CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The rain had let up by the time Alessia stepped out of the gallery. Evening sunlight pushed through the thinning clouds like it was trying to convince the world nothing had ever gone wrong. She walked fast, coat fluttering behind her, one hand buried in her pocket and the other clenching the small note she’d found that morning, the one left under her pillow with a single line in looping script:
"Check the florist."
No sender. No signature. But her gut had twisted the moment she read it, and she’d recognized the handwriting.
Marco’s.
It had been years since she'd seen it, she was barely fifteen the last time he’d written her anything. But something about the way the r curved, the flourish at the end of the t. Her hand trembled just holding it. By the time she rounded the quiet corner and the old flower shop came into view, her heart was pounding. A million scenarios played in her head. Marco might be there, waiting behind the door, pacing nervously, carrying an envelope of truths she’d been dying to read since the beginning. But before she could step up onto the curb, a hand caught her wrist.
“Alessia.”
Her stomach dropped.
Matteo.
He emerged from the shadows near the alley, dressed in black again, as if the night had already claimed him.
Her first instinct was to pull away. He was too sudden, too convenient. “What are you doing here?” she asked, eyes narrowing.
“I could ask you the same,” he said. His tone was gentle, but there was a faint edge beneath it, the kind that wrapped concern around command.
She looked past him at the shop’s glass door. Closed, dimly lit. “I need to speak with her. She—”
“No,” he cut in. “Not today.”
Alessia bristled. “You don’t get to tell me where I can go.”
“She’s under investigation.”
The words stopped her cold.
He didn’t flinch. “She’s been flagged twice for suspicious financial movement. Offshore transfers traced back to old De Luca channels. I didn’t tell you earlier because I didn’t think she was still a threat. But if she’s suddenly reaching out…”
He let the sentence hang. Suggestive. Poisonous.
Alessia’s throat tightened. “That doesn’t make sense. She helped me.”
“Did she?” he asked softly. “Or did she feed you just enough to make you dependent on her? Enough to build trust and then steer you wherever they wanted you to go?”
“I found things because of her,” Alessia snapped.
“And maybe she let you,” Matteo said, stepping closer. “Giuliana’s not sloppy. You’re alive because someone’s letting you be. And the second you stop being useful…”
His gaze drifted to the florist’s window.
“She’s one of them, Alessia. I know this game better than anyone. You’re not paranoid. You’re underestimating how far this reaches.”
The shop lights flicked off. A lock clicked inside.
Matteo turned back to her. “Let me handle this. I’ll dig into it deeper. But if you go in now, you risk everything. Just trust me.”
It wasn’t the words that broke her, it was the way he said them. Like he already knew she would. Like he had no doubt left to fight, and part of her wanted him to be wrong. The larger part wanted him to be right. She stared at the closed door of the flower shop, breathing hard, then slowly stepped away from it.
Matteo placed a warm hand on the small of her back. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
As they walked away, the woman inside the shop stepped out from the shadows behind the curtain, watching through the glass as Alessia turned the corner with Matteo.
She had the envelope in her hand. Her knuckles white.
Later that night, in the privacy of the wine cellar Matteo had quietly reinforced with additional locks, he paced with quiet satisfaction. In his coat pocket, he withdrew the intercepted envelope — not torn open yet, not even wrinkled. He let it rest in his palm for a moment, studying the handwriting.
Marco.
The uncle who kept trying.
The man who would not shut up.
Matteo’s mouth twitched. He slid the envelope into a drawer in the back wall, behind several rows of empty vintage bottles, and relocked it with the small brass key he always kept on a chain around his neck.
Let her believe the world was betraying her — all except for him.
Let her fall deeper into him — where truth twisted and silence meant safety.
And then, softly, almost like a prayer, he whispered:
“Soon.”
The rain painted soft trails down the villa windows, blurred and streaked like the memory of something Alessia couldn’t quite touch anymore. She stood there, arms folded, breath fogging the glass, eyes unfocused. The storm outside hadn't let up since morning. Wind pressed against the old frames like it wanted in. Behind her, the villa sat quiet, too quiet. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a breath being held. The space had grown familiar in the strangest way. As though it had molded itself around her grief, her confusion, her desperation. Or maybe he had.
Matteo stepped into the room without a sound. She didn’t need to turn to know it was him. His presence was heavy, not in mass, but in gravity. It pulled at her, rearranged her.
“You should eat something,” he said, voice low, measured.
“I’m not hungry.”
He came closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him behind her, the way his body moved without rush or hesitation. A hunter who already knew he’d caught his prey.
“I know,” he said. “But you can’t keep forgetting yourself just because everything else is falling apart.”
She let her eyes drift down the windowpane. “I don’t think I know who I am anymore.”
He said nothing at first. Then his hand came to rest gently on her shoulder. “Then let me protect whatever’s left.”
When she didn’t pull away, he leaned in — slow, deliberate — and pressed a kiss to the curve of her neck.
It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t rough either.
It was possession disguised as comfort.
“You don’t know what you’re safe from,” he whispered against her skin.
Alessia exhaled.
She closed her eyes.
And nodded.
“I’ll stay,” she said quietly. “For now.”
He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to.
Later that evening, while rain still drummed against the roof tiles, she sat at the long dining table, scrolling through half-read documents and intercepted leads, none of which made sense anymore. Everything had begun to blur together, names, dates, whispers that led nowhere. Or always led back to Matteo. She wanted clarity. She wanted control. And she was tired of feeling like a ghost in her own skin.
So when she spoke again, it surprised them both.
“I want to hold a press event at the gallery.”
Matteo looked up from his glass of whiskey. “Why?”
“To remind them whose name is still on the walls.”
His silence stretched long, but not disapproving.
“I’m tired of being hunted,” she added. “They should see me standing. Not hiding.”
Matteo took a slow sip. Then leaned back in his chair, the light catching the faint scar at the corner of his mouth. “Good,” he murmured. “You’re finally thinking like a De Luca.”
He rose and walked toward her. “But if you do this… let me handle the logistics.”
Alessia frowned. “I can coordinate it—”
“I know you can.” He crouched beside her, eyes locked on hers. “But you shouldn’t have to. I’ll make sure the right people are there. That it plays in our favor.”
Her chest rose slowly with each breath. “You already have a plan, don’t you?”
His lips twitched into something like a smile, but darker. “I always do.”
She didn’t ask more. Part of her didn’t want to know. And part of her was beginning to understand that some things were easier not to see.
Unseen by her, Matteo moved through the villa’s upper floors later that night, phone pressed to his ear as the call connected to his contact, the one who owed him too much to refuse.
“She’s going forward with it,” Matteo said. “The gallery press event. I need you to make sure Giuliana’s watching.”
There was static on the line. Then a clipped response: “Understood. You want her to take the bait?”
A long pause.
“No,” Matteo said. “I want her to choke on it.”
He ended the call and turned toward the hallway, toward Alessia’s room. The girl was folding into him faster than he expected.
And the gallery event?
It wasn’t about control. It was a trap.
For Giuliana.
And for Alessia.