Page 23

She tenses the second I sit down.

Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t breathe, not properly. It’s subtle, but I see it, feel it. Like a ripple in the air between us.

Good . I want her to be nervous. I like the taste of her unease.

I lean back in the chair, posture relaxed, arms crossed like I don’t give a damn. But every move I make is calculated. Precise. My knee brushes hers under the table, just once. Light. Barely there.

She freezes.

But she doesn’t move away.

Hm, interesting.

My eyes drift lazily across the table. Bianca is chattering about some dress she saw in a boutique yesterday.

Enzo hums along with her, half-listening, while Luciano grumbles into his espresso.

Then there’s Matteo. Sitting across from her like he’s got the whole world wrapped around his finger. Smiling. Grinning. Flirting.

Matteo’s too smug this morning, too casual, like he didn’t spend the night before making a mess of something that doesn’t belong to him.

I wish I hadn’t, but I saw Jordyn in the pool last night...with him. They thought she got away and no one noticed. But I did. I didn’t need details, I already knew exactly where she was, who she was with. What they were doing.

And yet… she’s sitting beside me like she’s afraid to even breathe.

Like I still get under her skin.

I tap my fingers against the table slowly, letting the tension settle between us. Her hand trembles slightly as she reaches for her cup. She’s trying to play it cool, but I know the signs. I know what guilt looks like. And I sure as hell know what want feels like.

That’s what this is.

The air between us is thick. Charged. One spark away from burning.

I lean in just slightly, dropping my voice low. “Are you always this quiet in the morning?”

She stiffens. A very small reaction, barely noticeable. But it’s there.

She turns her head, finally meeting my eyes, and fuck me if that doesn’t hit somewhere deep in my chest.

Those eyes.

Wide. Caught. Something flickering behind them, guilt, want, maybe both.

“No,” she says, barely above a whisper.

I hum, taking a sip of my coffee. “Hm. Shame.”

Matteo keeps talking, completely oblivious to the current humming between us. He doesn’t notice the way Jordyn’s shoulders tense when I shift beside her. Doesn’t see the way her thighs press together under the table. He’s completely unaware of the storm building two seats away.

I glance at Jordyn again.

She looks away first

But not before I catch the way her thighs squeeze together under the table and the way she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip. Just like she did last night while she was coming. Just watching the gesture takes me right back to that moment.

It was late. The Russo Manor had gone quiet hours ago. I hadn’t planned on staying up, but sleep never comes easy in this place. Not when the ghosts never stay buried. Not when silence lets the memories crawl out from under your skin.

I stepped onto the terrace outside my room, cigarette already lit, hoping the night air would clear the noise from my head.

That’s when I saw them.

Across the grounds, at the far end of the property, the terrace lights glowed low and warm against the stone. The infinity pool shimmered under the moonlight, the water calm, except for the ripples they were making.

Matteo.

And her.

My grip tightened on the railing, knuckles bone-white as I watched.

Jordyn was in his arms, straddling him in the shallow end. His hands were on her thighs, her hips. He was guiding her movements with that smug, cocksure control he thinks makes him a man. Her head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted.

And Matteo, he looked like he’d just won the fucking lottery.

My chest burned.

Not with anger. Not yet.

No. It was something colder. Heavier. The kind of ache that sits just behind your ribs and waits to consume you when you let your guard down.

I took a slow drag from the cigarette, trying to school my face, trying to convince myself it didn’t matter.

It wasn’t real. It was heat. A moment. Nothing permanent.

Except it felt real.

It looked real.

And that messed me up more than I’ll ever admit.

Because I’ve touched plenty of women. Hell, I fucked one less than an hour ago. I took what I wanted and walked away clean. But when I saw her wrapped around him like that, letting him pull those sounds from her, letting him own that moment, I wanted to put my fist through the glass.

I should’ve looked away.

But I didn’t.

I watched until she slipped off him, until they whispered something I couldn’t hear, until she climbed out of the pool, water running down her body like something holy.

She disappeared through the gate at the side, a towel clutched in one hand.

Matteo stayed a minute longer, floating on his back like he hadn’t just touched something sacred with dirty hands.

I crushed the cigarette under my boot and went back inside.

Didn’t sleep a fucking wink.

Because something changed that night.

And no matter how much I tell myself she’s off-limits...that Matteo can have his fun and I’ll stay out of it. I know one thing now with brutal, aching clarity.

