CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
The study smelled of whiskey and cold metal. Matteo sat slouched in the leather chair, the glow of the security monitors washing his face in pale light. On the largest screen, the footage played again and again. Alessia and Mr. Callen in the gallery’s sub-vault, voices low, bodies too close for his liking. He pressed the glass to his lips, the liquor burning his throat, and did not blink. Every frame gnawed at him. The brush of their hands. The way her eyes softened when she looked at him. And worse, the silence that followed. It was not silence of fear or discomfort. It was silence that carried no weight. A silence she had never given him. He muttered something under his breath, half in Italian, half in the language of someone who had run out of patience. His knuckles tapped against the oak desk, restless, heavy.

“Not broken,” he repeated to the empty room, mocking Callen’s words. “She is not broken because I have already fixed her. I have given her a home, a purpose, protection.”

The loop started over again. Alessia leaning slightly toward Callen. The flicker of a half smile that should never have existed. Matteo’s jaw tightened, the muscle twitching in rhythm with the beat of his anger. He reached for the remote and turned up the volume, letting the faint echo of their voices scratch into him like nails.

“You do not look at me like you want to fix me.”

“That’s because I do not think you are broken.”

Matteo laughed then, a sound that cracked and held no humor. He slammed the glass against the desk, splintering it into shards. Amber liquid bled into the wood grain, but he did not look down. His eyes remained fixed on Alessia’s face, her expression when she heard those words. The possessive pull inside him was worse than fire. He imagined dragging her back from that vault, forcing her to see who had always been there for her. Who had always known what she needed even before she asked.

“She is mine,” he whispered, voice dark and hoarse. “And she will see it. She will remember it.”

The bottle sat within reach. He did not bother with the glass this time. He drank straight from it, the sharp bite of whiskey doing nothing to dull the storm in his chest. His gaze drifted across the monitors to the live feed of the villa. Alessia, asleep in her room, curled beneath the blanket he had wrapped around her only nights ago. He watched her chest rise and fall with each breath. His breath matched hers, slower now, heavier. The words slipped out before he could stop them, low and dangerous.

“No one else gets to touch her. No one else gets to see her fall apart. She belongs to me. To me.”

The loop shifted back to the vault again. Alessia’s hand brushing against Callen’s. Matteo’s grip tightened around the bottle until it creaked. He wanted to tear the man out of the footage, erase him from every frame, from every breath of her memory. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, eyes shadowed, and pressed rewind once more. The screen flickered, voices replaying like a confession meant only for him. He drank again, deeper this time. The burn no longer mattered. The taste no longer registered. Only the words echoed. Not broken. Not broken. His mouth curled into something cruel, something that held no trace of tenderness.

“We will see about that.”

Matteo waited until morning before confronting her. He could have gone to her room in the dead of night, pulled her from sleep and demanded answers while she was still fragile from dreams, but he forced himself to wait. Control mattered. If he wanted her bound to him completely, he needed her to feel the shift in him, to sense that his patience had limits.

Alessia was seated by the window when he found her. The light poured over her shoulders, and her eyes were set on the garden outside though it was clear she saw nothing beyond her own thoughts. She started slightly when he entered, then quickly steadied herself, pulling her robe closer around her as though she feared what he might say.

“You have been distant,” Matteo said, his voice soft, his expression unreadable.

Her lips parted, but no words came.

He took a slow step toward her, hands clasped behind his back. “I have watched you, Alessia. You flinch when I enter a room. You hide things from me. You let others get too close.”

Her chest rose sharply. “I have not—”

“Do not lie to me.” His voice hardened, cutting through her protest. The change was so sharp that she faltered. He crouched beside her chair, forcing her to meet his eyes. “I give you everything. My protection. My trust. And yet I see the way you look at him. The way you let him speak to you as if he understands you better than I do.”

Alessia stiffened, shaking her head quickly. “No, Matteo. That is not what it is.”

“Then tell me,” he pressed, his tone lowering again but no less intense. “Tell me you are loyal to me. Tell me you know where your safety lies.”

Her mouth trembled, her hands clutching the arms of the chair. She wanted to say it, wanted to ease the fire in his eyes, but silence dragged between them like a rope pulled taut.

Finally, she whispered, “I trust you.”

The words soothed him, but only slightly. He studied her, searching for hesitation. He placed his hand over hers, warm and firm. “You must never let anyone else steal your thoughts. Do you understand? They do not see you. They do not care for you. Only I do.”

Alessia nodded quickly, her breath unsteady. Matteo leaned closer, brushing his lips against her temple. He did not kiss her mouth, not yet, but the gesture was enough to make her eyes close. “Good,” he whispered. “Do not forget.”

The rest of the day passed in muted silence. Alessia retreated often, her steps quiet, her gaze flickering toward him in ways she could not hide. Matteo let her have her spaces, but always nearby, always within reach. He did not need chains when her fear and confusion bound her more tightly than any lock.

That night, he joined her in her room without asking. She was already in bed, her hair spread across the pillow, her face turned toward the flickering lamplight. She did not protest when he slipped under the blanket beside her. The silence stretched long, heavy with things unsaid. For once, it was Alessia who moved first. She shifted slowly, cautiously, until her fingers brushed against his hand. Matteo’s breath caught. The simple touch, hesitant and small, sent something violent through him. He closed his hand around hers immediately, not letting her retreat. Her body stilled. Then, as though she had made peace with it, she let him hold on.

Matteo turned his head, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, but his grip did not ease. His hand tightened like it was the only anchor he had left in a storm he could not control. It was not simply about protecting her anymore. It was not even about control. It was something far more dangerous.

Obsession.

She was in his veins, in his thoughts, in every flicker of his breath. He had thought keeping her safe would be enough. That possession would satisfy him. But the feel of her fingers curling in his made him realize the truth. He could not lose her, not to Marco, not to Giuliana, not even to herself.

When her breathing evened into sleep, Matteo’s eyes remained wide open. He listened to every sound in the room, the hum of the rain outside, the whisper of fabric when she shifted slightly closer in her dreams. His chest ached with it. The thought of her slipping away burned through him with the force of a threat. He pressed his lips against her knuckles softly, a promise she would never hear.

Later, when the house was silent, he slipped from her bed without waking her. His movements were soundless, practiced. He crossed the hall to his study, where the fire had long since died into embers. On the desk sat a small pile of intercepted letters, most unopened. Tonight, another had arrived, slipped into his hand by a guard who had no idea what it contained.

Marco’s handwriting. Always Marco’s.

Matteo held the envelope between his fingers, weighing it. He could open it, read the desperate words inside, see what new tactic Alessia’s uncle had chosen. He could let himself know exactly how close Marco thought he was getting.

Instead, Matteo lit a match.

The flame flared bright in the dark, casting shadows over his face. He touched it to the paper and watched the fire spread, curling black across Marco’s careful strokes. The words never reached his eyes. He refused them that power.

The letter shriveled into ash in the tray, smoke drifting upward like a fading prayer. Matteo leaned back in his chair, his gaze still burning with something harsher than the fire itself.

He whispered into the silence, his voice low and resolute. “She does not need you. She never will.”

The last scrap of paper dissolved into embers, and Matteo closed his fist, imagining it was Marco’s throat he was crushing.

In the room above, Alessia shifted in her sleep, reaching for the space beside her. Her hand landed on the pillow still warm with his presence.

And Matteo, back in the study, poured another glass of whiskey, alrea
dy thinking of the next step to keep her exactly where she belonged.

With him.