Page 38 of Untamed

The manor is too quiet when I get back.

Like the walls themselves can feel the wrath searing under my skin. I stalk through the halls, my steps heavy against the marble, until I find Matteo exactly where Dante said he’d be, sitting outside, hunched over a cigarette he isn’t even smoking, his foot tapping a nervous rhythm against the stone.

He looks up when he hears me. And I see the colour drain from his face.

Good. I would be scared too, if I were him.

I don't say a word. I just stand there for a long moment, letting the silence stretch so tight it hums. When I finally speak, my voice is low and sharp enough to draw blood.

“How is sh?—”

“You left her alone.”

Matteo flinches, trying to recover. “Zio, I didn’t know, I swear. I left her for a minute with my friends, I thought she was fine?—”

“Youthought?” I cut him off, stepping closer. “You thought wrong, ragazzo.”

He scrambles to his feet, cigarette forgotten on the ground. “I didn’t see anyone give her anything, I swear?—”

I grab him by the shirt, yanking him closer, close enough that he can see exactly what’s simmering in my eyes. “You let a Moretti scumbag get close enough to put a pill in her hand inmyclub,” I snarl. “On my turf. Under my roof.”

Matteo swallows hard. His hands tremble at his sides.

“And while you were off chasing drinks and pussy,” I hiss, “she was lying on the fucking floor of my club, half dead. What the fuck is the matter with you? Did it not even occur to you to go and check if she was okay? Is this how you treat someone you care about, because you seemed to be fucking pretty close while you were dry humping her on the dancefloor?”

He opens his mouth, maybe to apologise, to beg, I don’t give a shit, nor do I want to hear it.

I shove him back hard enough that he stumbles, catching himself on the edge of a chair.

“Grow the fuck up, Matteo,” I snap. “This city isn’t your playground. It’s a fucking war zone.” I step closer again, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “You think you’re invincible because you carry the Russo name? You’re not. The second you slip, the second you get sloppy, people die.” Matteo’s eyes widen, and I know he’s thinking about Jordyn.

Let it rot in his gut. Let it brand itself into his spine. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re drunk, high, or dead,” I growl. “You don't everleave family unprotected again. Not in my city. Not in my club.” I step back, staring him down.

“Watch yourself. Next time you slip,” I mutter, voice like ice, “you won’t have to worry about the Moretti’s. You’ll answer to me. Do you understand me?”

Matteo nods stiffly, swallowing back whatever pathetic excuses he wants to spill.

Good.

Because I’m not done yet.

“Get inside,” I bark. “Stay there. And pray I don’t change my mind about letting you walk.” He doesn’t argue, he turns and bolts toward the house like the devil himself is nipping at his heels.

I watch him go, every muscle coiled so tight I could snap bones with my bare hands. Then I turn and walk away, the rage burning slow and deep in my gut.

I barely make it two steps into the main hall before Enzo is in my face.

“What the hell was that about, Ares?” he demands, his voice low and tense, glancing around like he’s worried someone will overhear.

I don’t slow. I don't give a shit who hears. I plant myself in front of him, every inch of me vibrating with rage I haven't burned through yet.

“That,” I snarl, “was me teaching your son what it means to carry the Russo name. Somethingyoushould be teaching him.”

Enzo’s brows lower, shadowing his expression. “By humiliating him in front of the staff.”

“That’s right,” I bite out. “Maybe next time he’ll think twice before letting a Moretti bastard near one of our own.”

My brother’s brown eyes flash, the first real hint of temper I’ve seen in him in years.

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