Page 44 of Matteo

He leans against the doorframe, watching me with eyes darker than the ink on his skin. "Sure, Prince," he replies, voicing a low rumble. "Could drag your ass out of bed at dawn to train. Or hit the gym before bed." He pauses, a shadow crossing his face. "Maybe drag Niko along. Kid's got the stealth of a fucking elephant."

"Gym?" My confusion must be as clear as day because Matteo lets out a chuckle deep enough to resonate through the room.

"Princess, the gym. We have one. It's attached to thegarage," he says, like he's revealing the secret entrance to his mafia lair.

"Since when?" I'm floored. I thought I knew every inch of this place, but clearly, the house has secrets wrapped in shadows, just like the man before me.

"Since always," he laughs, shaking his head as he strides away. "Eat up. I'll come for you soon."

I swear under my breath. Deceiving house for a deceiving life. I make a mental note to hound him for a full tour later; can't stand not knowing every corner of my own cage.

Memories flood back as I finish the pasta, memories of Matteo storming into my life with the force of an unrelenting storm. I remember the first time he cooked for me, swaggering into my tiny kitchen, declaring himself boyfriend and chef for the evening. His confidence was a live wire, sparking and untouchable.

"Boyfriend now?" I had challenged, incredulity painting my words. But Matteo, oh, he had just laughed, a sound that made my heart hammer against my ribs.

"Princess, I told you, you were mine. So yes, boyfriend, and if you need a ring to hammer it home, I'll give you that too." His arrogance was a force of nature, and I was caught in its eye.

I couldn't help it; he was heat and danger wrapped in one, a man where I'd only known boys.

"Show me where you keep everything," he had said, and I had followed, led by the intoxicating blend of fear and desire. Brittney's warnings echoed in my mind, but what did she know about men like Matteo? Men who promised the stars with a knife hidden behind their backs?

That night, he didn't just feed me—he marked me, claimed mewith every bite of Tagliatelle al Giardino so expertly crafted it could've been art. And when he stayed, wrapped around me in the darkness of my dingy apartment, it wasn't just warmth I sought—it was possession. I was the spider ensnared, and I longed for the devouring.

The silverware clinks against the fine china, a delicate symphony in stark contrast to the tension thickening the air. I chew slowly, my eyes trained on Matteo’s, searching for lies in the ocean of blue that is his gaze.

"Matteo, why do you keep turning up on my doorstep?" I demand, setting down my fork with a finality that echoes throughout the dimly lit dining room.

"I thought I made that part pretty clear, Princess," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards, his eyebrow arching like he's privy to a joke I'm not. He lifts his glass of wine casually, the red liquid swaying gently with his movements.

"You’re mine; it can’t be any more simple than that."

"But why? And how?" I press, incredulous. The memory of our first encounter at the tattoo shop plays behind my eyelids—his sudden appearance there was like a match struck in darkness. "I mean I meet you in a tattoo shop, then bam, you turn up here every single day since?"

"Love at first sight," he declares with an easy shrug of one shoulder, as if he's discussing the weather and not stalking.

"But I don’t believe in love at first sight," I retort, my skepticism as sharp as the knife by my plate.

"That’s okay, Princess, I do." His voice doesn't waver; conviction poured into every syllable, as if his belief alone could rewrite reality.

"You have a very twisted way of looking at things Matteo," Isay, shaking my head, trying not to get pulled under by his intensity.

"That might be true," he concedes, standing so suddenly the chair scrapes back like a growl. He walks over, his presence engulfing the space next to me, a dark cloud with silver linings. "But when you grow up in my world, you think and act differently to everyone else."

He grabs my hand, his fingers warm and unyielding, and pulls me to my feet. "You’re 2 years younger than me and have not experienced what I have, so believe me when I tell you this." His voice drops, a dangerous whisper meant only for us.

"The second my eyes met yours in the shop, my heart actually skipped a fucking beat. My stomach felt like I was going to vomit, and my hands were instantly clammy." His confession slices through the air, raw and jagged.

"I’ve killed men before, and I’ve had a gun held to my head, yet not once have I ever felt scared. Until that moment." His eyes are twin storms, swirling with emotions I can't begin to understand. "What if I died and never got a chance to talk to you? What if someone else got to you before I did, and I never got the chance to kiss you?" His lips descend towards mine, a predator closing in on its prey.

And he is right. A shiver of fear trails down my spine, but it's laced with the sweet poison of desire. What if I never got a chance to taste this man?

His kiss lands, ghostly soft, and all thoughts of resistance melt away. I lean in, deepening the kiss, claiming him as much as he claims me. His taste is intoxicating, a cocktail of power and danger that I've become addicted to.

"You’re it for me, Eleanor," he murmurs, his smile felt ratherthan seen. "You have me hook line and sinker; there will never be another - there will only ever be you."

The words wrap around me, a binding oath sealed with the pressure of his hand against my skull. This kiss, this connection—it's terrifying and electrifying, and I'm too far gone to care about the consequences.

He was right, I did feel the connection, the invisible rope that now ties us together. The fear that this could all burn down around us somehow makes the moment sweeter, more urgent.

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