speaking of old money and power.

The front doors swing open and a petite woman with long dark hair rushes out. She's beautiful in an intense way.

"You must be Hazel!" she calls, approaching with surprising speed on her high heels. "I'm Lucrezia Feretti."

Before I can respond she embraces me like we're old friends. The unexpected warmth catches me off guard and I awkwardly pat her back with my free hand.

"Thank you for inviting me to stay," I manage, my voice smaller than I'd like.

"Of course! Any family of Evelyn's is welcome here," Lucrezia says, pulling back to examine my face. "You must be exhausted from your flight."

"A little," I admit, acutely aware of Matteo watching us from where he stands by the car.

"Would you like to rest first? I can show you to your room," Lucrezia offers, already guiding me toward the porch. "Or are you hungry? Our chef can prepare something."

The thought of food makes my stomach turn. What I really need is a moment alone to process everything.

"Actually, I'd love to take a few minutes to freshen up," I say, forcing a smile. "The flight was long."

"Of course," Lucrezia nods sympathetically. "You need some time to decompress."

When we enter the foyer I try not to gawk at the soaring ceilings, the marble floor, the crystal chandelier.

Everything gleams with wealth and power, making me feel even more out of place in my simple jeans and sweater.

Elliott is rich but I have a very different feeling being here in this opulent palace and I can't explain why.

"I'll show you to your room," Lucrezia continues, leading me toward a grand curving staircase. "It's in the east wing where you'll have plenty of privacy."

I follow her up the stairs, grateful to be moving away from Matteo's penetrating gaze. I need space to think, to breathe, to figure out what I'm going to do next.

That night in Austin feels like a lifetime ago. A different Hazel. Before Elliott. Before everything fell apart. Before I fell apart.

It didn't mean anything. I repeat this to myself like a mantra as we walk down a long hallway lined with artwork that belongs in a museum.

It was just one night. The best night of my life maybe, but still just one night.

And now, somehow, I've ended up in his world. A world that seems far more complicated and dangerous than I imagined.

"Here we are," Lucrezia announces, stopping at a heavy wooden door. She pushes it open with a flourish. "This will be your room for as long as you need it."

My breath catches as I step inside. The space is enormous—easily three times the size of my bedroom back in Austin.

A king-size four-poster bed dominates one wall, draped in crisp white linens that look cloud-soft.

Huge windows showcase the estate grounds, with gauzy curtains that filter the morning light.

"This is... too much," I murmur, setting my pathetic little bag on an upholstered bench at the foot of the bed.

Lucrezia waves away my concern. "Nonsense. It's one of our smaller guest rooms."

I nearly laugh. If this is small I can't imagine what they consider large.

"The bathroom is through there," she continues, pointing to a door on the right. "It's fully stocked with everything you might need—towels, toiletries, robes. If anything's missing just let me know."

I nod, overwhelmed by the generosity.

Lucrezia steps closer, her expression softening. "Look, I know we're strangers right now but Evelyn has told me enough. You can count on this family for anything, Hazel." She takes my hand, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so petite.

Something in her eyes tells me she understands more than she's letting on. Has she been where I am?

"Thank you," I whisper, throat tight with emotion I can't afford to release yet.

"Get some rest. We can talk later." She squeezes my hand once more before heading to the door.

It clicks shut behind her and I'm alone in this palatial room that feels like a sanctuary and a gilded cage.

The silence wraps around me like a blanket. No cameras watching. No Elliott monitoring my movements. Just me and my thoughts for the first time in what feels like forever.

I need a shower. Need to wash away the airport grime, the fear, the memory of Elliott's hands on me last night.

The bathroom is a marble paradise, with a walk-in shower big enough for four people and a soaking tub that makes me want to cry with longing. Another time. Right now, I need to be quick.

Standing before the massive bathroom mirror, I take a deep breath and begin to undress. I pull my sweater over my head slowly, wincing as the movement stretches tender muscles. The fabric catches on my shoulder and I bite my lip to keep from making a sound.

When I finally drop the sweater to the floor I force myself to look at my reflection.

My face is unmarked, of course. Elliott was always careful about that. "Can't have my beautiful wife showing up to a charity gala with a black eye," he'd say, as if his restraint was something to be grateful for.

But my body tells another story.

Purple fingerprint bruises circle both upper arms, five distinct marks where he gripped me too hard two days ago when I wore a dress he hadn't approved.

An older, yellowing bruise spreads across my ribs from where I ‘accidentally’ bumped into the kitchen counter last week.

And the newest addition: a patch of angry red skin on my back where he shoved me into the sharp edge of the bathroom door last night.

Nothing serious. Nothing that won't heal in a week or two. Nothing that would raise alarm if a doctor happened to see. Just enough to remind me who was in control.

I trace the edge of a bruise with my fingertip, feeling the dull throb of pain.

For two years I've hidden these marks under carefully selected clothing.

For two years I've smiled through business dinners and charity events, playing the role of the perfect corporate wife while carrying these secret badges of my failure.

Not failure, I correct myself. Survival.

I made it out. I'm here, breathing, standing in this ridiculously palatial marble bathroom in a mansion belonging to people I barely know, but I'm free.