Page 4 of Ruined By Protection (Feretti Syndicate #5)

Matteo

I watch her closely, not fully buying her assurance. The way her arms wrap around herself, how her eyes dart back to where that asshole disappeared—she's rattled, even if she won't admit it.

"You're sure?" I press, stepping closer.

"I'm fine, really." She pushes a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear. "Occupational hazard of bartending."

That thought makes something dark twist in my gut. I don't like the idea of men putting their hands on her, drunk or sober.

"Ready for that ride?" I ask, deliberately changing the subject as I consider hunting down every man who's ever disrespected her.

"About that..." She looks up at me with those hazel eyes that caught me from across the bar. "What exactly did you mean by 'a ride'?"

I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. "You think I was being metaphorical?"

"I don't know what to think about you." Her voice carries a hint of wariness mixed with curiosity.

"Come on." I gesture toward the parking area. "I'll show you."

She follows me, keeping a careful distance that I respect. We round the corner to where I've parked and her eyebrows shoot up.

"That's yours?" She points at the gleaming Harley Davidson Road King, its chrome catching the yellow glow of the parking lot lights.

"Rental, actually. Only thing Texans ride, apparently."

Her laugh hits me like a shot of the finest whiskey—warm, intoxicating, and leaving me wanting more. It's genuine, not the polite chuckle she gives customers at the bar.

"Let me guess," she says, eyes dancing with amusement. "You asked for something that screams 'American South' and they gave you this monster?"

"Pretty much." I run my hand over the leather seat. "Guy at the rental place looked at me like I was insane when I said I wanted something practical. Told me, and I quote, 'Sir, this is Texas. We don't do practical, we do statement.'"

She laughs again and I find myself cataloging the sound, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners, how her entire face lights up.

Her laugh fades too quickly, like someone cut the music. I watch her face change—the light in her eyes dims, and her smile drops away. She sways slightly on her feet, one hand reaching out to steady herself against a nearby car.

"Whoa, you okay?" I move toward her, ready to catch her if she falls.

"I'm fine." She waves me off but her voice lacks conviction. Her face has gone pale under the harsh parking lot lights.

"You don't look fine." I keep my voice gentle but firm. "What's going on?"

She presses her lips together, clearly debating whether to tell me the truth. I wait her out. I'm good at waiting when it matters.

"It's nothing serious," she finally admits. "I just... I haven't eaten since breakfast. Got busy and skipped lunch, then straight to work." She gives me a weak smile. "Low blood sugar makes me a little dizzy sometimes."

I check my watch—almost one in the morning. No wonder she's unsteady.

"That's an easy fix," I say. "I could eat something too. Let's get you some food."

Relief washes over her face, quickly followed by hesitation. "There's a taco place about five blocks from here. They're open late."

I shake my head. "The hotel restaurant has better food. They'll still be serving."

Hazel's eyes widen as she checks her phone. "The kitchen at the hotel closes in less than five minutes. We'd never make it."

"Wanna bet?" I flash her a grin that makes her blink. "I don't lose, especially when food is involved."

Before she can protest, I reach for her hand. Her fingers are cool against my palm, delicate but not fragile. The contact sends a jolt through me that I wasn't expecting—like touching a live wire.

"Come on," I say, tugging her gently toward the hotel. "We're going to make it."

She hesitates for just a second, then her fingers curl around mine. "This is crazy," she says, but she's already moving with me.

"Sometimes crazy is exactly what you need." I pick up the pace, pulling her along. "Especially after the night you've had."

We break into a jog and her laugh bubbles up—bright and genuine.

The kitchen's fluorescent lights hit us like a spotlight after the dim parking lot.

"Sir! Miss! You can't be in here!" A young waiter in a crisp white uniform blocks our path, panic flashing across his face. "The kitchen is closed for the night."

"We just need something quick," I say, keeping my voice casual while letting my eyes harden. "Nothing complicated."

