Chapter 53 Fifty three
Matteo's POV
I could feel the change in her. The silence wasn’t soft anymore. It was a wall. She moved through the days quietly to get but her eyes were alive. Watchful. She was studying me. Cataloging my lies.
I became overly attentive. A hand on her back guiding her through a door. Fingers brushing hers as I passed the salt. Each touch was a test. A question. Do you still feel it, even though you know?
She would flinch, just barely. A tiny recoil she couldn’t hide. Then she’d steel herself, meeting my gaze with a flat, empty look that was worse than any slap. The chemistry was still there, but it had turned toxic. A current that shocked us both.
I suggested a walk in the gardens. The afternoon sun was weak. She agreed, silent. She was always silent now.
We walked on the gravel path. I pointed out a rare winter rose, trying to sound normal. She just nodded. The distance between us was inches. It felt like miles.
Then old Antonio appeared from behind a hedge. He’d been the groundskeeper since my grandfather’s time. His mind was like mist now, here and gone. Most of the staff kept him away from the family. But today, he slipped through.
He saw me. His wrinkled face lit up with pure, simple joy. He didn’t see the Don. He saw the boy he’d secretly sneaked lemon drops to.
“Piccolo Silvio!” he called out, his voice raspy with age. He shuffled closer, beaming. “You’ve brought a friend!” His milky eyes turned to Elena with kindness.
My blood froze. The old, childhood nickname. The name only a few dead people and this fading old man still knew. Little Silvio.
I went rigid. My mind raced for a way to shut him up, to steer him away gently. Panic, cold and slick, rose in my throat. This was it. The crack in the dam.
Before I could move, Elena spoke. Her voice was sweet. Light. Curious. She turned a warm smile on the old man.
“Piccolo Silvio?” she repeated, as if tasting the words. “What a charming nickname.” She looked at me, her eyes wide with innocent interest. “Did you know him as a boy?”
The knife. She wielded it so gracefully.
Antonio nodded, delighted to be asked. “Oh, yes! A little terror, this one! Always climbing the walls. Getting his fine clothes dirty. He loved my lemon drops.” He chuckled, lost in the past. “Piccolo Silvio. Looks just like his nonno now.”
Every word was a nail. I stood there, trapped. I couldn’t contradict a senile old man without looking cruel. I couldn’t explain it away without sounding desperate.
I forced a laugh. It sounded hollow. “Antonio, you’re dreaming in the sun again. Let’s get you back to the shed.” I took his arm, my grip firm.
“But the lemon drops…” he mumbled, confused by my sudden urgency.
“I’ll bring you some,” I said tightly, steering him away. I glanced back at Elena.
She was still smiling. A perfect, beautiful, terrifying smile. Her eyes met mine. In them, there was no confusion. Only cold, glittering confirmation.
Got you.
Elena's POV
He was touching me too much. His hands were always there, claiming, testing. It felt less like affection and more like interrogation. Do you still shiver for me? Do you still want the monster?
I kept my face calm. A mask of my own. Inside, I was mapping his every lie.
The walk in the garden was another test. I played along. The weak sun, the trimmed roses, the handsome liar beside me. A perfect painting of normalcy.
Then the old man appeared. He was bent with age, his eyes cloudy. He looked at Matteo and his whole face transformed with love.
“Piccolo Silvio!”
The name hit the quiet air like a gunshot.
I saw Matteo freeze. I saw the color drain from his face. It was a tiny crack, but it was there. Pure, undisguised alarm.
My heart hammered, but not with fear. With a fierce, cold thrill. Here it was. Another piece.
Before he could recover, I moved. I softened my voice. I made my eyes wide and curious. The innocent, interested fiancée.
“What a charming nickname. Did you know him as a boy?”
I asked it so sweetly. I let the old man talk. Every fond, rambling word was gold. Little Silvio. Looked like his grandfather. Not his father. His grandfather. The previous Don.
Matteo’s reaction was swift. He cut the old man off. He called him confused, dreaming. He led him away with a grip that was anything but gentle.
When he looked back at me, I made sure my face was still a polite mask. But I let my eyes tell the truth. I let him see that I’d heard. That I understood.
Piccolo Silvio.
Not Matteo. Silvio.
He came back to me a minute later, his composure forcibly restored. The air between us was charged with a new, dangerous voltage.
“He’s old,” Matteo said, his voice carefully casual. “He mixes up the past. Thinks I’m my grandfather sometimes.”
“How interesting,” I said, my tone light. I started walking again, forcing him to follow. “He seemed very fond of… Piccolo Silvio. It sounds like a name for a beloved little boy. Not a nickname for a grandson. A name for a son.”
I felt his gaze burning into the side of my face.
“What are you implying, Elena?” The careful casualness was gone. His voice had an edge.
“Nothing,” I said, stopping to admire a thorny, barren bush. “I’m just making conversation. It’s a unique nickname, that’s all. I’ve never heard anyone call you Silvio.”
“Because it’s not my name,” he said, the lie smooth and automatic. But it was weaker now. Desperate.
I turned to him. I let my mask drop, just a little. Just enough for him to see the cold knowledge beneath. “Isn’t it?” I asked softly.
We stared at each other. The garden was empty. The only sound was the wind in the dead branches.
He took a step closer. The space between us crackled. It wasn’t attraction now. It was a standoff. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmured, his eyes locked on mine.
“I learned from the master,” I replied, holding his gaze. “Tell me, Piccolo Silvio… when did you stop being a little boy climbing walls and start becoming the man who builds them to trap people?”
His control slipped. For a second, raw pain flashed in his eyes. I’d hit the mark. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I have an old man’s memory and a ledger with your signature,” I said, my voice low and steady. “I’m putting the picture together. And it’s not of a son. It’s of a king. A lying, manipulative king.”
He grabbed my wrist then. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to hold. Hard enough to claim. His touch was fire. “And what does that make you?” he breathed, his face inches from mine. “The queen in your cage? Or the prisoner who’s trying to pick the lock with truth?”
My pulse jumped under his fingers. I hated that my body still reacted to him. “I’m the woman who sees you,” I whispered fiercely. “And you’re terrified of it.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He searched my face, looking for fear, for uncertainty. He found only resolve. Cold, furious resolve.
He released my wrist as if burned. He took a step back, running a hand through his hair. The elegant Don was gone. In his place was just a man, cornered by his own deception.
“Be careful, Elena,” he said, his voice tired. “The truth can be a weapon. But it can also get you killed.”
It wasn’t a threat. It sounded like a warning. A plea.
He turned and walked back to the house, leaving me alone in the cold garden.
I looked down at my wrist, where his fingers had been. The skin still tingled.
Piccolo Silvio.
The pieces were fitting. The picture was almost complete. And he knew it.
The game had changed. It was no longer about him deceiving me.
It was about me deciding what to do with the truth. And him realizing he was no longer in control of the woman who held it.