I want her.

And the worst part? The part I’ll never admit.

It wasn’t the anger that almost broke me. It was the ache.

Because while Matteo was touching her like she was some fleeting thrill, I wanted to worship her.

Enzo always complains that I never come to the family breakfast, and this is the reason why.

The table is too loud.

Laughter. Ridiculous stories. Forks scraping across plates.

Matteo leaning back in his chair like he has no care in the world, sending flirtatious glances in Jordyn’s direction between bites of crostata.

Jordyn, quiet beside me, chewing like the food might give her something to focus on other than how close our knees are under the table.

I haven’t touched my plate. My coffee has gone cold after the two sips I consumed.

Every second I sit there feels like a test of control. A fucking performance.

Bianca giggles at something Matteo says, something dumb, no doubt, and Enzo joins in like it was all so fucking charming.

Luciano offered a rare smirk, like the sight of his family laughing together was enough to wash over decades of blood.

It would’ve been sweet. If it wasn’t all a goddamn illusion.

I lean back slowly in my chair, let the moment stretch one second too long. Jordyn’s fork pauses mid-air. I can feel her tense beside me again.

Fucksake. I’ve had enough of this. So, I speak, cutting through the air like a blade.

“Not to break up this charming little family moment—” my voice is calm but flat. “—but we have some pressing business matters that require our attention.”

The laughter dies. My father sets down his coffee without a word.

Enzo sighs, already reaching for his napkin. “Now?”

As I push my chair back and stand, I look at him. Cold. Steady. “Yes. Now. Every second we sit here, listening to Matteo’s pointless natter our competitors are making moves. But by all means fratello, finish your breakfast.”

Luciano pushes back his chair, his movements slower, more deliberate. “Enzo,” He says and gestures with his head. A silent command to get up and move. “Al mio ufficio.”

I give a curt nod and turn, not sparing a glance at anyone else at the table, especially not her.

I can feel her eyes on me and if I look at her now, I won’t walk out.

And I need to walk out. The less I see of her the better it will be for me.

After we walk into my father’s office. The door shut behind us with a soft click , muffling the sounds of breakfast, the clatter, the forced normality.

In here, there were no smiles. No distractions.

Just the weight of truth.

Luciano moves behind his desk, fingers already reaching for the silver humidor without asking if either of us wants one.

He lights a cigar with the patience of a man whose watched empires rise and burn.

My brother, Enzo, leans against the wall near the window, arms folded, tension radiating through every line of his body.

And I stay standing. I like the edge it gives me.

“What is this urgent business you wanted to discuss that couldn’t wait until after breakfast, dear brother?” Luciano inquired, his tone laced with a hint of impatience as he sipped his morning espresso, the rich aroma curling into the air.

“Alessandro Romano,” I answer, my voice dropping to a hushed whisper, though my eyes remain fixed intently on Luciano's. “When you asked me to handle the one causing chaos in Messina, were you aware that he had put a hit on Matteo?”

Enzo’s posture instantly stiffens, as if a scorching iron rod had been thrust up his ass, causing him to bolt upright.

Luciano's brows knit together in a deep furrow, his expression thoughtful as he draws a long, contemplative pull from his cigar. The smoke swirls around him like a veiled mystery. “I had caught wind of rumours, faint murmurs suggesting he was plotting against the family. But I didn’t know it was Matteo,” he admits, his voice tinged with a mix of regret and resolve.

“He knows better than to put my name on the contract. So, he went for someone he thought was easier to reach.”

“Quel figlio di puttana.” Enzo bites out, pacing like he needs to hit something.

“Romano hired Sergio Bianchi to take out Matteo,” I tell them flatly.

“But Matteo did what he always does, the unexpected. He swerved at the last second, and Sergio overcorrected. Clipped the car in front and sent the car spinning into oncoming traffic.”

I look directly at my father.

Enzo freezes. His dark eyes wide and his jaw clenched. “Cazzo,” he hisses, fists clenched at his sides. “Ares, are you telling me my wife’s parents are dead because of us? Because of a hit meant for Matteo?”

I nod once. Controlled and contained, but something inside my chest tightens.

The memory of Jordyn on the CCTV footage, blood on her face, her hands, screaming and fighting in Matteo’s hold hits me like a wrecking ball to the gut. I’d kill Sergio again if I could.