chapter two
The morning sun bled through the heavy curtains, casting streaks of gold across the marble floor. Alessia woke to silence—an unfamiliar kind. Not peaceful. Watchful.
Her clothes had been replaced.
Laid out on a velvet chaise: a sleek black dress, tailored to fit like a second skin, and blood-red heels that whispered danger with every inch. A note lay on top, scrawled in elegant, sharp handwriting.
"Be ready in fifteen. Do not keep me waiting. — M."
She clenched the note between her fingers. Of course he'd try to dress her like a doll. But she wouldn't let a dress change who she was. She was here on her terms—even if those terms were slipping through her fingers one by one.
By the time she entered the dining room, Matteo was already seated at the head of a long, polished table, sipping espresso like it was holy.
He looked up. His gaze flicked over her once. No smile. No compliment. Just assessment. Like a general inspecting his newest weapon.
"You're late," he said.
"It's ten past," she replied, taking the seat across from him without asking.
His jaw tightened slightly. She took it as a win.
"I don't like being disrespected," he said, setting his cup down.
"Good," she said, reaching for the croissant. "Then we have something in common."
His eyes narrowed—but there was a glint of amusement underneath. "Do you know what happens to people who cross me, Alessia?"
"I assume they stop crossing."
He laughed then. Low and unexpected. "You're either incredibly brave, or incredibly stupid."
"I guess we'll find out."
Silence stretched between them, charged with something unspoken. Finally, he leaned back.
"Today, I'm taking you to see what it means to be a De Luca. You're not here to be a guest. You're here to understand."
"Understand what?" she asked, her tone more cautious now.
"What loyalty costs. What blood buys. What your father sold when he handed your name over to me."
Before she could respond, he stood. "Come."
The car ride was short, but suffocating. Two armed men flanked them in the front. Alessia sat beside Matteo in the back, her body stiff, her mind racing. They passed the edges of the city, where opulence began to rot into shadows.
The car pulled into a compound surrounded by steel gates and silence. Men with scars for faces stood at the entrance, nodding as Matteo stepped out.
She followed.
Inside, it wasn't what she expected. It wasn't just a mafia base—it was an empire. Training grounds. Offices. A shooting range. Dozens of men moved like shadows, obeying with the snap of a finger.
And all of them bowed their heads when Matteo passed.
"This," he said, turning to her, "is what your father owed. This world. This loyalty. This silence."
Alessia looked around, heart pounding.
"And what do I owe?" she asked, her voice quiet.
Matteo's gaze locked onto hers.
"Me."
For a moment, the world stilled. No cars. No guards. Just the two of them in the center of a kingdom built on power and fear.
Then he handed her a gun.
"Lesson one," he said. "Never trust a promise that isn't backed by steel."
She took it. Cold. Heavy.
Real.
And just like that, the first crack formed in the girl she used to be
The weight of the gun in her hand was heavier than she'd imagined.
Not just in mass—but in meaning.
Alessia stared down the firing range, Matteo's voice behind her low and steady.
"Feet shoulder-width apart. Elbows soft. Breathe in before the shot."
She exhaled. Raised the gun.
Pulled the trigger.
The sound cracked through the air like thunder in a coffin. The recoil jerked her arm, but she stayed upright. Her hands trembled, just slightly.
Matteo stepped closer behind her. Too close.
"Again," he murmured, his breath brushing the curve of her ear.
She fired.
Missed.
"Relax your shoulders."
"You're not helping," she snapped.
He chuckled. "I'm not here to help. I'm here to teach."
Alessia turned to face him. "And what exactly are you trying to teach me? How to shoot a man in cold blood? How to become like you?"
Matteo's face didn't change. But something in his eyes flickered—like a storm waiting to break.
"No," he said quietly. "I'm teaching you how to survive me."
The silence between them thickened.
Suddenly, the door at the far end of the range opened. One of Matteo's men stepped inside and muttered something in Italian. Matteo's expression shifted instantly—from calm to command.
"Change of plans," he said. "We're going to the docks."
"The docks?" she asked.
He didn't answer. Just walked out. She had no choice but to follow.
The black SUV rolled through the industrial district, gray clouds hanging low like secrets. Alessia sat beside him, pulse spiking with every turn.
When they arrived, men were already waiting. Armed. Tense.
At the center of them—on his knees—was a man with a bloodied face and terror in his eyes.
Alessia froze. "What is this?"
Matteo stepped out. She followed, heart pounding.
"This man," he said, voice like steel, "sold weapons marked under the De Luca name. Stolen from our shipments. He thought we wouldn't find out."
The man begged in Italian. Alessia didn't catch every word, but she understood fear fluently.
"He has a family," she said.
"So do the men who died because of his greed," Matteo replied.
Then he handed her the gun again.
Alessia stared at it, horrified. "No."
"You're part of this world now, bella. Your father put you in it. The sooner you stop pretending otherwise, the better."
She clenched the weapon. Her knuckles turned white.
"I won't kill someone."
"Then don't aim for the heart," he said, voice colder than she'd ever heard it.
She looked at the man. Looked at the gun. Looked at Matteo.
And fired.
The bullet hit the man's leg. He screamed, falling hard to the ground.
Matteo didn't flinch. "Good."
Alessia dropped the gun, her chest rising fast.
"I hate you," she whispered.
He stepped closer, eyes dark with something she didn't understand—something brutal and broken. "No, tesoro. You hate that part of you didn't hesitate."
And deep down, maybe… he was right.