Page 13 of His Savage Ruin
"Almost there," Matteo murmurs, and I realize his words are meant to comfort me.
A motorcycle appears beside us, the rider leaning down toward our window. I see his face clearly for the first time—young, with the kind of determination that suggests he's trying to prove himself. Behind him, I catch sight of a black van with its side door open, clearly positioned for extraction.
Behind the bikes, more Moretti soldiers are moving into position, surrounding us. They want me back—that much is clear. But their shots are wild, reckless. Glass explodes inches from my head as a bullet meant to disable our vehicle nearly takes off my ear instead.
Matteo sees it too, his expression darkening as another shot shatters the window directly above where I'm crouched.
"Amateurs," he says, his voice carrying deadly contempt.
What happens next burns itself into my memory with crystal clarity. Matteo's window drops, his gun appears, and he fires without hesitation.
The motorcycle rider's helmet disintegrates. Blood, brain matter, and bone fragments paint the road in a grotesque arc twenty feet wide. The bike wobbles drunkenly before the corpse topples into traffic.
Before I can process what I've seen, he's already moving to the next target. Two shots to the chest, one to the face. The second rider's head snaps back so violently I hear his neck break over the engine noise.
The third attacker gets the worst of it. Matteo's bullet catches him in the throat, tearing it open like paper. The man claws at the gushing wound, choking on his own blood as his bike careens into a concrete barrier. The explosion of metal and glass is deafening.
Three men dead in fifteen seconds. Three lives ended with the casual efficiency of someone trimming hedges.
Through it all, Matteo's expression never changes. Not a flicker of emotion, not a trace of hesitation.
Now I understand why they call himIl Diavolo—the devil. This isn't savagery or passion. This is something far worse. This is evil wearing an Armani suit, death served with perfect manners.
"Cristo santo," I whisper, my hands shaking as the reality of what just happened settles in.
"Welcome to the war,principessa," he says grimly, sliding his window back up as we pass through the checkpoint.
The Romano estate rises before us like something from a movie—all stone walls, wrought iron gates, and the kind of manicured perfection that speaks of old money and older power. It's beautiful in the way dangerous things are beautiful, elegant and imposing and absolutely impenetrable.
As we pull up to the main house, I count at least a dozen guards positioned around the grounds. All armed, all alert, all wearing the kind of earpieces that suggest military-grade communication equipment.
This isn't just a home—it's a fortress.
The car stops, and Matteo's door opens before I can even process that we've arrived. He emerges with fluid grace, straightening his jacket as if we've just returned from a pleasant drive rather than a running gun battle.
A man approaches—tall, lean, with the kind of coiled tension that marks him as dangerous. He speaks rapidly to Matteo in Italian, gesturing toward the damage on our vehicle and pointing in the direction we came from.
Matteo listens without expression, nodding occasionally, his responses curt and precise. Then he turns back to the car, where I'm still sitting in shocked silence.
"Time to go," he says, extending his hand toward me.
I stare at it, then push the door open myself. The night air cuts across my face as I climb out alone, refusing to give him the satisfaction. His hand drops back to his side, his expression never shifting from that carved mask.
The interior of the Romano mansion is as impressive as its exterior—all dark wood and Italian marble, expensive artworkand the kind of understated luxury that whispers rather than shouts. It's beautiful, intimidating, and utterly foreign to anything I've ever experienced.
Matteo leads me through a maze of hallways, past rooms filled with antique furniture and oil paintings that probably cost more than most people make in a lifetime. Guards nod respectfully as we pass, but their eyes track our movement with professional awareness.
Finally, we stop in front of a heavy wooden door at the end of a long corridor.
"This is your room," he says, producing a key from his pocket.
"My room?" I raise an eyebrow. "Not a cell?"
"My room," he corrects, opening the door and gesturing for me to enter. "You'll be staying with me where I can ensure you will stay put and not do anything stupid."
I step inside and immediately understand why he specified whose room this is. Everything screams Matteo Romano—from the perfectly made king-sized bed to the expensive suits hanging in the open closet, from the antique desk covered with neat stacks of papers to the small bar stocked with top-shelf liquor.
It's a study in ruthless order, every surface clean and organized, every object in its designated place. Even his books are arranged by height on the built-in shelves.
