Page 15 of Ruined By Protection (Feretti Syndicate #5)

Matteo

I take my seat across from Hazel, feeling the weight of the day settling into my shoulders. The casino security issue was minor, just a drunk tourist making threats.

"Here he is, our resident food snob," Noah says, smirking as he raises his wine glass. "Did you have to send back the security guard's coffee because it wasn't single-origin Ethiopian?"

The table erupts in laughter. I roll my eyes but can't help the slight twitch of my lips. Noah's been giving me shit about my particular tastes since forever.

"Some of us have standards, Rivera," I fire back, reaching for the wine. The bottle is a Brunello di Montalcino—at least Damiano knows how to set a proper table.

"Standards?" Noah snorts. "Is that what we're calling it now? Remember when he made that chef in Miami cry because the risotto was—what did you call it, Matteo?"

"An insult to my ancestors," I mutter, pouring myself a generous glass.

"An insult to my ancestors!" Noah repeats with dramatic flair. "The man nearly quit his job."

Lucrezia giggles. "It's not just food. Remember that girl in Milan who wore the wrong perfume? I thought Matteo was going to break out in hives."

"She smelled like a department store." I defend myself, feeling the familiar rhythm of family dinner banter washing over me. "And her laugh was irritating."

"Matteo's the same with his women as he is with his food," Noah explains to Hazel, who's watching our exchange with wide eyes. "Particular to the point of insanity."

I look up then, directly into Hazel's eyes. Those eyes—hazel with amber flecks that catch the light. The same eyes that watched me with such intensity as I moved inside her.

She looks away immediately, a flush creeping up her neck. Her fingers fidget with the stem of her untouched wine glass.

I don't need to see her eyes to remember them.

They've been burned into my memory for three years—the way they darkened when I touched her, how they squeezed shut when she came, how they softened in the aftermath.

I memorized every detail of her face that night, cataloged every expression, every sound.

"You're being uncharacteristically quiet, Matteo," Zoe observes, her perceptive gaze moving between Hazel and me. "Tough day?"

I clear my throat. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

"The first course is here," Damiano announces as servers enter with plates of antipasti. The spread is impressive—prosciutto di Parma, buffalo mozzarella, marinated artichokes, and olives imported from Sicily.

I watch as Hazel eyes the food with uncertainty, hesitating before selecting an olive. She places it in her mouth carefully and I find myself fixated on the movement of her lips. I remember how they felt against mine, soft and yielding.

"Hazel," Damiano says, drawing my attention back to the conversation, "Evelyn tells me you're quite skilled behind a bar."

She swallows quickly. "I wouldn't say skilled, exactly. Just experienced."

"Don't be modest," Evelyn jumps in. "Hazel could make anything. She worked at one of the top hotels in Austin."

"Perhaps you could mix us cocktails sometime," Lucrezia suggests brightly, oblivious to the undercurrent. "I've been trying to perfect my Negroni for ages."

Hazel smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "I'd be happy to."

I watch her as she picks at the antipasti, selecting a piece of prosciutto with careful fingers. She wraps it around a small chunk of melon, the way Italians have done for centuries. Her movements are precise, almost delicate. She's trying hard not to draw attention to herself.

Three years ago those same fingers dug into my shoulders, my back, my ass. I remember how she gripped me like I was the only thing keeping her from flying apart. The memory sends heat rushing through me, settling low in my gut.

She takes a bite and a tiny drop of melon juice catches at the corner of her mouth. Her tongue darts out to catch it, pink and quick. Fuck. I shift in my seat, thankful for the tablecloth hiding my growing problem.

"The wine is excellent, Damiano," Enzo says, breaking through my thoughts. "Brunello?"

"2010," Damiano confirms. "A good year."

I take another sip, barely tasting it. Hazel reaches for her glass and I notice the slight tremble in her hand.

She's nervous. I wonder if she's remembering too—the way I took her against that kitchen table, how I licked her in the elevator, then again in my suite.

How many times did she come that night? Four? Five? I lost count.

I imagine bending her over this very table, hiking up that green dress, tearing away whatever's underneath. Would she be as responsive now as she was then? Would she still cry out my name when she comes?

"So, Hazel," Noah says, "how long do you think you'll be staying with us?"

She looks up, startled. "I... I'm not sure. I don't want to impose?—"

"Nonsense," Lucrezia interrupts. "You're welcome for as long as you need."

"Thank you," Hazel murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

I drain my wine glass and reach for the bottle again. This is going to be a long fucking dinner.

"Matteo will be handling your security while you're here," Damiano says casually, as if he's not just dropped a bomb at the table.

Hazel's eyes widen, darting to me then quickly away. "That's... I don't think I need?—"

"It's not up for discussion," Damiano cuts in, his tone gentle but firm. "Everyone in this house has security. Standard procedure."

She nods, looking down at her plate. I can practically see her mind racing, trying to figure out how to handle being stuck with me.

I imagine all the ways I could get her alone. The conversations we could have in private. The way I could back her against a wall, lift her up, and remind her exactly what she walked away from three years ago. How I could make her admit she remembers every moment of that night.

I'm so focused on her that I almost miss the feeling of being watched. When I look up, Lucrezia's eyes are locked on mine, moving between Hazel and me with calculated interest. A knowing smirk spreads across her face and my stomach drops.

Shit.

Lucrezia has always been too perceptive for her own good. She tilts her head slightly, raising an eyebrow in silent question. I keep my face neutral but it's too late. She's figured something out—maybe not everything, but enough.

She leans forward, that smirk still playing on her lips. "Hazel, has anyone given you a proper tour of the house yet? I'd be happy to show you around after dinner."

"That's very kind," Hazel says, clearly relieved to have someone's attention other than mine.

