Page 22 of Matteo

The right door swings open to an empty box of a room, its emptiness mirroring my pounding heart. To the left, a bathroom door stands ajar, revealing gleaming tiles and fixtures untouched by personal history. It's all too sterile, too new—like a mausoleum waiting for its first corpse.

"Yep, I'll take it downstairs, thanks," Niko declares, his voice slicing through the thick silence.

"Of course, Honey." My laughter is a nervous titter in this vast, dead space. Matteo's gaze lingers on Niko's small frame, calculating, always calculating. "Well, it is big enough to have a school desk and a computer system down here too, plus the door down here opens up to the pool," Niko adds, his grin defiant against the gravity of our situation.

"School desk? Computer System?" Matteo's brow quirks, a flash of incredulity in his darkened eyes. "You sure this is my kid?"

"Niko has been homeschooled his whole life; he feels the most comfortable behind a high computer system," I retort, locking eyes with him, challenging him to question this piece of our world he wasn't part of.

"Homeschooled, his whole life?"

"Yep." I let out a breath that carries the weight of years spent hiding in shadows. "How was I meant to enroll himinto a school without documentation proving that he even existed?" I shrug, a gesture that raises more questions than answers.

"Okay, that makes sense," Matteo concedes after a beat, the cogs in his mind turning with possibilities. "But now that you're home, we will get him his documents, which I'm sure Angel has already arranged, and get him into a great school."

"Nope, no, thank you, I like being homeschooled. I don’t want that to change. Can’t you just get me a teacher that will come to me?" Niko demands, his voice steadfast, unyielding.

A laugh erupts from Matteo, low and guttural—it vibrates with a wildness that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yep, you were right, he is mine. Sure thing, Buddy, we’ll get you a teacher.” His amusement is a thunderous sound in the stillness as he turns back towards the stairs.

Angel appears then, descending the steps like some harbinger of unseen fates. “Hey, Niko, stay down here with me, and we'll go through some ideas of what you will need and want down here, yeah?” His voice is smooth, practiced—too practiced.

Niko’s gaze flickers at me, seeking permission within this den of wolves. "Is that okay, Mum?"

"Sure, Darling, just come and find me when you’re done." The words are ash on my tongue, but I force them out, meeting Angel's stare with a challenge of my own.

As I watch my son stay behind with Angel, the darkness swells around us, a living entity.

My feet thump against the marble as I follow the echo of Niko's laughter fading into the bowels of this fortress. Matteo waits at the foot of the grand staircase,his hand extended like some kind of dark prince offering salvation—or damnation. My heart hammers a warning, but it's too late. "Come on, Princess. Let me show you our room."

"Our room?" The words catch in my throat, rough as if I've swallowed glass. His smirk tells me he relishes the control, the way he can still make me squirm.

"Thought you'd be sleeping alone?" His voice is velvet-laced with steel. "Not a chance." I'm in over my head, drowning in memories and what-ifs.

I take his hand because what choice do I have? His grip is firm and possessive as he guides me up the stairs. Each step we ascend tightens the knot in my gut. We're going higher, into the unknown, and I can't help but think of Icarus flying too close to the sun.

At the top, the library sprawls before us, a cathedral of shadows and whispers. It's everything I ever wanted—intimate yet expansive, a shrine to written words and unspoken promises. Black paint devours the light, giving the room an thrilling and terrifying edge. The skylight above is like an eye peering into my very soul.

Matteo watches me, his gaze intense, searching. "Built you a library, Princess," he says, pride flickering across his features. It took ten years of dreams distilled into timber and ink. My vision blurs, tears betraying me once more.

"Thank you," slips from my lips, a whisper lost among the tomes.

His laugh cuts through the silence. "Don't thank me yet." He's enjoying this, watching me unravel thread by precious thread. This man, this enigma, is a wildfirethat promises destruction even as it mesmerizes. And I'm standing here, ready to burn.

I follow Matteo, my heart thumping against my ribcage like it's trying to break free. We pass a door on the right—his storage for the tools of his bloody trade, I presume—but he guides me left instead. The door swings open with a soft creak that seems too gentle for what lies beyond.

"Fuck me," I mutter under my breath as we step into the room. It's drenched in deep red like we're inside the beating heart of some beast. The bed is a fortress, with four massive posts clawing toward the ceiling and dark curtains cascading down. Carved nightstands flank it like loyal soldiers, dark timber etched with secrets I can't decipher.

To the right, doors beckon—open promises and hidden stories. One leads to a wardrobe, his gear lined up like soldiers ready for battle, the other side barren and waiting for my belongings. The other door reveals a bathroom straight from a noir fantasy: a clawfoot tub sits like a throne, an open shower promising no refuge from prying eyes, twin sinks marking territory—one littered with Matteo's arsenal of grooming supplies, the other untouched, patient.

"Matteo… I… I don’t know what to say…" My voice gets lost in the grandeur, a whisper swallowed by shadows.

He steps closer, the air charged with his presence. "You don't need to say anything, Princess," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around me. His body is a familiar danger, a harbor in the storm of my life.

His scent floods my senses—cedar and pine, a forest after rainfall. It's him, all him, unchanged by time or distance. That aroma wraps around me, a sensory reminder of nightsspent tangled in silk sheets and lust, days cloaked in the illusion of safety. My walls crumble, tears carving hot paths down my cheeks.

"Shhh, Princess, it's ok, you're home now, where you belong," Matteo breathes into my hair, his voice a warm blade slicing through the chill of the room.

I wrench away from his embrace, my eyes locking onto his—a storm of onyx and intent. "That's the thing, Matteo, I don’t belong here, my son isn’t safe here."

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