"I'm sorry but it's against policy. I could lose my?—"

I step forward, still holding Hazel's hand. "What's your name?"

The waiter swallows hard. "Peter, sir."

I feel Hazel's palm flinch in mine as I stare Peter down. Her fingers tense against my skin and I can sense her discomfort without even looking at her. But I don't release her hand—not yet.

"Look, Peter," I say, keeping my voice low but insistent.

"I understand the restaurant is closed and you've got rules to follow.

But here's what's going to happen. The lady and I are going to eat in the kitchen.

And in about an hour you're going to come back and clean up, just like you were already planning to do. "

Peter's eyes dart between my face and the exit, weighing his options. I can read the calculation in his expression—the risk of saying no to someone like me versus the risk of breaking hotel protocol.

"No one else is going to come in while we're eating," I continue. "You understand what I'm saying?"

Hazel's hand twitches again in mine, a silent protest that I register but don't acknowledge.

Peter swallows hard. "Yes, sir," he says finally, shoulders slumping in defeat. "I understand."

"Good man." I reach into my pocket with my free hand and pull out a folded hundred-dollar bill, pressing it into his palm. "For your trouble."

His eyes widen at the bill and I watch his resistance crumble completely. "There's, uh, some food but I can't cook and the chef's gone by now," he says, voice steadier now.

"I'll handle it myself. Thank you, Peter."

He nods, backing away toward the door. "I'll... I'll come back in an hour, sir."

Hazel

I stare at Peter’s retreating back, my mouth hanging open in stunned shock. The kitchen door swings shut behind him with a soft whoosh, leaving me alone with Matteo in the gleaming industrial kitchen.

"What just happened?" I whisper, finally pulling my hand from his. The warmth of his palm lingers on my skin.

Matteo turns to me, his expression completely normal, as if intimidating hotel staff and commandeering professional kitchens is something he does every Tuesday night.

"We got dinner," he says simply, his dark eyes watching me.

"You just..." I gesture wildly at the door, "made that poor guy give us the kitchen! He could lose his job!"

"He won't," Matteo says with absolute certainty. "And he's a hundred dollars richer."

I shake my head, trying to process what I just witnessed. The way Peter's face changed when Matteo stepped closer—from annoyed to afraid in seconds. The way Matteo's voice dropped, becoming something dangerous and compelling.

It should make me want to run. It should set off every alarm bell in my head.

Instead, heat pools low in my belly and I feel a shameful thrill run through me. There was something magnetic about watching him take control, bending the world to his will with nothing but his presence and a few quiet words.

"You okay?" Matteo asks, his head tilting slightly as he studies my face.

"I'm not sure," I answer honestly. "I think I'm still processing how you just... did that."

His lips quirk up at one corner. "Did what?"

"Made him do exactly what you wanted." I cross my arms over my chest. "It was like watching someone flip a switch. One minute he was saying no, the next he caved and couldn't get away fast enough."

"People generally do what I ask," Matteo says, matter-of-fact rather than boastful.

"Is that so?" I raise an eyebrow, trying to regain my composure. "And what if I decide I don't want to do what you ask?"

A glint flashes in his eyes—amusement, challenge, and something darker I can't quite name.

"Then you don't," he says simply. "I'm not in the business of making women do things they don't want to do, Hazel."

The way he says my name—like he's rolling it delectably across his tongue—sends another inappropriate shiver down my spine.

"Now," he continues, "we need to find something to eat before you pass out on me."

He turns away, scanning the kitchen with the confidence of someone who belongs there. I follow him, still slightly dazed.

"You're completely crazy," I tell him, watching as he opens a massive stainless steel refrigerator. "Breaking into a hotel kitchen? Who does that?"

"I prefer to think of it as practical," he says without looking back at me. "You needed food. The food was here. I solved the problem."

"By terrifying a waiter and bribing him?"

"By compensating him for his flexibility," Matteo corrects, his voice amused. "And I didn't terrify him. I just... persuaded him."

I snort. "Is that what you call it?"

