Chapter 41: CHATER 41 – POV LILIANNA
The ride back to Matteo’s brownstone felt longer than the entire war we’d been fighting.
The convoy moved through the city like a wounded animal — limping, silent, bleeding in the dark. Our men rode with shattered windows, bullet-dented doors, and blood soaking into leather seats. The city lights reflected off cracked windshields like fractured stars.
I sat beside Matteo in the backseat, our knees touching, our hands brushing every time the SUV hit a bump. He didn’t pull away. That alone terrified me more than the gunfire we’d just survived.
Matteo Costello didn’t do quiet.
But tonight, he was silent.
Too silent.
The storm that always lived inside him had receded into something colder, darker, more calculating. A quiet that promised war.
His eyes were focused out the window, jaw set, knuckles bruised and dried with blood.
Not Petrov’s blood.
Ours.
Theirs.
This war was devouring everyone.
I reached for him. “Matteo—”
He didn’t look at me. “You’re hurt.”
His voice was rough, scraping the edges of restraint.
I touched my arm, where a shallow graze burned. “It’s nothing.”
He turned finally. His eyes flicked to the wound, then to my face. Slowly. Deliberate.
“You almost died on that dock.”
“So did you.”
“But I’ve died before.” He swallowed hard. “I can handle that. I can’t handle losing you.”
He said it plainly. No armor. No smirk. No joke.
My chest tightened.
“Matteo—”
He cut me off. “If Petrov had been one step closer—if you had moved one second slower—”
He dragged his hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.
“I would’ve lost my mind.”
My throat burned. “But you didn’t lose me.”
He shook his head once. “Not this time.”
The SUV slowed as Louis parked outside the brownstone. Guards moved instantly into position. The house was fortified. Reinforced. Impenetrable on any normal night.
But nothing was normal anymore.
As Matteo stepped out, I noticed it — a slight stagger. Barely visible to anyone else. But to me, it was a gunshot.
“Matteo,” I snapped, grabbing his arm. “You’re hurt.”
He grunted. “I’ve been hurt for days.”
That wasn’t what he meant, and we both knew it.
Louis approached us, blood on his shirt, face hard. “The perimeter’s secured. Callum is still upstairs with Nora and three guards. No movement from the Syndicate. No signs of Petrov.”
Matteo’s jaw flexed. “There will be.”
“Boss—”
“Not tonight,” he said. “But soon.”
Louis nodded, glanced at me with relief in his eyes that we both survived, then headed inside to check systems.
Matteo turned to me. “You should check on Callum.”
“And you?”
He looked past me, to the shadowed streets. To the war waiting there.
“I need a minute,” he murmured.
Which meant:
I need to fall apart without witnesses.
But I wasn’t letting him break alone.
I stepped forward and took his face in both hands.
He inhaled sharply, eyes closing for half a heartbeat.
“Come inside with me,” I said softly.
He opened his eyes, and for the first time since the docks, I saw him.
Not the leader.
Not the soldier.
Just Matteo.
He nodded once, stiff but surrendering.
We walked indoors together.
—
The house felt different tonight.
Quieter.
Heavier.
Like the walls were holding their breath.
I went upstairs first, because Matteo let me — which meant he was more shaken than he wanted me to know.
Callum’s door was cracked open. Soft light spilled into the hallway. I pushed it gently and stepped inside.
My son— our son— slept curled against Nora, his tiny body wrapped around his stuffed wolf. His breaths were steady, warm, safe. Completely untouched by the brutality outside.
I brushed his hair back. He stirred, sighed, and settled deeper into sleep.
Behind me, footsteps paused at the doorway. Matteo didn’t enter. Just leaned against the frame, watching.
“He looks like you,” Matteo whispered, voice hoarse.
I turned. “He looks like both of us.”
He nodded once, eyes never leaving Callum.
Each breath Matteo took looked like it hurt. Not physically.
Emotionally.
He was letting himself feel.
And it was breaking him.
“Lilianna,” he murmured, voice raw. “Thank you for not sending him away.”
I swallowed. “I almost did. More than once.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No,” I said quietly. “Because I trust you.”
His eyes snapped to mine.
The words hung in the room — fragile, dangerous, true.
Matteo took a small step closer.
“Say it again.”
“I trust you.”
He exhaled sharply, closing his eyes, like the words stabbed him and healed him at the same time.
When he opened them, the storm inside him was back — but for the first time, it wasn’t wild.
It was controlled.
Focused.
For us.
“Come downstairs,” he said quietly. “We need to talk.”
