Chapter 16 Chapter Sixteen
LILA
The vibration of the private jet was a low, soothing purr compared to the violent roar of the helicopter. Outside the small, reinforced windows, the world was nothing but a vast expanse of indigo sky and the distant, flickering lights of the Russian tundra passing far below us. We were halfway between Tokyo and Palermo, suspended in a pressurized tube of leather, mahogany, and unspoken truths.
I sat in one of the oversized captain’s chairs, staring at the glass of amber liquid on the table in front of me. I hadn't touched it. My arm ached where the tubes had been, the skin bruised a dark, ugly violet that mirrored the glow of the code they had tried to steal. I felt different. Every heartbeat felt heavier, every breath more intentional. It was as if the extraction process had stripped away the last of my innocence, leaving only the raw, burning wick of who I was supposed to be.
Matteo was at the back of the cabin, speaking in low, rapid Italian into a secure phone. He had changed out of the tactical gear and into a simple black silk shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the thick tendons of his forearms. Even from twenty feet away, I could feel the heat radiating off him. It was a magnetic pull, a gravity I had spent weeks fighting and was now, terrifyingly, starting to crave.
He finished his call and walked toward me. He didn't move like a man who had just survived a massacre. He moved like a storm that had found its center. He stopped beside my chair, his hand resting on the headrest, his fingers inches from my hair.
"You should eat," he said. His voice was a rough rasp, weary but still carrying that sharp edge of command.
"I’m not hungry," I replied, finally looking up at him.
The emergency lights of the cabin cast deep shadows across his face, highlighting the new cut on his cheek and the exhaustion in his eyes. He looked at me with an intensity that made the air in my lungs feel thin. It wasn't the look of a captor anymore. It was something far more dangerous. It was the look of a man who had realized that the thing he had stolen was actually the only thing he wanted to keep.
"Agata is waiting for us at the villa," he said, ignoring my protest. "She has a medical team standing by. They need to check your blood, Lila. They need to know what they pumped into you."
"They pumped a code into me, Matteo. They turned me into a ledger. Isn't that what you wanted? A way to control the money?"
Matteo’s jaw tightened. He reached down, his thumb catching under my chin and forcing me to look at him. His skin was hot, the callouses rough against my jaw.
"Do not mistake what happened in Tokyo for business," he growled. "I didn't go there for a code. I didn't burn that building for a digital key. I went there for my wife."
"Your captive," I corrected, though the word felt weak even to me.
"Is that what you still think you are?" He leaned closer, his chest inches from mine. "You saved my life twice. You wore my ring. You stood in that lab and nearly died because you wouldn't give them what they wanted. You aren't a captive, Lila. You’re a Russo. And God help the man who tries to take you from me again."
He let go of my chin, but he didn't move away. He stayed in my space, his presence an overwhelming force that made it impossible to think. I hated him for the wedding. I hated him for the lies. I hated him for the fact that my father had left me in his hands. But as I looked into his dark, obsessive eyes, I felt a treacherous thrill. I wanted to stay in this bubble of danger with him. I wanted to see what happened when the fire finally consumed the bridge.
"Go to the bedroom," he said, his voice softening. "Sleep. I’ll be there in a moment."
I stood up, my legs still a bit shaky from the drugs. I walked past him, my arm brushing his. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through me, a sharp, sudden spark that made my breath catch. I didn't look back. I went into the small, luxurious bedroom at the rear of the jet and closed the door.
The room was lit by soft, golden lamps. A large bed was bolted to the floor, covered in charcoal gray silk sheets. I sat on the edge of the mattress, my head in my hands.
How had I ended up here? A month ago, I was dancing for tips. Now, I was the key to a global syndicate, married to a man who killed without blinking, and fleeing across the world in a rain of fire.
The door opened, and Matteo stepped in. He didn't say anything. He went into the small ensuite and returned with a bowl of warm water and a clean cloth. He knelt on the floor between my knees, just like he had at the villa.
"Give me your arm," he said.
I hesitated, then held it out. He took my hand in his, his grip gentle but firm. He dipped the cloth in the water and began to wash the dried blood and antiseptic from my skin. His movements were slow and methodical, his focus entirely on the task.
I watched the top of his head, the way his dark hair curled at the nape of his neck. I saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his muscles bunched as he worked. This man, who had executed traitors and held a gun to my father’s heart, was now cleaning my wounds with the tenderness of a saint.
The contrast was maddening. It made me want to scream at him and pull him against me at the same time.
"Why did you come for me?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "You could have stayed in Sicily. You could have let the Loyalists handle it."
Matteo stopped cleaning. He didn't look up. "Because the house was empty."
"What?"
He finally looked at me, his eyes dark and raw. "The villa. It was quiet. No one was fighting me. No one was spitting on me. No one was looking at me like I was a monster while their heart was beating for me. It was just a pile of stone and blood. I realized that without the flame, the house was just a tomb."