Page 39 of Shadows of Steel
He shoots me a look. “I’m a big boy. I don’t need you to dress me.”
I lift my hands in concession. “Very well.”
As he disappears into the bathroom, I take a brief look around. The room is tidier than I expected for a child his age, though the bed remains rumpled from sleep. I move over, straightening the sheets and smoothing out the creases. Nearby, a collection of toy cars is lined up, and on his desk, a few footballs rest alongside scattered trading cards featuring famous players.
When Mattia steps out of the bathroom, still clad in his pyjamas but noticeably more alert, he heads straight for his closet, rifling through for his school uniform. I observe as he falters momentarily, casting a glance in my direction.
“Would you rather I head downstairs, or remain here until you're ready?” I inquire.
He looks at me for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his gaze, vulnerability, perhaps.
“Whatever.” He mumbles before slipping into the closet and shutting the door behind him.
I take that as my cue to stay.
A few minutes later, he steps out in his neatly pressed uniform, but his tie is crooked, the knot barely holding together. I sigh, shaking my head. “Can I fix that?”
He wavers before nodding slightly. I step forward, my fingers working swiftly to adjust the tie, making sure it sits properly.
“There,” I say, stepping back. “Now you actually look presentable.”
Mattia breathes out harshly, a quiet huff of resistance, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he grabs his backpack and slings it over his shoulder, making his way toward the door with sluggish determination.
Then, just as he reaches the threshold, he halts abruptly. “Wait, I forgot my training bag.”
I extend my hand. “Let me hold that,” I say smoothly. “Go grab your gear.”
He hands his backpack over without hesitation and dashes back into the room. A few seconds later, he returns.
“Alright, let’s go,” I say, leading the way downstairs.
As we walk, I decide to make conversation. “So… soccer, huh?”
Mattia immediately scrunches his nose, his expression nothing short of offended. “It’s football.” His voice is gruff, edged with reluctance, like he doesn’t want to engage but also doesn’t want to be rude.
I bite back a smile. “Right. Football.”
He gives me a look, unimpressed. “Are you any good?”
His response is instant. “Obviously.”
I smirk. “Confident. I like that.”
By the time we step into the dining room, Dante remains seated at the table, coffee in hand, his gaze lifting as we enter. His eyes flicker from Mattia to me, then lower, settling on the sight of his son’s school bag in my grasp.
Something shifts in his expression, subtle yet there, a flicker of thought he doesn’t voice.
Mattia, oblivious or perhaps indifferent, drops his football gear onto the floor with a soft thud before sliding into his seat. I follow suit, keenly aware of the weight of Dante’s gaze lingering on me the entire time.
“Finish your breakfast promptly,” Dante instructs, his voice authoritative. “Your driver is waiting outside, and you’re already pressing the limits of time.”
He leans back slightly, fixing Mattia with a pointed look. “I distinctly advised you against staying up so late last night.”
Mattia mutters something under his breath, barely audible, but offers no real protest. Instead, he picks up his fork and begins eating, his movements weighed down by lingering exhaustion.
I pick up my coffee, taking a slow sip, watching their interaction.
The tension between Dante and me lingers, dense and unspoken, weaving itself into the silence. I feel it in the subtle rhythm of his fingers tapping against his cup, in the way his gaze flickers over me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
