HELENA'S POV
I stirred awake slowly, the warm sunlight filtering through the curtains. Matteo was still sprawled on the bed beside me, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. His face looked so peaceful, free of the sharp, tense lines it usually carried. I turned lazily, propping myself up on one elbow to study him. His dark lashes rested against his cheekbones, his jawline relaxed. His hair fell in soft waves, and I had the sudden urge to run my fingers through it, to feel its silkiness. Maybe even kiss him, just once, full on the mouth.
But I held myself back. He must've been exhausted after everything that happened last night. Having a gun pointed at your face tends to do that to people. Yet here he was, the same Matteo who made me feel something I hadn't felt in a long time: safe. Being with him was so different from being with Dante. With Dante, every moment was a storm. With Matteo, there was calm, a quiet comfort I hadn't realized I needed until now.
"Are you done staring at me?" Matteo's voice startled me, and my heart leapt as his eyes fluttered open. Those honey-brown eyes locked onto mine, filled with amusement.
"I wasn't staring at you," I lied, but the blush creeping up my cheeks betrayed me.
"That's fine," he said with a sleepy chuckle, his voice still rough from sleep. "You can stare all you want. I won't charge you."
I laughed softly, unable to resist his charm. Matteo reached out, pulling me closer into his arms. His scent, a mix of something woodsy and clean, filled my senses, and for a moment, I let myself sink into the warmth of his embrace.
"Coffee?" I murmured, reluctant to move but knowing I couldn't stay in bed all morning.
"Coffee sounds good," he replied, but he didn't let me go immediately. Matteo's arms lingered around me, as if he wasn't quite ready to face the day either.
When I finally untangled myself, I reached for his shirt lying on the floor and slipped it over my shoulders. It hung loose on me, but it smelled like him, and I liked that. Barefoot, I padded toward the kitchen. Matteo followed close behind, his arm sliding around my waist as we walked. He was like a clingy puppy, and to my surprise, I didn't mind one bit.
In the kitchen, Matteo took charge of brewing the coffee while I wandered into the living room and picked up the remote. I flipped through channels aimlessly, searching for something to watch. That's when an advertisement came on, catching my attention. It was for another masked ball.
"Matteo," I called out, and he walked over, carrying two mugs of steaming coffee. He kissed me lightly on the cheek as he handed me a cup.
"What is it?" he asked, settling next to me on the couch.
"What's with this town and masked balls? Is there some sort of fetish around masks?" I asked, raising a brow at him.
Matteo chuckled, his laugh a low rumble in his chest. "Me personally, I have a fetish for masks. I definitely want to ravish you wearing one?"
I smirked, humoring him with a laugh. "Oh, you think you're funny, don't you?"
"Always," he replied with a wink, taking a sip of his coffee.
But then, as I looked back at the screen, an idea began forming in my mind. A crazy, reckless idea. My laughter faded, replaced by a pensive look.
"How about we do it, then?" I said, turning to Matteo with a spark of determination in my eyes.
He raised a brow, confused. "Do what?"
I glanced back at the TV, then back at him. "We kill Dante."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy and unyielding. Matteo's brows furrowed as he set his coffee down, leaning closer to me.
"Helena..." he started, but I cut him off.
"You know it's the only way, Matteo. He won't stop. He'll keep coming for me, for us. He'll destroy everything." My voice trembled slightly, but my resolve was steady. "If we don't end this, he will."
Matteo's hand found mine, his fingers threading through mine tightly. His face was a mixture of concern and something deeper-admiration, maybe?
"You're serious," he said finally, his voice soft but firm.
"As serious as I've ever been," I replied.
Matteo didn't respond right away. He just looked at me, his gaze searching mine as if trying to read every thought behind my words. Finally, he nodded, a slow, deliberate motion.
"Okay," he said, his voice steady. "But if we're doing this, we're doing it my way."
I nodded back, feeling a strange mix of relief and anticipation. Matteo pulled me closer, his forehead resting against mine.
"Whatever happens, we do this together," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Together," I agreed, the word a promise on my lips.
And as we sat there, tangled in each other's presence, I realized something: for the first time in a long time, I wasn't afraid. I was ready. We needed to kill that bastard before he killed us first.
DANTE'S POV
The crack of the pool cue against the ball echoed sharply in the club's quiet. My shot was perfect, as always, the ball sinking into the corner pocket with a clean precision that only fed my simmering rage. I didn't play pool to relax; I played it to channel the chaos roaring inside me into something I could control.
Control.
A bitter laugh nearly escaped me. What a joke. Since Helena walked out on me, everything had spiraled into madness. And Matteo-that bloody bastard-was the root of it all. He was always going to be trouble; I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on him. That smirking face. That false charm. He had no loyalty, no respect. And now, that trouble was baring its teeth, snarling at me, ready to sink in.
He didn't just take my wife-he dared to stake a claim where he had no business. My wife. My company. My life.
I lined up another shot, gripping the cue so tightly I thought it might snap.
"So, what are you going to do?" Paulo's voice cut through my thoughts, low and steady, dragging me back from the edge.
I turned to look at him, downing the last of my whiskey in a single gulp. The burn of it didn't soothe me like it used to, but I poured another anyway. I fought the urge to grimace, keeping my face as stone-cold as the rage twisting beneath it.
"About Matteo, I mean." Paulo's tone shifted, more insistent. "You can't let him get away with it. I mean, I know he's family, but he broke the number one rule-and several others after that. We have to teach him a lesson."
I listened, barely. My focus was locked on the table, the smooth surface glinting under the soft light. I was still, but inside, I was a storm. Matteo needed to pay-I'd known that for a long time. But Paulo was right. Matteo hadn't just crossed the line. He obliterated it. And if I let this go, I'd be the fool. Not him. Not ever.
I picked up my whiskey and took a large sip, the glass cool against my fingers.
"Oh, I'm going to teach him a lesson," I said finally, my voice sharp, slicing through the space between us. My hand tightened around the glass as I turned to Paulo.
This time, Matteo's punishment wasn't going to be a warning. It wasn't going to be a bruise or a broken limb. No, this lesson was going to be eternal.
"We're going to kill him," I said, the words heavy with finality.
Paulo's eyebrows shot up, but he didn't flinch. He nodded, slowly, as if digesting the weight of what I'd just said.
"Next time he sees anything that belongs to me," I continued, my voice low and deadly, "he'll think twice. He won't just think twice-he'll never think again."
I paused, letting the idea settle, and then added, "We're going to kill him-at the masked ball."
The words rolled off my tongue, smooth, deliberate, a plan already forming in my mind. The ball was perfect. A sea of masked faces, anonymity cloaked in elegance. The irony of it made my lips twitch. He wouldn't even see it coming until it was too late.
Paulo's lips curled into a wicked grin, his teeth flashing like a wolf scenting blood. "Now that's more like it."
But I wasn't smiling. There was no pleasure in this, no satisfaction. Only purpose.
I lined up another shot, the pool cue sliding through my fingers like silk. The ball clattered into the pocket, and I straightened, setting the cue on the table with deliberate care.
"Let's make sure he understands," I said, my voice as cold as the ice in my glass. "No one crosses me and lives to talk about it."
And as I downed the rest of my whiskey, the fiery liquid burning its way down my throat, I thought about Helena. She was mine-whether she wanted to admit it or not. And Matteo?
He was as good as dead.