Page 43 of Matteo

"Fuckin' hell," I mutter under my breath, the papers crinkling in my fist. Every file I open spills forth more evidence of chaos, a testament to Matteo's disdain for bureaucracy. Receipts, invoices, contracts—a tangled web that even the most skilled spider would struggle to navigate.

A tax audit looms on the horizon like a bloody guillotine, ready to sever us from any semblance of safety we've clawed together. My fingers work with fervor, sorting through the years, trying to bring order to the anarchy Matteo left in his wake.

I don't hear him approach, but his presence alters the room's atmosphere. "Hungry, Princess?" Matteo's voiceslices through the silence, rough and edged with amusement.

My gaze snaps up to meet his, and there he stands, all dark charm and lethal grace, leaning against the door frame. A smirk plays on his lips, one that doesn't quite reach the storm brewing in his eyes. He's set up his command center in the kitchen, where he can keep an eye on everything while pretending he's not suffocating in the clutter of his own making.

"Yes, actually I am. Please tell me it's late enough that I can have pasta from Fratellis?" My voice is hopeful, desperate for a taste of normalcy.

"Sorry, Princess, it's only 3 p.m.; it doesn’t open for another two hours. Do you want to hold on until then, or do you want me to cook something for you?" The offer hangs in the air, laced with an intimacy that sends shivers down my spine.

"Cook? For me?" I blink, thrown off by the domesticity in his tone. It’s so at odds with the man who commands with iron fists and a heart encased in ice; I know he can cook, but that was before he was the Don.

"If you keep frowning at me, you’re gonna end up with wrinkles," he counters, a devilish grin on his lips.

I scoff, even as heat rises to my cheeks. "Matteo, they created Botox for a reason, you know." My eyes dip back to the disarray of documents splayed across the floor, the tangible proof of our lives entangled in ink and blood.

"Didn’t think you were into that stuff, Princess," he chuckles. The sound is dark and rich, like aged whiskey.

"Please," I shoot back, raising my eyebrows in mocksurprise. "If you think there isn’t Botox in my face and filler in my lips, Matteo, then maybe you don’t remember how I looked before." I let the challenge hang between us, a thin thread waiting to be cut.

"Come to think of it, I’m due for more..." I murmur under my breath, mentally slapping a reminder in my brain to hunt down a cosmetic fix in this godforsaken city.

Matteo shakes his head at me, a bemused smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. He's like a cat playing with a mouse—amused by my domestic demands. “Anyway, Princess, as I said, do you want to wait, or do you want me to cook?”

You can cook, but I want pasta, please, something super rich and full of goodness," I tell him, offering a tentative smile that feels out of place in our twisted world.

"Got it," he says, all business now as he pivots on his heel, heading for the kitchen. The way he moves—fluid, certain—it’s like watching a predator claim its territory. And right now, that domain includes saucepans and spaghetti. Christ, I could get used to this.

"Can you feed Niko, please?" I yell after he retreats, my voice bouncing down the marble corridor.

"I fed him two hours ago, Princess. His room's packed with enough snacks to survive a siege," he calls over his shoulder, not missing a beat.

"Thank you!" My voice is louder than necessary, gratitude swelling in my chest. This shared parenting gig? It's a wild ride—one I never saw coming.

"I can feed my son, you know. But you're welcome." Histone is playful, undercut with that steel edge that never entirely leaves him.

Thirty minutes crawl by,the silence in the room thick enough to choke on. Then, like a siren's call, a scent so damn intoxicating slices through the air. My nose twitches, betraying me as it leads my senses on a hunt for the source. "Ohhhhhhhh sweet baby Jesus, what is that smell?" I groan, my insides twisting with hunger.

The door creaks open, revealing Matteo, dark and looming in the doorway. He's holding a bowl, the steam curling up like fingers trying to pull me in. "Tagliatelle al Giardino," he announces, his voice smooth, each syllable wrapped in silk and danger. It's casual, but nothing about Matteo is ever really casual.

"Gimme, gimme!" I nearly lunge from my seat, desperate hands reaching out like I could snatch the bowl straight from his grasp. But he pauses, eyes dropping to the minefield below.

"Fuck." Matteo's gaze flickers from the floor to me, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, the devil himself amused by my disarray. "I’m not sure how I’m meant to walk this over to you?"

My eyes follow his, seeing the mess for the first time—papers scattered like casualties across the floor. Shit.

"Careful now," I tease, my tone light but my heart hammering against my ribs. "Wouldn't want you to trip into the abyss."

He hesitates, calculating the risk like he would a hit.Then, with the grace of a predator, he steps forward, each movement precise and deliberate. The dangerous dance of the mafia boss navigating the littered floor.

"Should've known this was your kind of ballet," I quip, jabbing a finger at his careful steps. He arches an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching up into that devilish grin that infuriates and ignites me.

"Princess, you might regret unleashing my inner ninja," he teases. Then, with a flare only Matteo could pull off, he hands over the steaming bowl, brushes a kiss to my temple, and spins away, arms raised like he's mocking the notion of grace.

"Fuck," I mutter. The man is a walking paradox—a sculpted statue come to life, all power and lethal poise wrapped in a tailored suit.

"Reminds me, can you teach me your ninja skills?" I ask, admiring his graceful ballet movements. He meets my gaze and replies, "We can start whenever you're ready." I nod, suggesting we begin the following day, which elicits a chuckle from him.

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