LXXIII. MATTEO ROMANO (POV)

LXXIII. MATTEO ROMANO (POV)
⋄ MATTEO ROMANO ⋄
The wind hits my face, cooling my skin even more. A shiver runs down my spine, but I don’t give a damn. I don’t feel the cold, only the dampness that seems to soak into me.
I shove my hands into my pockets and walk down the sidewalk, not back to my hotel but in the opposite direction. The need to put distance between Marina and me is like a living thing—a damn beast blind to reason.
My fingers twist in my pants, and I take a deep breath, but the freezing air does little to ease the tension still bubbling through my body.
If I don’t leave now, I’m going back there and break all that shit.
Cars pass by me, their headlights briefly lighting up my face before the shadows swallow my expression again. I don’t look away, even as my feet move forward without a clear direction. I don’t try to avoid the other pedestrians either; they instinctively step aside, feeling the quiet violence deep in their bones.
The tension that only Marina can awaken in me.
My jaw tenses every time her name comes to mind. Just thinking about it causes a strange ache in the middle of my chest, a mix of anger and something darker. Because she looks at me like she has no idea what she does to me, completely fucking unaware of the kind of trouble she’s walking into.
I turn the corner without paying attention to the street I walk into. The shop windows are still lit, too golden, too polished, showcasing clothes that cost more than many people’s dignity, and that only makes the pressure behind my eyes worse. Milan smiles with perfect teeth while it rots inside. Everything here seems built to impress, distract, and make you believe that shine is worth more than the truth.
Back home, at least, the flaws are visible. The defects aren’t sugar-coated, and the wounds don’t justify themselves with pretty words. Things are what they are. Even if they’re ugly, cruel, and unfair.
The truth doesn’t disguise itself as little lies.
I see a convenience store across the street, and I don’t worry about waiting for a green light; I cross with steady steps on a street that isn’t too empty or too busy. Some cars honk, but I don’t bother to care. And just a moment later, I push open the glass door covered in old stickers peeling at the edges—details I don’t hold onto, but that always enter my mind.
The stuffy air surrounds me like a suffocating blanket, reminding me why I prefer winter. I even get some surprised looks for not wearing a coat, even though the temperature is nearing zero. And I know. I should feel the cold hurting, like they do. But it’s the heat that disgusts me.
My phone vibrates in my pants pocket as I walk down the aisle of products toward the coolers at the back, and I pull it out slowly. The screen immediately lights up with a message from an unknown number.
💬 “What are you doing in Milan?”
I open the cooler’s door, awkwardly holding my phone in one hand, and grab a pack of beer without caring about the brand. The dull thud of the door closing mixes with the vibration of the second message that comes immediately after—
💬 “Go back home now.”
I roll my eyes and slip the phone back into my pocket, walking up to the counter with even calmer steps. The guy, who looks younger than me, widens his eyes as I place the beers on the counter with a sharp click.
“Do you have cigarettes?” I ask, glancing around, bored. My voice sounds rougher than usual, whether that’s from the lack of nicotine or the aftermath of that bitch, I don’t know.
The boy’s eyes widen as he looks at my tattoos before asking, “Sorry?”
“Cigarettes.”
He blinks once, then twice.
“We don’t have any, signore.”
That’s why I hate this damn city,” I mutter, impatient. The need for nicotine is starting to wear on me. I should’ve brought a few more packs...
“That’ll be €12, signore,” he finally says when he’s done packing the drinks into a cheap plastic bag.
“Twelve?” I say with a sarcastic smile, pulling a crumpled €50 bill out of my pocket. “And you don’t know where I can get some?”
“Get what?”
“The cigarettes.” I put the bill on the counter, pressing it down with my index and middle fingers.
“At a tabaccheria—”
“You know what I meant," I cut him off, leaning forward just a little. “If you tell me where I can get that shit, I’ll let you keep the change.”
“I don’t know…” The guy looks at the bill under my fingers, and I see doubt in his eyes. He hesitates for a moment before looking at me again.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
“There’s a guy who lives in the alley at the end of the street. It’s a house with bars on the door,” he says quietly, his eyes a little wide, as if he’s afraid the other customers might hear him, even though they’re minding their own business a few aisles away. “He has good stuff.”
“Good stuff, huh?” I slowly let go of the bill and grab the pack of beers. “I doubt that, but it should do.”
I leave the store with the bag hitting against my leg, and the door closes behind me with that light, miserable sound that quickly fades into the noise of the street.
Cold air hits me full force again, cutting through the sick heat that had clung to me inside, and for a second, it helps. Just for a second. Because my phone vibrates again in my pocket, insistent, like a time bomb about to go off.
I walk in the direction the guy indicated, slow and steady, holding the beer as if I have nothing better to do than search for poison in a city filled with expensive perfume and well-spun lies.
The alley shows up at the end of the street like a crack between buildings, a strip of darkness squeezed between shiny windows and restored facades. Milan always does this. They always do this. Bianchis hide the dirt in the corners and act like no one notices, like they’re better. Like they’re above everyone else.
I tighten my grip on the bag until my knuckles, which are still starting to heal from wounds that are constantly fresh—and that pain, like always, brings me back to my senses.
I don’t hesitate when I step into the alley, leaving behind the noise of the avenue, muffled by the damp, tall walls. Here, the cold feels different, and the smell of rust, wet concrete, and old trash makes this place a little more bearable.
The house with bars on the door doesn’t take long to show up, with paint peeling around the doorknob and a yellow light upstairs. I look around, interested for the first time. There are no display windows here. There’s no shine or glory... Only dirty concrete, rusted bars, and life as it really is, when reality is hard and unfair.
I knock twice on the door, through the bars, not too hard, not too softly. The sound echoes down behind the door, and after a few long moments, there’s silence. Then I knock again, this time with more force.
This time, I hear footsteps and the click of a lock.
The door opens just enough to reveal half of a wrinkled face, two suspicious eyes, and a mouth shriveled by nicotine and silence.