Page 49 of Matteo

He's unfazed, his dark eyes scanning the shadows that cling to the high ceilings. "It used to," he admits, almost wistful. "But I've gotten used to it now."

I frown, disbelief etching lines into my forehead. "Gotten used to it?" The very idea seems ludicrous. How does one get accustomed to the scent of death?

"Yep." He nods as if recalling a fond memory. "Dad bought this warehouse back in the '80s. Spent enough time in here to build up a tolerance, I reckon."

I press a hand over my nose, trying to ward off the olfactory offence. "I don't think any number of years would get me used to this smell," I mutter, voice muffled behind my fingers.

"Breathing through your mouth helps," he suggests, and I oblige.

I drop my hand, taking in a careful breath. The foulness still invades, but it's dulled, muted. A very fucking small comfort. But I'm not here to be comfortable. I'm here to show them—the men who thought they could use me as a pawn—that they failed. I will stand in front of one of those bastards with a smile on my face.

"Ready, Princess?" Matteo's tone is low, a rumble of thunder before a storm.

"As I'll ever be," I reply, steel lacing my words. His hand gives a reassuring squeeze, a reminder that he's here, solid as the concrete under our feet.

"Remember what I said in the car?" His voice holds anedge, sharp enough to cut through bone. It contrasts starkly with the tenderness he'd shown me just moments before.

I nod, because we both know the drill. I'll either heed his warning or throw it to the wind. Depends on how deep we wade into this bloody mess.

Matteo's grip on the door is firm, decisive. The hinges groan as we step into a place of nightmares—a torture room so stark and grim it could freeze the blood in your veins. My gaze trails from the rusty hooks on the walls to the lone blow torch resting on a table, its very presence a silent promise of pain.

The floor slopes down towards the center where a metal grate awaits like the gaping maw of some mechanical monster, ready to swallow the remnants of humanity. It's that fucking grate that does me in. My legs give out, betraying me with a suddenness that leaves my heart stuttering in my chest. Matteo's arm bands around my waist, pulling me back from collapse.

"Easy, Princess," he murmurs, his voice a dark melody against the backdrop of this hellish orchestra.

"Thanks," I manage to get out, as Spike, quick on his feet, slides a chair beneath me. I drop onto it like a marionette with cut strings.

Spike throws Matteo a glare sharp enough to slice through steel. "She shouldn’t be in here boss."

"Give her a sec," Matteo's retort slices the tension hanging thick in the air. His confidence is an anchor I need.

I lift my head, and there he is—Toni. A spectre from my darkest dreams, brought to life, dangling from chains, toes grazing the cold floor. Blood mars his face, butnot enough to hide his identity. The sight of him, weak and at our mercy, ignites something feral within me.

"Nice of you to drop in, Toni," Matteo taunts with a cruel chuckle, approaching the man who's been the fuel for endless nightmares. He rolls up his sleeves casually, revealing inked skin that tells tales of violence and power. As he moves, I catch sight of the outline of a bag in his back pocket—a sick kind of lifeline.

It's fucked up, isn't it? That this... this assurance that even Matteo, the kingpin of our twisted world, carries something as mundane as a vomit bag, is what grounds me. It's a reminder that even monsters have their Achilles' heel. And somehow, that's humbling—endearing, almost.

"Ready to sing for us, Toni?" Matteo's voice is deceptively calm, but his eyes, those pools of darkness, they're alight with a fire that could scorch souls.

"Let's get this fucking show started."

Toni's voice is all acid and defiance, dripping with a venom that makes my blood ice over. "I don't know what you want from me."

Matteo stands there, the epitome of unflappable, a chilling calmness in his demeanour that belies the storm I know is raging just beneath the surface. "Well let's start with the names of the other two who accompanied you to Eleanor’s apartment ten years ago," he says, his voice a lull before the inevitable storm.

This isn't the man I love. This is something else, something darker—a force that even the shadows fear. He's the Mafia leader now, wearing a mask of icy composure that I can't peelback.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Toni spits back, but it's like throwing sparks on gasoline.

"Ten years ago, you forced your way into Eleanor’s apartment, raped her along with two other cunts, then left her with a note to disappear," Matteo recites the horrors like he's reading off a dinner menu, arms crossed, leaning against cold metal that seems to absorb his chill.

He plucks the blow torch from the table, giving the knob an experimental twist. It's not a question anymore—it's a sentence. "I'll ask some questions; you'll answer them. Every lie? Spike will chop a piece off you, and I’ll cauterise the wound. Got it?"

"But I don’t—" Toni starts, desperation creeping into his tone.

"Shut it, Toni. I wasn’t finished." The torch roars to life in Matteo's hand, flames dancing like devils at a black mass. "You will die tonight. How many pieces you're in—that's on you. What are their names?"

"No." That single syllable hangs heavy between them, a challenge.

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