"Actually," Lucrezia continues, her eyes sliding back to me with mischief, "Matteo knows this place better than anyone. Since he's handling your security, maybe he should do the honors."

Fuck. I'm going to kill her.

"Actually," Evelyn cuts in, leaning forward with a tight smile, "I already promised to show Hazel around after dinner. I've been looking forward to it all day."

The tension at the table shifts. Evelyn's eyes flit between Lucrezia and me, her protective instincts clearly kicking in. She knows something's off, even if she doesn't know exactly what.

I take another sip of wine, grateful for the interruption. The last thing I need is Lucrezia playing matchmaker when I'm trying to figure out whether Hazel is a threat.

Ginerva brings out the main course—carbonara. The creamy rich aroma fills the air, but I barely notice. My mind is too busy cataloging the possibilities.

Maybe this is just a coincidence. The world is full of them.

This isn't about wanting to fuck her again, though my body clearly disagrees.

This is about determining if she's a threat.

I've had plenty of women since her. None of them left me still thinking about them years later but that's beside the point.

The physical attraction is just muscle memory—my body recognizing something it enjoyed before.

What matters now is whether she's here on purpose. Is she working for someone?

But if that's the case, why pretend not to recognize me? Unless she's playing a longer game. And why does she need protection? From whom?

I need to get her alone, away from Evelyn's watchful eye. I need to figure out what her angle is before she can do any damage.

Hazel

I stare at my plate, pushing the perfectly al dente pasta around with my fork. Everyone at this table is watching me—some with curiosity, others with suspicion. Especially Matteo. Every time I feel his gaze on me, my skin heats and my stomach tightens with memories I should have buried years ago.

"Would you like more wine, Hazel?" Zoe asks, already reaching for the bottle.

"Just a little, thank you." I need something to steady my nerves.

Now Matteo's going to be my security detail. The universe has a sick sense of humor.

I take a sip of wine, hoping it will calm the storm inside me. Instead, it just reminds me of that night in Austin. The taste of alcohol on his lips as he kissed me. The way his hands felt on my skin. How he looked at me like I was something precious and dangerous all at once.

What I need to be doing is figuring out what to do about Elliott. He's probably already discovered I'm gone. He'll be tracking my credit cards, calling everyone I know. I need to contact a lawyer, file for divorce, make sure my family is protected.

Instead, my traitorous mind keeps replaying moments from three years ago. Matteo feeding me lobster in that hotel kitchen. His mouth on my neck. The way he whispered in my ear as he moved inside me.

I glance up and catch him watching me again. His eyes are dark, unreadable.

"Matteo," Damiano says, "you were in Austin for that meeting with the Rodriguez family, weren't you?"

My heart stops. I focus intently on my plate, afraid my face will give everything away.

"Three years ago," Matteo corrects, his voice smooth and controlled. "Just passing through."

Three years ago. So he does remember. The exact timing. Just passing through. This is how he sees what happened between us. A convenient stop along the way.

"Small world," Noah comments, glancing between us.

You have no idea, I think.

I force a smile as conversation flows around me. Damiano and Enzo are discussing some business matter I don't bother trying to understand while Zoe and Lucrezia debate the merits of a new restaurant downtown. I'm grateful for the momentary shift of attention away from me.

"The tiramisu here is incredible," Evelyn says, leaning toward me. "Trust me, save room."

I nod, though food is the last thing on my mind. My thoughts keep circling between my current predicament with Elliott and the man sitting across from me who's pretending we've never met.

Elliott will be furious by now. I imagine him pacing our bedroom, making calls. The cameras throughout our house will have recorded my departure, the moment I walked out with just one small bag. He'll have reviewed the footage a dozen times, scrutinizing my every move.

My hand trembles slightly as I reach for my water glass.

Elliott was always so particular about sex.

He approached it like he did everything else in his life—methodical, controlling, focused on his own pleasure.

In the beginning I'd tried to guide him, to show him what I liked. He didn't take the suggestion well.

"What's wrong with how I'm doing it?" he demanded, pulling away from me. "My ex never complained."

After that I learned to fake it. To make the right sounds, to clench my muscles at the right moment, to tell him how good it felt. It was easier than dealing with his wounded ego and subsequent sulking. Sex became another performance in a marriage filled with them.

Damiano clears his throat, drawing everyone's attention. "Tomorrow I'll need Matteo with me for that meeting with the commissioner." His voice carries the easy authority of someone used to being obeyed. "Daniel will be available if you need to go anywhere, Hazel."

I straighten in my chair. "Actually, I will need to go somewhere in the morning, if that's okay."

"Of course," Damiano says with a nod. "Daniel will be at your disposal."

Daniel, the tall security man with the buzzed haircut, gives me a curt nod from his position near the door. "I'll wait for you after breakfast, Mrs. Montgomery."

The name makes me flinch. I haven't been thinking of myself as Mrs. Montgomery since I stepped on that plane. Hearing it now feels like Elliott has somehow found me.

"Just Hazel, please," I say, my voice smaller than I intended.

Evelyn reaches over to squeeze my hand. "I'll come with you," she says, her voice warm with support.

I wait for someone to ask where I'm going or why.

With Elliott I couldn't even go to the grocery store without explaining my exact route, what I planned to buy, and how long I'd be gone.

But no one here questions me. The absence of interrogation feels strange, almost unsettling in its unfamiliarity.

"Thank you," I say, glancing around the table. These people—these dangerous people—are giving me more support and freedom than my husband ever did.

I need to get a phone. I need a way to contact my family, to let them know I'm safe without revealing where I am. And I need a lawyer. Someone who can help me file for divorce and navigate the mess that's coming.

"You okay?" Evelyn whispers.

I nod, although I'm anything but okay.

Tomorrow I'll start taking back control of my life. One step at a time.