LXX. “Enough of an answer.”

LXX. “Enough of an answer.”
I see the exact moment something shifts in Matteo’s eyes—when reason returns, and desire fades, like a flame that can’t survive without oxygen. Actually, all the air seems to leave the room. I try to breathe, but I can’t fill my lungs.
Matteo’s hands loosen, even though they stay on me. And even warm and sweaty, I feel cold in his touch like a bucket of cold water, bringing confusion and a bitter, hateful taste to my mouth.
I swallow hard, feeling my throat tighten. My hips move instinctively, trembling, still seeking contact, and Matteo’s cock pulses in response. The sensation causes him to lock his jaw, grinding his teeth so hard that every bit of his willpower is visible in the muscle twitching in his jaw.
And just like that… he pulls away.
Matteo straightens up, placing his hands on the couch next to my body, his presence the only thing surrounding me. His chest rises and falls harder, and the brown of his eyes brightens again as his pupils contract and shrink.
My legs close, more out of pride than instinct, and I feel the words burning on my tongue. I want to scream, ask what the fuck his problem is, why he came here, acted like this, woke things that shouldn’t be awakened, only to pretend he's better than this.
But my pride saves the little dignity I still have.
I push Matteo by the shoulders, and his body teeters to the side, giving me room to get up quickly. He doesn’t resist at all, just sits on the rug, resting his arm on the couch, where it is still warm and wet from my sweat.
I try not to let him see how his rejection affects me. Still, I know he can see my face turning red. My cheeks burn more intensely than the desire inside me, and I cling to the hate, adjusting my bra and shirt as fast as I can.
He, however, makes no move to do the same.
“What the fuck is your problem, Matteo?” My voice comes out strained before I can stop it, yanking my jeans up suddenly, causing the fabric to snap.
He forces his eyes past the button, which closes and blocks any chance of us making that mistake again.
“Are you trying to prove something?”
He snorts, rolls his eyes, and stares off into the distance… but he grinds his teeth.
“I don’t need to, Marina. You already gave enough of an answer.”
Matteo’s answer makes my breathing falter in my throat, and my voice comes out sharper than I expect— “What does that mean?”
Matteo snaps his eyes back to mine, “It means you shouldn’t be here.”
“I shouldn’t be here? That’s rich!” This time, I’m the one who snorts. “And what about you, Matteo, huh? What are you doing in Milan?”
He clenches his jaw so tightly that the muscle jerks, revealing his frustration. Still, the forced, mocking smile remains on his lips, which only irritates me further.
“I’m not here because I want to be.” My voice rises, growing sharper and shakier with each word. “I’m here because I need to. For survival.”
I walk back to the kitchen, covering the short distance with quick, deliberate steps, but his voice makes me stop suddenly:
“Survival!” he laughs, a sound that vibrates in the back of his throat and echoes through the emptiness of my patience. “And even so, it looks like you’re enjoying it.”
“Are you serious right now?” I turn enough to see him still there, on the floor, completely naked, without a shred of shame, arm spread lazily over the couch, like some careless king. Like this apartment, this city—this whole situation—is under his control.
Honestly, humiliation burns like hell. I hate how Matteo can easily turn my frustration into a blade sharp enough to cut my common sense in half. But I need to be better than this. I can’t keep letting him get so deep under my skin.
“You know what? I’m not doing this.” My voice comes out strained, with the heat crawling up my neck and into my face. “You don’t have any right to be here or judge me. This is none of your business, Matteo—”
“It is my damn business.” Matteo cuts me off, lifting his chin. For a moment, I think he’s about to throw out some cheap jab.
But his voice only deepens, and his look changes again, no longer arrogant. There’s something on his mind... something I can’t quite put my finger on.
“This place, this city—they are not for you, Marina.”
I take a deep breath, clenching my fists.
“I already said I’m doing what I need to do to save myself.” I turn sharply again, grabbing the clothes he left on the floor in one quick motion. “And if you’re this bothered by Cesare’s plan, you should talk to your brother instead of coming here and putting at risk an operation that started before you were even born.”
“You think I care about this crap?” Matteo’s voice rises too as the frustration returns.
“Clearly not. Because if you had any sense, you wouldn’t be here in front of me right now, ruining everything.” My voice rises too before I even realize it, and when the words come out, I notice I had been holding my breath too.
“Ruining what? Your chance for Cesare to pimp you out to a Bianchi?”
The bitter words come out sharp, and I feel them more painfully than a slap across the face. They land in my chest like a hollow punch, stealing the air from me and widening my eyes in a surprise that shouldn’t be surprising.
Matteo seems to regret saying it the moment it leaves his lips, because he mutters a rough, nearly breathless “shit” through his teeth and drags a hand over his face before sliding it into his hair and yanking hard on the strands.
But even then, he doesn’t try to take them back. He stands up as I walk toward him quickly, barely holding back fury, but his movements are much more relaxed and sluggish compared to the anger fueling my steps.
I press his clothes against his still-sweaty chest and don’t wait for him to hold them before pulling my hand away.
“Get the fuck out of here, Matteo. Now.”
Matteo instinctively catches the bundle against his chest, fingers closing around the fabric a second too late to look effortless. For a moment, he just stands there in front of me, breathing heavily, with disheveled hair and an expression made of anger and something much more dangerous. Regret, maybe. Or maybe not regret at all. Perhaps only the raw awareness that he has finally said the one thing neither of us can pretend we did not hear.
The apartment falls silent in that ugly, ringing way silence does after a shout. I hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen. The distant groan of traffic below. My own pulse, hard and irregular, pounding behind my ears.
“Marina—” he starts.
“Don’t.” My voice comes out softly this time, which somehow sounds worse than screaming. I take a step back and point toward the door with a hand that trembles no matter how hard I try to steady it. “Just go.”
“Marina,” he says again, quieter now, as well.
“Leave.”
Matteo’s jaw tightens. He looks like he’s ready to argue, eager to throw one more harsh truth between us and make me swallow it. But then his eyes shift over my face again, slower this time, and whatever he sees there stops him.
The humiliation.
The fury…
The fact that he has managed to make me feel exposed in ways that have nothing to do with clothes on the floor, and maybe something to do with that complicated past we share.
He swallows hard once, enough for me to notice.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says.
A short, ugly laugh leaves me before I can stop it.
“I don’t care. I don’t want to hear another damn word from you, Matteo. Just leave before you ruin everything.”
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters through gritted teeth, raking a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead, only for it to fall forward again. “Ruin what? Your perfect freedom plan? Wake up, Marina—do you really think Cesare will let you go? Are you really that naive? Or is that just something you desperately want to believe?”