Page 58 of Shadows of Steel

I shift my focus to the field, putting distance between myself and the women’s scrutiny. Practice begins, and the coach takes command, his energy sharp and engaging as he moves along the sidelines, delivering crisp, authoritative instructions. He’s firm yet encouraging.

Time passes quickly between their warm-ups, drills, and tactical exercises. When the session winds down, I make my way across the grass to find Mattia. The coach notices me first, his features set in an easy expression.

He’s a tall man, likely in his forties if I had to guess. Decent looking, I suppose, nothing striking, that commands attention. The kind of face that blends into the background, forgettable in a way that makes it easy to overlook. “Mrs. Salvatore,” he greets, his tone warm and polite. “I see we have a new supporter on the sidelines.”

I’m not sure how he knows who I am. Instinctively, my body stiffens, but logic follows quickly. He likely saw me arrive with Mattia, and word travels fast.

A Capo dei Capi’s wedding was never going to be a quiet affair. I need to compose myself.

I force a small chuckle. “Just making sure he behaves.”

“That’s a full time job,” he says with a good natured laugh, leaning in slightly. “I have to say, it’s good to see someone looking out for him.”

I offer a polite smile, but before I can respond—

Mattia appears between us, scowling. His eyes flick between me and the coach, his small frame rigid, his expression a perfect mirror of Dante’s. I bite back a laugh. No DNA test needed here.

“Ready to go?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he mutters, grabbing his bag and practically dragging me toward the car.

As we approach, my gaze drifts toward the windshield—

And I freeze.

There’s a note tucked under the wiper. Something about it makes my stomach twist. I reach for it, but the moment my fingers graze the paper—

I see it.

Blood.

Splattered across the hood of the car. Dark. Fresh.

A sharp inhale lodges in my throat as I take a step back on instinct, my grip tightening around Mattia’s wrist as I move him behind me.

My heart pounds like a drum against my ribs.

Not again.

Dante’s men, already sensing something is wrong, rush toward us. With a deep breath, I unfold the note, my pulse hammering as my eyes scan the words.

You were dressed in white, but stained in red.

Mine you are—alive or dead.

A violent shudder runs through me.

Mattia tugs at my arm. “What’s going on?” His voice is laced with worry.

I can’t answer. I can’t think.

The blood. The words.

He’s here.

Maybe standing right beside me on the sidelines, blending in effortlessly with the other parents, watching, smiling, pretending to belong. Or perhaps he lingered just beyond my periphery, hidden in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to remind me that no matter where I go, no matter how far I run, he follows.

A slow, insidious chill creeps over me, burrowing beneath my skin like a sickness. There is no privacy. No sanctuary. I am always being watched. Even when I don’t see him. Even when I don’t know he’s there.