CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The morning light filtered through the gauzy curtains in Alessia’s room, too bright, too soft. It touched everything like it didn’t know anything had changed. But something had. She stirred under the weight of her own body, the sheets tangled around her legs. Every breath felt thick, her thoughts swimming through a slow, syrupy fog. The edge of something important tugged at her memory, something she’d meant to check, to do, but the clarity slipped through her fingers like dust.

Matteo’s voice came before his presence. Warm, low, and threaded with something gentler than concern.

“You didn’t sleep much.”

Alessia turned toward the doorway, blinking hard. He stood in the frame like he belonged there — a silhouette carved out of steadiness. A tray balanced in his hands, steam curling up from the delicate porcelain cup.

“I made you something,” he said. “Chamomile and valerian. You’ve been too wound up lately. Your body’s asking you to slow down.”

She didn’t remember telling him she was tired. But she accepted the tea anyway, her fingers grazing his as she took the cup. It was hot, fragrant. Slightly bitter on the first sip. But soothing. Everything about him lately had started to feel that way, slightly bitter, but soothing. Necessary.

“I had a strange dream again,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

His brows arched just enough. “Your mother?”

She nodded faintly. “I think so. I could hear her voice. But it was distant this time… muffled. Like she was behind glass. She said my name once. Just once.”

Matteo didn’t respond right away. He moved to sit beside her, his hand resting on the blanket near her thigh. “Dreams don’t always mean anything,” he said, too gently. “It’s your mind trying to protect you.”

That should have calmed her. But the whisper in her chest only grew louder. She needed to check something. Pushing the tray aside, Alessia stood, wavering for a second as the floor swayed beneath her feet. Matteo reached for her, steadying her shoulders.

“I’m fine,” she said, brushing past him.

Her fingers hesitated at her laptop. Then she opened it, heart racing as she pulled up the encrypted gallery logs, the files that had once hinted at a deeper network, names half-familiar, patterns she hadn’t finished decoding. But now…

Gone.

Or altered. Streamlined, scrubbed clean. The pages she’d bookmarked, the inconsistencies she’d flagged — all gone.

She clicked through frantically, her breaths quickening. “No. No, this isn’t right. I saw more. There were more exports listed. And offshore—”

“You’ve been under stress,” Matteo said, stepping behind her. “You’re probably confusing this with another set of documents.”

“I’m not,” she snapped, spinning to face him. “I know what I saw.”

He didn’t flinch. His gaze didn’t flicker. He simply stepped closer, hands raised like calming a spooked animal.

“Alessia,” he said, her name smooth as silk. “You haven’t slept in days. You’ve been running on coffee, adrenaline, and grief. It’s not unusual to misremember. I’ve done it. We all do.”

Her mouth opened, to argue, to insist, but his hand was already cupping her cheek. His thumb brushed under her eye with maddening tenderness.

“Let me help you,” he murmured. “Let me keep you steady, just until this storm clears.”

She hated that it worked. Hated that the pressure behind her eyes receded, that her heart slowed under his touch. But her knees softened, her shoulders dropped, and she closed the screen without another word.

Matteo took the cup from where she had left it and pressed it back into her hands. “Finish the tea. Then we’ll go over the files again, together. I promise.”

She nodded, unsure whether she believed him, unsure if she was even still awake. But as she drank, his hand remained at her back. Not forcing. Just there. Guiding. And behind those unreadable eyes, Matteo was already calculating his next move. The cup of tea was warm in her hands. She hated that it helped. Hated more that she needed it.

By the time they reached the gallery later that afternoon, Alessia still felt the fuzz of the morning fog in her skull. But she stood taller now, lips tinted with war paint, eyes sharpened with a purpose that even she didn’t fully understand. If she couldn’t trace her mother’s voice in the night, she’d carve clarity in the daylight instead. The main floor of the gallery had been swept and curated to perfection, but still hummed with the same ghosts that haunted its halls. The exhibition she had hastily arranged, a public event under the De Luca name, was meant to reclaim the space as hers. But beneath the show of control, a deeper purpose festered: this was bait.

Giuliana would see the invitation. She would see the names attached to the exhibit. The subtle threads Alessia had allowed Matteo to pull, leaked memos, misfiled exports, a few suggestive whispers planted in curated circles, all led here. She stood in the center of the main room, arms folded over her black silk blouse, listening to the muffled chaos of setup: crates sliding, display lights testing. Behind her, a false wall had been reconstructed, just like the one where she'd once found Serafina’s letters. Matteo said it was poetic. She didn’t correct him. Not anymore. He moved around the space like he owned it, giving soft commands to a few staff members he'd insisted on hiring “for security.” His voice was low but firm. His eyes never left her for long.

“I don’t remember approving that piece,” she murmured, nodding toward a sculpture now being unboxed beneath one of the fresher spotlights.

“You didn’t.” Matteo appeared at her side without a sound. “But it’s part of the trap, remember?”

A pang twisted in her gut. The plan. It still felt like hers, because he made it feel that way. She could no longer tell where his guidance ended and her autonomy began.

“I just want this to be clean,” Alessia muttered. “Professional.”

“It will be. That’s why you have me.”

The way he said it wasn’t a reassurance. It was a possession.

They moved from one gallery wing to the next, adjusting placement, directing lights, reviewing guest names that Matteo had supposedly “screened.” Alessia signed off on them without reading too closely, she didn’t want to seem paranoid. Besides, he would’ve told her if something was wrong.

Right?

A chill cut through her as she passed beneath one of the newer canvases. It was a piece titled Inheritance. A shadowy figure cradled a child with no eyes, its hands too large, the smile brittle. Matteo paused beside her, watching her study it.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” he murmured.

“What is?”

“This place. It was built to hide things in plain sight.”

She turned to him, lips parted with some half-formed question, but his gaze had already shifted, scanning the windows, the doors, the exits.

“Security’s set up,” he said. “All cameras are motion-triggered. Every angle is covered.”

Something in his voice made her skin bristle. She tilted her head. “Where do the feeds go?”

“Direct to me,” he said easily. “Less chance of corruption.”

She hesitated. Then nodded.

A moment later, the gallery lights flickered. Brief. Barely noticeable.

“Power test,” Matteo said before she could ask. “Just making sure no one can trip us up when it matters.”

Alessia walked the last length of the main gallery alone, heels clicking sharply. The air was too quiet. Too still. She paused in front of the final display — a painting by Serafina, untitled, but Matteo had insisted they show it. It was abstract, in shades of crimson and dusk. It looked like a heart bleeding in reverse. Her fingers grazed the corner of the frame. Behind her, he said nothing. Instead, he walked up slowly, not touching, just close enough for her to feel his breath again. One hand came up, fingertips ghosting over the silk of her sleeve. She didn’t move.

Then he kissed her.

It was deliberate. Controlled.

Her breath caught.

His lips were warm but unyielding, and for a second, she let herself dissolve into it. A silent surrender, an offering. Her eyes fluttered shut.

But his didn’t.

Even in that moment, he was watching.

Always watching.