"Why aren't you at the dining table" Matteo's tone was deceptively calm as he leaned against the archway, his dark eyes locked on her like a predator watching its prey.
Angela froze mid step. Her heart skipped a beat. "I—uh—I wasn't feeling too hungry," she stammered.
He raised a brow, stepping toward her. "You're always on edge. Always hiding something. And lately," he paused, his voice sharp now, "you're always on the phone."
Her mouth went dry.
His next words cut like a blade. "Who are you always speaking to?"
Angela tried to mask the panic bubbling in her chest. "Just… no one. Friends. Back home."
Matteo's jaw flexed. "If I find out you're up to something, Angela," he said slowly, each word laced with venom, "you won't like what I'll do. I'm not a forgiving man. Not when it comes to betrayal."
Her body stiffened.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor, leaving behind a suffocating silence.
Angela finally exhaled, her lungs aching from the tension. She walked back to the dining room and stared at the untouched plate before her. The scent of food made her stomach churn. There was no way she could eat now. Her appetite had been strangled by dread.
She slipped out quietly, heading toward the garden, needing air—needing space from him.
The cool night breeze brushed against her skin, carrying with it the faint scent of roses. The stars blinked above, beautiful and far away—so unlike her life, which was tangled in shadows and secrets. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering.
"Ma'am"a voice called behind her. One of Matteo's guards. " It's dangerous to stay outside. Go back inside."
She nodded silently, returning toward the house with a heavy heart.
When she reached her room, she opened the door and nearly gasped.
Matteo was there.
Damp hair tousled, a white towel wrapped low around his hips, exposing lean muscle, golden skin, and more tattoos than she could count. He looked like sin sculpted into flesh.
Angela froze.
He looked up and smirked. "Ah… finally, my wife decides to grace me with her presence." His voice was thick with amusement and something darker.
She turned to leave, embarrassed, but he was already moving toward her.
"Ti piace quello che vedi?" he teased in a sultry Italian whisper. (Do you like what you see?)
Her cheeks flamed. "Put some clothes on, Matteo," she snapped, trying to move past him.
But he blocked her path.
"Non essere timida ora, piccola moglie," he said softly, leaning closer. (Don't be shy now, little wife.)
His breath was warm against her ear, and her body betrayed her—shivering at his nearness.
Before she could say anything, his phone rang sharply from the table. He cursed in Italian under his breath, the heat between them instantly vanishing as he snatched the phone.
"Che cazzo vuoi?" he barked into the phone. (What the fuck do you want?)
Angela stood awkwardly by the door, trying not to eavesdrop, though she couldn't understand much.
Matteo's voice was sharp, clipped. Tension laced every word he spat into the phone. He was being threatened—Angela could hear it in the way he growled, the way his knuckles turned white around the phone.
He ended the call with a final, furious "Non provare mai più." (Don't ever try again.)
Throwing the phone down, he began dressing quickly, each motion jerky with frustration. A black shirt, slacks, leather jacket. War armor.
Angela watched him, heart hammering in her chest. "Everything okay?" she asked quietly.
Matteo's jaw clenched. "No."
"Someone's threatening you?"
He paused mid button. "Let me make one thing clear," he said without looking at her. "I don't get threatened. I eliminate threats."
Then he was gone, storming out of the room and leaving the scent of cologne and danger in his wake.
Angela collapsed onto the edge of the bed. Her hands trembled slightly.
This was her life now.
Chaotic. Violent. Firearms and whispered threats in foreign tongues. A husband who burned with secrets and suspicion. And her—trapped in the middle, tangled in lies she couldn't escape from.
She thought of the call earlier. Of Lorenzo yelling at her, reminding her of her place. Reminding her that this marriage was just a game.
A game.
But the lines were blurring.
And the man she was supposed to betray?
He was starting to feel terrifyingly real.
Angela pressed a hand over her heart. It was beating too fast. The room felt too quiet.
She whispered to herself, "I don't know what I've gotten myself into."
But there was no turning back now.