Chapter 56

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The dressing room door creaked open, the sound slicing through Silas’s ragged breathing.

His head snapped up, eyes still wet, chest heaving.

Two shadows filled the doorway—massive, broad-shouldered, faces like stone. They stepped in, the smell of smoke and sweat following them.

One cracked his knuckles, the other smirked, eyes narrowing on Silas as he crouched on the floor.

“You, kid…” the taller one growled, his voice deep, gravelly. “Time to learn how this place really works.”

The other reached down, fisting Silas’s shirt and yanking him roughly to his feet. His knees buckled, but the grip was iron, shaking him upright.

Silas’s fists clenched, rage and fear battling in his chest. The tears on his face only seemed to amuse them more.

“You think you can punch Don Marco and just walk out?” the second bouncer hissed, breath hot against his ear. “Nah, pretty boy. Tonight, you pay.”

They shoved him back against the wall, the mirror behind him rattling in its frame.

The door banged shut behind them, and the two bouncers wasted no time.

A fist drove straight into Silas’s ribs, knocking the air out of him.

He staggered, coughing, pain slicing through his side. Another blow cracked against his jaw, sending him sprawling to the floor.

His earpiece crackled, voices breaking through as he groaned.

“Agent Reeds—your signal’s unstable! Pull back!” one agent’s panicked voice pleaded.

“Get out of there, now,” another urged. “Return to the suite before Mateo Woods suspects anything—do you hear me?”

Silas coughed, blood trickling from his lip, the comms buzzing weak in his ear as the bouncers hauled him back up by his shirt.

“You think you can slack off on your duties, pretty boy?” one sneered before shoving him hard against the wall.

The second bouncer’s fist followed, pounding into his stomach. Silas doubled over with a strangled gasp, his knees threatening to give.

“Agent Reeds, respond!” The voices grew more frantic, but all they got was the sound of his ragged breathing and the dull thuds of fists connecting.

Silas’s head swam, vision hazy. He knew if he didn’t pull it together soon, there’d be nothing left of his cover to protect.

Mateo stepped out of the building. His chest felt lighter, a rare smile tugging at his lips as he slid into the back seat of his sleek black car.

“Home,” he instructed the driver, his voice unusually soft.

As the car pulled away, Mateo leaned back, resting his arm on the leather seat, his mind already drifting. I can’t wait to see my pretty boy… all curled up, waiting for me.

The thought alone made heat spark low in his chest. For once, the weight of business and bloodlines slipped from his shoulders.

Silas—his Silas—was becoming the part of the night he looked forward to most.

Then, suddenly, he sat up straighter, an idea flashing. “Wait,” he told the driver, a small grin ghosting across his face. “Make a stop at the flower shop down the block.”

The driver’s eyes flicked up in the mirror, surprised—Mateo Woods didn’t do flowers. But Mateo ignored it, already picturing the look on Silas’s face.

He’d probably love them, Mateo thought, a warmth filling his chest he couldn’t quite explain.

The bell over the tiny shop door jingled as Mateo stepped inside.

An older woman behind the counter looked up, her glasses slipping down her nose. She smiled kindly. “Evening, son. Looking for something special?”

Mateo hesitated—he wasn’t used to this. To asking for things that weren’t power, money, or blood.

He cleared his throat. “I… need flowers.” His voice faltered, softer than usual. “Something to show my deep obsession and… love. For someone close to my heart.”

The woman’s expression softened, her smile creasing into her cheeks. “Ah… now that’s a rare thing to hear in here. Obsession and love, you say?” She studied him a moment, as though she could see right through his hard edges.

Mateo shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, but then added, “They mean more to me than I expected. I don’t know how else to show it.”

The woman walked around the counter, her hands brushing along the flowers until she stopped at a cluster of dark red roses, their petals . She plucked one carefully.

“Roses for passion,” she said gently, then reached for a white lily. “And lilies for truth. Together… they’ll tell them you’re not just here to play.”

Mateo’s throat tightened. He nodded, voice low. “That’s perfect.”

The woman handed him the small bundle, wrapped in soft paper. “Whoever they are… you must care deeply. Don’t be afraid to show it. Life is too short to keep love hidden.”

For the first time in years, Mateo smiled—not the cold, calculated smirk people feared, but something real. “Thank you,” he said, almost like a promise to himself as he held the flowers close.

Silas stumbled into the suite, body sore and heavy from the blows he’d taken. His shirt was torn, his lip split, but he pushed the door shut behind him and pressed his back against it, chest heaving.

“Silas—Agent Reeds, listen,” a voice crackled faintly in his comm, desperate. “You need to stay. If you disappear, Mateo Woods will suspect—”

“No.” His voice came out hoarse, raw. He ripped the comm out of his ear, clutching it in his fist. “I’m done. I quit.”

He staggered across the room, straight to the desk where Mateo always scribbled on fine stationery. His hand shook as he pulled out one of the crisp sheets, smoothing it flat. The pen felt heavier than it should as he pressed it to paper.

His eyes blurred, but he forced the words out anyway:

Mateo,

This was a hard decision, but I don’t have a choice. I can’t do this anymore. I’m not a toy you can play with, no matter how soft your touch feels. You deserve better than someone who doesn’t belong in your world. I don’t belong in your world.

Don’t look for me.

He set the pen down, staring at the ink bleeding into the paper as though it was cutting his own skin. His chest ached, his throat tight.

He folded the note with trembling hands, laying it carefully where Mateo would see it first. For a second, he stood frozen, his reflection in the glass door staring back at him—mask gone, eyes swollen, fists still bruised.

“I’m not your pretty boy,” Silas whispered, voice breaking.

Then he turned, grabbed his coat, and walked out, leaving the note behind like a wound he couldn’t stitch closed.