Chapter 208 The Name In The Room
Ivy’s POV:
The burner is on the table when it happens. That’s not an accident.
I didn’t put it in my pocket this time. I didn’t hide it in a drawer or bury it under work. I left it where I could see it, where Matteo could see it too, because a part of me already knows this moment is coming. A part of me already wants this truth to be out in the open.
We’re in the lab-adjacent sitting room. Not formal. Not intimate. Neutral ground.
Matteo is reviewing security feeds on a tablet, posture loose but alert, the way he always is when he’s pretending this is normal.
I’m pretending too.
The phone lights up without sound. No vibration. Just the screen waking.
I see the name before I can stop myself from reading it.
IRENE.
My vision tunnels.
For half a second, the room tilts, not enough to fall, just enough that I have to brace my hand on the edge of the table to stay upright.
Matteo notices immediately. Not the phone. But me.
He looks up, eyes sharp, already moving, already recalculating.
“What is it?” he asks.
I don’t answer right away. The message preview is short. Clean. No threats. No explanation.
Come home.
You’ve had enough time.
My brother has always known how to choose his words.
Matteo steps closer. Not rushing. Not grabbing. Just close enough that he can see the screen over my shoulder.
He reads the name. He doesn’t react. That’s worse than anything else he could have done.
“Irene,” he says quietly.
Not a question. Not an accusation.
Just the sound of the name spoken aloud in this room, in this house, by him. The weight of it settles on my chest. My throat constricts, breathing becomes difficult.
Matteo doesn’t ask who sent it. He doesn’t ask what it means.
He simply reaches out and turns the phone face-down on the table with two fingers, precise and controlled.
“That’s not staying on,” he says.
And just like that, the room changes.
He’s already moving, already issuing quiet instructions into his comm. Locks engaged. External access cut. Signal dampening activated. The house responds instantly, like it’s been waiting for permission.
I sink onto the couch. I don’t sit gracefully. I sit because my legs give out on holding me.
Matteo finishes the lockdown before he comes back to me. He kneels in front of me, not crowding, not forcing eye contact.
“Look at me,” he says.
I try but fail. My hands are shaking now. Not subtle tremors. But real ones.
“It’s him,” I say.
My voice barely works.
“I know,” he replies.
That does it. The control I’ve been maintaining for weeks finally snaps.
I bend forward, elbows on my knees, head in my hands, breathing hard like I’ve run too far too fast.
“I told you this would happen,” I say, the words spilling out without shape. “I told myself if I stayed quiet, if I kept my head down, if I didn’t pull anyone else into it...”
Matteo puts his hands on my forearms.
Firm. Warm. Anchoring.
“Breathe,” he says. “With me.”
I try. It takes a few seconds before my lungs remember how.
“He won't keep waiting now,” I whisper.
Matteo doesn’t ask who is he.
He doesn't probe. He lets me have the words when I’m ready to give them.
“I can’t let him touch you,” I say suddenly, panic flaring sharp and hot. “I can’t let him make you part of this.”
Matteo’s grip tightens slightly.
“Too late,” he says calmly.
I shake my head. “You don’t understand.”
“Then help me,” he says. “But don’t tell me I don’t belong in the room.”
I laugh once, broken and humorless.
“You shouldn’t,” I say. “That’s the whole problem. You don’t deserve this. Your family doesn't deserve this. Not again.”
He leans closer, forehead almost touching mine.
“You don’t get to decide what I deserve,” he says. “You get to decide whether you face it alone. But it's already too late for that choice.”
My throat closes. I want to tell him everything. I want to say my brother’s name.
I want to tell him my family is the reason for all the pain he suffered through when he was just a kid.
I want to explain the training, the blood, the way survival was taught like a skill instead of a choice.
But the image that flashes in my head isn’t of my past.
It’s of Matteo, moving without hesitation, going to war without pause.
And I can’t do that to him.
“I’m scared,” I say instead.
That’s all I give him. It’s enough.
He pulls me against his chest, one arm solid around my back, the other braced at my shoulder. He doesn’t hold me like I’m fragile. He holds me like I’m real.
I cry then.
I cry like someone who’s been upright for too long and finally sits down.
Matteo stays still.
He doesn’t shush me.
He doesn’t promise it will be okay.
He just stays.
When my breathing finally slows, when the shaking eases into something manageable, I realize how tightly I’m gripping his shirt.
I loosen my fingers.
“I’m sorry,” I say hoarsely.
“For what?” he asks.
“For bringing this here.”
He rests his chin lightly against my hair.
“You didn’t,” he says. “He did.”
I close my eyes.
“This won't be over without a war,” I say.
“No,” he agrees.
“And it won’t stop with messages.”
“No.”
I pull back just enough to look at him.
“You’re already thinking about how to end this,” I say.
He doesn’t deny it.
“That’s what scares me.”
His expression softens, just slightly.
“What scares me,” he says, “is you thinking you'd rather keep me away than let me be here.”
I swallow. I still don’t tell him. Instead, I lean back into him, exhausted, wrung out, empty.
He doesn’t deserve this, he never did.
Not then, not now.
Not the blood. Not the war. Not my brother.
But even as the thought forms, something else follows it, just as clear, just as unavoidable.
I need to tell him.
Soon.
Because the past is no longer circling.
It’s inside the house.
And next time, it won’t knock.