Chapter 112 The Lies We Tell Ourselves
Matteo
Rosco rubbed a hand over his face. “What did you mean… you saved her life?”
I didn’t answer right away.
I just stared down at the goddamn promissory note again, the paper mocking me like it had teeth. My thumb brushed over the date like maybe it would change—maybe it’d say something else, something less fucking damning. But no. There it was, plain as anything.
February 14th, 2016. Her sixteenth birthday.
“She was fifteen when I took care of them,” I muttered. “The Maranzanos. Ten years ago. That note says she was meant to be transferred a few months later.”
Rosco blinked. “So you really did save her…”
“I didn’t know.” My voice was low, a snarl barely held back. “It wasn’t intentional. She was just collateral damage that never happened.”
“Still,” he said, tilting his head. “Sounds a little like fate.”
I turned to him with a glare sharp enough to slice flesh. “Don’t start spouting mystic bullshit.”
He held up both hands. “Alright, alright. Just saying.”
Before I could tell him to shut the fuck up again, the office door creaked open and Alessio poked his head in.
“You two still in here plotting murders?” he asked with that casual warmth he reserved only for me.
“Something like that,” I said, tucking the promissory note into the drawer. “I’m reviewing the guys who were under Big John. Trying to find someone I can promote to take over the distro.”
“Smart. Better to use someone who already knows the operation.” He stepped inside fully, glancing around. “Where’s Valentina? I thought she was helping you with all this.”
I forced my expression into something neutral—something that didn’t look like heartbreak with a fucking cigar. It’s been months since I first had to put on this performance for Alessio after the poker game when I first brought her home. Back then, it was easy. I didn’t care. She was just leverage with a good body and a sharp tongue.
Now? Faking indifference felt like driving a nail through my chest.
“She wasn’t feeling well,” I said with a shrug. “Went to lie down.”
Alessio’s brows lifted. “Not feeling well?”
And then the twinkle in his damn eyes made my stomach turn.
“You don’t think… could she be pregnant?” he asked, hopeful. “What a Christmas gift that would be, eh? A Genovese heir on the way?”
I managed a weak smile and nodded like the idea didn’t make my blood boil for entirely different reasons.
Alessio grinned, slapped Rosco’s shoulder, and left the room humming to himself.
The second the door clicked shut, Rosco let out a long whistle. “Fuck. I forgot about that part.”
He glanced at me. “You think she could be?”
I shot him a look that could’ve dropped a man at twenty paces.
“She feels fine,” I said flatly. “She’s just sick over the news that her father was going to sell her. So no, Rosco, I don’t think she’s pregnant. Don’t be a dimwit.”
“Right. Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Dumb.”
I turned back to the paperwork, hoping that would end the conversation.
It didn’t.
“So,” Rosco started again. “You gonna go back to how things were before? The contract. Distance. Control.”
My hand froze on the pen.
“It’s always been contractual.”
“Bullshit.”
I didn’t look at him.
“You fell in love with her,” he said plainly, like he was commenting on the fucking weather.
My eyes snapped up. “What the fuck do you know?”
He met my glare head-on. “I’ve known you over twenty years. Long enough to tell when a woman’s getting under your skin. You don’t look at her like she’s a deal anymore. You look at her like she’s oxygen.”
I said nothing.
“You fired Maria for her. Hell, you killed Maria for her.”
“She was a liability,” I muttered.
“You let her become one. Plus there was Luca as well,” he countered. “And the last time we went to the club? You didn’t even glance at the dancers. You used to fuck women like they were disposable. Now you barely breathe near anyone who isn’t her.”
Still, I said nothing.
“You can deny it all you want, but I see it. You’re different around her. Softer. But also meaner in every way that counts. And if you don’t admit what you feel soon, you’re gonna lose her.”
I let the silence drag long enough to make him sweat.
Then I rose, pushed back the chair, and reached for my keys.
“We’re going to the club tonight,” I said, grabbing my jacket.
Rosco’s brows lifted. “Now?”
“If I’m in love,” I said coldly, “then I need to fucking prove I’m not.”
Rosco crossed his arms, leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world to watch me self-destruct. “So what, this is you trying to lose her? Because going to the club tonight—that’s a surefire fucking way to do it.”
I didn’t even flinch.
I straightened the collar of my jacket, flicked the lint off my sleeve, and let the cold steel slide back over my face like armor.
“I fucking own her,” I said, voice low and sharp. “I won’t be losing anything.”
Rosco scoffed. “You keep telling yourself that.”
“In fact,” I continued, ignoring him, “I’ll be winning. Because I’ll still get what I want out of her—which is the key to my inheritance—and I’ll still be able to get my fucking balls drained.”
Rosco raised a brow, slow and unimpressed. “You don’t have to go to the club for that. You just have to walk down the damn hall to your ready and willing wife.”
My jaw ticked. “Don’t start preaching.”
“Who the fuck made you the patron saint of marriage?” I snapped, turning toward him. “What happened to the man one who loved tag-teaming sluts with me just for the thrill?”
He shrugged. “He grew up.”
“But growing up doesn’t mean going soft,” I replied, slipping my cufflinks into place. “And it sure as hell doesn’t mean getting played.”
“Played?” Rosco repeated. “You think she played you?”
“She lied to me,” I bit out. “For months. Sat across from me every day, shared my bed, wore my ring, said all the right things—and didn’t fucking tell me who she was.”
“She didn’t even know who she was,” he said carefully. “Not really. And now she’s trying to make it right.”
My eyes narrowed. “Are you defending her?”
“I’m telling you not to be a dumbass.”
I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The room was already too full of the words I wasn’t saying. The ache I wasn’t admitting. The truth I was trying to drown.
Rosco shook his head. “So what’s the plan, boss? Go to the club, fuck someone with no name, no meaning, just to prove you still can? Hope that scratches the itch?”
“It’s not about the itch,” I muttered.
“Bullshit. You’re trying to punish her. Or maybe yourself. Either way, it’s a goddamn mess.”
I pushed past him, reaching for the door.
“You done?” I asked.
“Not even close,” he said, following me. “But I can see you’re in one of your moods where logic doesn’t stand a chance.”