"What would you call it?" He glances over his shoulder, his expression genuinely curious.

"I'd call it..." I search for the right word, "intimidation with style."

He laughs, a rich sound that echoes off the stainless steel surfaces. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Matteo peers into the massive walk-in refrigerator, his broad shoulders blocking my view. "Well, well," he says, satisfaction coloring his voice. "Look what we have here."

He steps back, revealing the contents of the fridge. My eyes widen as I spot what he's looking at—a tray of fresh lobster tails and what looks like a container of some kind of dipping sauce.

"Lobster?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice. "I was thinking more along the lines of a sandwich."

"We're in The Remington Hotel, Hazel." Matteo's voice carries a hint of amusement as he pulls out the tray. "You don't eat sandwiches at The Remington."

"I eat sandwiches everywhere," I counter, but my eyes are fixed on the lobster tails. They're massive, bright orange shells glistening under the lights. "Those look expensive."

"They are." He sets the tray on the stainless steel prep table and moves with surprising confidence through the kitchen, gathering a few small plates and utensils. "And probably destined for some corporate dinner tomorrow. I think we deserve them more."

I watch him, fascinated by his ease in this space. He moves like he owns it, opening drawers and cabinets without hesitation.

"How do you know your way around a professional kitchen so well?" I ask.

"I appreciate good food." He glances up at me, a spark in his dark eyes. "And I pay attention to details."

He lifts the tray and nods toward a door at the back of the kitchen. "The larder should be quieter."

I follow him, curious despite myself. The larder is a small room with a large wooden table in the center, surrounded by shelves stocked with dry goods and spices. It smells of herbs and flour.

Matteo sets the tray on the table and suddenly turns to me. In one smooth motion, he lifts me by the waist and sits me on the edge of the table. I gasp, my hands automatically gripping his shoulders for balance.

"What are you doing?" I manage to ask, though my voice comes out huskier than I intended.

He stands between my knees, his hands still at my waist. "Making sure you don't fall over from hunger."

His face is inches from mine and I can smell his cologne which makes me want to lean closer. His eyes drop to my lips and heat rushes through me so fast I go dizzy.

Or maybe that's the hunger.

"I think—" I swallow hard, trying to regain my composure. "I think we need crackers. For the claws."

His lips curve into a knowing smile, but he doesn't call me out on my obvious deflection. "These are just tails. No claws."

"Oh." I feel my cheeks warm. "Right."

"But we do need to get them out of the shell." He steps back, giving me space to breathe, and picks up one of the lobster tails.

I expect him to reach for a knife or some tool, but instead, he grips the shell with both hands and cracks it open with a single, powerful twist. The sound makes me jump slightly, but I'm mesmerised by the sight of his strong hands breaking through the hard shell with such ease.

"Show-off," I murmur, but I can't look away.

He separates the meat from the shell like scooping a woman’s flesh from a silk gown, then tears off a bite-sized piece. Instead of setting it on a plate he holds it up to my lips.

"Open," he says softly.

My heart hammers against my ribs. This feels more intimate than a kiss would be—him feeding me with his bare hands, watching my mouth with such intensity. I should refuse. I should insist on using the plates and forks he gathered.

Instead, I lock eyes with him and slowly part my lips.

He places the lobster meat on my tongue, his fingertips barely brushing my bottom lip. The contact sends electricity shooting through me. I close my mouth, tasting the sweet, rich meat along with the ghost of his touch.

"Good?" he asks, his voice lower than before.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The lobster practically melts in my mouth, buttery and decadent.

Matteo watches me chew and swallow, his eyes never leaving my face. There's something primal in his gaze, something that makes me feel both vulnerable and powerful at once.

"More?" he asks.

When I nod again, he prepares another piece. This time when he feeds me I close my eyes, savoring both the flavor and the sensation of his fingers against my lips.

I open my eyes to find him watching me with an intensity that steals my breath. No one has ever looked at me like this—like I'm precious and wild all at once.