The pain in his tone made my stomach tighten.
This wasn’t a war meeting.
This was something harder.
—
He led me to the den — dimly lit, soundproof, windowless. A room built for confessions and strategy.
Matteo closed the door behind us.
Then he turned to me.
And everything inside him cracked.
“You should’ve left me to die at the warehouse,” he whispered. “If you had, none of this would be happening.”
I froze.
“What?”
“You heard me.” He stepped closer, shadows cutting across his face. “Petrov wants me dead. The Syndicate wants me gone. And the moment they realized you and I were together—your past, my territory—everything amplified.”
He braced his hands on the desk behind him.
“I put a target on you the size of Manhattan.”
My heart slammed against my ribs. “Don’t you dare take this on yourself.”
“And you put a target on me,” he said quietly. “The Genovese name — it paints a bullseye on my back.”
I flinched.
He noticed.
His voice softened. “I’m not blaming you. I’m telling you the truth.” He pushed off the desk. “Our worlds were never meant to merge.”
“And yet they did,” I said, raising my chin.
He stopped in front of me, inches away.
“And it’s killing people.”
Silence thickened. Heavy. Devouring.
I lifted a hand to his chest.
“Matteo, what happened tonight wasn’t your fault.”
“It was,” he said. “Petrov anticipated us because the Syndicate betrayed me—someone I let close.”
“Someone who betrayed both of us,” I corrected.
His jaw tightened. “Callum was almost orphaned tonight.”
“And he wasn’t,” I whispered. “Because we fought for him.”
He closed his eyes. “Lilianna… I can’t lose him. Or you.”
“You won’t.”
His eyes opened — sharp, burning.
“You can’t promise me that.”
“I can,” I said, stepping closer until our bodies touched. “Because I’ll burn every inch of this city before I let anyone touch my family.”
Something inside him snapped loudly enough to echo between us — the last thread of restraint breaking.
His hands cupped my face, firm, desperate.
“Say it again,” he rasped. “Say that word.”
I swallowed against the heat in my throat.
“Family.”
His breath shuddered.
He finally let himself break.
His forehead pressed to mine. His hands trembled. His voice cracked.
“I’m terrified,” he admitted.
Not Matteo the don.
Not Matteo the killer.
Matteo, the father.
Matteo, the man.
“Good,” I whispered. “So am I.”
His hands slid to my waist, pulling me against him, holding me like he was afraid I might disappear.
“I can’t lose you,” he whispered again.
“You won’t.”
“Promise me.”
“I just did.”
His mouth crashed into mine — nothing soft, nothing careful. A kiss born of fear and fury and relief. A kiss that tasted like survival and heartbreak and need.
I kissed him back with everything inside me — anger, love, grief, want — all twisted together.
He broke the kiss only when breath demanded it, his lips brushing mine.
“We finish this,” he breathed. “Petrov. The Syndicate. All of it.”
“Yes.”
“And after that…”
His voice dropped.
“We talk about us.”
My heart pounded. “We’re talking now.”
“No,” he said softly. “After the war. After the blood. When we can actually choose instead of react.”
My pulse thundered.
“And what do you want to choose, Matteo?”
He leaned close. His lips grazed my ear.
“You,” he whispered. “If you’ll still have me.”
My breath caught.
His fingers laced with mine.
And that’s when the house went dark.
Every light.
Every system.
Every camera.
Click — dead.
The room plunged into shadows.
Matteo’s body went rigid.
“Backup power?” I whispered.
“This isn’t a blackout,” he said, reaching for his gun. “This is a message.”
As if on cue, the screen on the far wall flickered to life.
Static.
Then a blurry image sharpened.
Ivan Petrov.
Smiling.
Behind him — a warehouse wall we didn’t recognize.
And on the floor beside him…
My stomach dropped.
My blood went cold.
A man knelt, beaten, bleeding, tied to a chair.
A tattoo on his neck.
The Phoenix Syndicate crest.
Arman.
The traitor.
Petrov leaned in close to the camera.
“I hope you’re watching, Costello. Genovese.”
Matteo stepped in front of me instinctively.
Petrov smiled wider.
“You survived tonight. Congratulations. Let’s see how you handle the next game.”
The screen cut to black.
Silence swallowed the room.
Matteo spoke first, voice low, lethal.
“It’s a trap.”
I answered without hesitation.
“So what? We walk into it anyway.”
His eyes burned.
“Our family comes first,” I whispered.
And for the first time tonight…
He smiled.
A dangerous smile.
A promise of war.
“Then let’s finish this.”