Chapter 86 -MATTEO’S TRAP
The invitation reached Isabella in the most unsettling way possible.
It wasn’t delivered by hand. It wasn’t encrypted. It wasn’t even hidden well.
It was waiting for her on the vanity in the safehouse bedroom when she returned from the shower—placed precisely between her perfume bottle and the silver hairbrush Lorenzo had bought her weeks ago. No note. Just a single card, thick cream paper, her name written in Matteo’s elegant, unmistakable script.
We need to talk. Alone. Tonight.
Her pulse stuttered.
The guards outside hadn’t seen anyone enter. The cameras showed nothing unusual. Someone had walked through Lorenzo’s security like mist.
And left Matteo’s name behind like a blade pressed lightly to her throat.
She didn’t tell anyone she was leaving.
Not Niccolò. Not the silent men stationed beyond the gates. She slipped out through the rear service path at dusk, wearing plain clothes and no jewelry, her phone left behind on purpose. The city felt different without Lorenzo’s shadow wrapped around her—wider, darker, more dangerous.
Matteo had chosen the location carefully.
A private wine cellar beneath a shuttered restaurant near the Navigli, once owned by a De Luca ally who had disappeared years ago. The front doors were chained. The back entrance opened with a key she found taped beneath the stone ledge, just as the card had promised.
Inside, the cellar smelled of dust, old oak, and secrets that had soaked too deeply into the walls to ever be scrubbed clean.
Matteo waited by a long wooden table, two glasses already poured.
Red wine. Expensive. Unhurried.
“You came,” he said mildly.
“I came to hear what you think you know,” Isabella replied, keeping her distance. “Nothing more.”
Matteo smiled. It was charming in the way a predator’s stillness is—calm because it knows the prey is already cornered.
“You always say that,” he said. “And yet you’re always here.”
She didn’t sit.
“You said you had proof,” she said. “Show me.”
Matteo lifted a finger, almost playful. “First—are you afraid?”
“Of you?” she asked coolly. “Not enough.”
“Of him,” Matteo corrected.
Her silence answered.
He reached beneath the table and produced a thick leather-bound folder, placing it carefully in the center like an offering. He didn’t push it toward her. He let it sit there, heavy with implication.
“Lorenzo is unraveling,” Matteo said quietly. “And this time, it’s not rumor. It’s documented.”
Isabella’s chest tightened. She took a step forward despite herself and opened the folder.
The first pages were financial authorizations—transactions approved without the usual layers of review. Emergency funds redirected. Shell companies activated prematurely.
“This is war spending,” she said.
“No,” Matteo replied. “This is panic spending.”
She turned the page.
Interrogation summaries.
Orders marked immediate resolution.
Execution approvals stamped within minutes of accusation.
Her breath caught.
“These men weren’t vetted,” she whispered. “Some of them—”
“—were innocent,” Matteo finished. “Or at least unproven.”
Her fingers trembled as she flipped further.
Medical notes.
Psych evaluations.
Handwritten observations by Lorenzo’s personal physician.
Sleep severely disrupted.
Episodes of fixation and emotional volatility increasing.
Attachment to a single civilian asset presents operational risk.
Isabella froze.
Asset.
She felt suddenly nauseous.
“This is confidential,” she said hoarsely.
“Yes,” Matteo agreed. “Which means Lorenzo never intended you to see it.”
Her throat tightened as realization slid into place. “You stole this.”
“I protected it,” Matteo corrected. “From being buried when it’s too late.”
She looked up sharply. “You’re using this to scare me.”
Matteo met her gaze steadily. “I’m using it to save you.”
She snapped the folder shut. “He’s under attack from every side. Of course he’s ruthless.”
“Ruthless is his nature,” Matteo said. “Uncontrolled is new.”
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “He didn’t always kill this way. You know that.”
Images flickered in her mind—early days, controlled silences, calculated restraint. The Lorenzo who once warned instead of executed. Who weighed outcomes.
Who had looked at her like she was something fragile instead of something dangerous.
“You’re exaggerating,” she said, though the words felt thin.
“Am I?” Matteo reached into the folder again and slid a single document across the table.
A surveillance log.
Her name appeared repeatedly.
Movements tracked. Conversations noted. Emotional responses categorized.
Subject displays stress indicators after executions.
Subject may be destabilizing primary decision-maker.
Her vision blurred.
“He’s watching me,” she whispered.
Matteo’s voice softened. “He’s watching everyone. But you matter most.”
She pushed the paper away. “This doesn’t mean he’ll hurt me.”
Matteo smiled sadly. “Isabella… in this world, love is never protection. It’s leverage.”
She stood abruptly, pacing away from the table, pressing her palms to the cold stone wall.
“You want me to turn against him,” she said.
“I want you alive,” Matteo replied. “And that requires options.”
She spun back to him. “What are you offering?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Protection. Real protection. Influence. A place where you’re not a liability waiting to be eliminated.”
“And in exchange?” she demanded.
“Nothing today,” Matteo said smoothly. “Just awareness.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re lying.”
He chuckled softly. “Of course I am. But not about this.”
He reached into his jacket and placed a photograph on the table.
It showed her—stepping out of the safehouse late at night, hood up, face half-turned.
Taken from close range.
Too close.
“Who took that?” she demanded.
Matteo’s smile faded. “Not me.”
Fear crawled up her spine.
“He thinks I’m betraying him,” she whispered.
“He’s afraid you will,” Matteo said. “And fear makes him dangerous.”
She stared at the photo, then at Matteo. “So what? You want me to hide behind you?”
“I want you to stand where you can’t be crushed,” Matteo said. “Between us, if necessary.”
“You’d destroy your own brother,” she said.
Matteo’s jaw tightened. “I’d stop him from becoming our father.”
The words landed like a gunshot.
“You think I don’t see it?” Matteo continued quietly. “The way he’s changing? The way his mercy is evaporating? He’s not leading anymore—he’s reacting.”
Isabella closed her eyes.
“What happens to him if I accept your protection?” she asked.
Matteo studied her for a long moment.
“That depends,” he said carefully, “on whether he can be stopped.”
“And if he can’t?”
Matteo didn’t answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was cold.
“Then someone else will have to.”
Her heart hammered painfully.
“You’re asking me to choose,” she said.
“I’m telling you the choice has already been made,” Matteo replied. “You’re just pretending otherwise.”
She backed toward the door.
“You’re not my savior,” she said. “You’re a strategist.”
“Yes,” Matteo agreed. “And you’re the most valuable piece on the board.”
Her hand found the handle.
“If I walk away,” she said, “what happens?”
Matteo’s gaze sharpened. “Then Lorenzo will finish what his instincts have already started.”
“And you?”
“I’ll do what I must,” he said. “With or without you.”
She opened the door, cold night air rushing in.
“One more thing,” Matteo added softly.
She paused.
“You should know,” he said, “that the next time Lorenzo doubts you… he won’t hesitate to ask me what I know.”
Her blood ran cold.
She stepped out into the darkness, the cellar door closing behind her with a final, echoing click.
For the first time since returning to Milan, Isabella understood the truth with terrifying clarity:
She wasn’t caught between two men.
She was the battleground.