The villa's training room was a steel and concrete cave, thick with the smells of sweat, gun oil, and the sharp metallic aftertaste of blood. Rain streamed down the tall windows, their iron bars casting dark cages onto the floor mirroring the tempest raging outside. Valeria Costa stood just beyond the threshold, her feet bare, the cold biting. Her tattered gown clung to her thighs, and Matteo's half-scalded letter was wrapped around her wrist, tied with the stolen knife.
Her heart thudded, each beat a hammer blow, but her green eyes remained calm, fixed on Matteo Santoro. He was shirtless, fists pounding the punching bag—each strike sharp and brutal, echoing like gunshots. Scar tissue rippled across his back. His silver cross jiggled against sweat-greased skin, catching the wan fluorescent light. His black hair clung to his face, and something in Valeria twisted an ache she would never grow used to.
She shouldn't be here. She should be scheming, running, employing the blade and the key to carve a way out. But the letter—Elena, I couldn't save you—burned through her mind like a brand, tethering Matteo to her mother's murder. Her fingers rose to caress the pearl earring at her throat. Elena's ghost seemed to whisper: Watch. Learn. Strike.
She'd slipped from her room unseen, dodging the guards, drawn by the rhythmic violence of the training room like a moth to flame. Matteo's raw, exposed fury had called to her more deeply than any of his locked doors.
His knuckles were bleeding now, pink lines against the leather. His breath came in harsh, ragged gasps, each one a secret unsaid. Valeria's chest tightened, breath shallow, fogging the cold air. She hated him—his pride, his obsession, the cage he'd gilded for her—but the man before her wasn't a jailer. He was a wound still bleeding. And some traitorous part of her wanted to reach out and touch it.
The rose tattoo beneath her arm throbbed, reminding her of the scars she bore. She stepped forward. The crunch of her heel on concrete announced her.
Matteo stilled, his hands curling into fists, shoulders squaring. He turned—gray eyes locking onto hers, piercing the shadows. Her dry mouth parted. She gripped the doorframe.
His chest heaved, sweat trickling over his scars. His lips parted, a word almost spoken.
"Sleep, principessa?" he rasped, voice raw, like a kiss laced with gravel. But his eyes were storms, full of truths she hadn't yet learned to read.
"You're bleeding," she said, voice trembling. She nodded toward his knuckles, stepping forward, her feet numbed by the cold, the knife's weight hidden at her thigh. "Punching bags don't fight back. Or are you training for me?"
Her chin lifted, defiance shielding the tremor in her hands. The image of him in the bathhouse burned through her thoughts.
His lips twitched—almost a smile—but his eyes remained unreadable. He reached for a towel, slowly wiping the blood from his hands with deliberate restraint.
"You want to fight?" he said, tossing the towel aside. His voice was low, taunting. "Let's see what you've got."
He strode to a metal table, picking up a pistol. The barrel gleamed like a promise.
"Ever held one?"
Valeria's heart kicked in her chest, but she didn't flinch.
"I'm a Costa," she said, voice like steel. "I was born with it in my hands."
A lie—but she'd watched her father's men, memorized their grip, their stances. Matteo stepped closer, cedar and sweat cutting through the scent of gun oil. He handed her the pistol. Their fingers touched. A spark leapt between them, sharp and unwelcome.
Her grip was too tight. Her hands shook. But she squared her shoulders. She wouldn't show weakness.
"Show me," he said softly, standing behind her, his chest brushing her back.
His hands moved over hers, adjusting her fingers, his breath warm at her ear.
"Breathe. Take aim. Don't think."
Her pulse thundered. Her body betrayed her, aching for what it shouldn't. His heat, the ridge of his scars, the letter in her wrist—they tangled inside her like a storm.
She raised the gun, sighting the target across the room. Her finger hovered on the trigger. But her thoughts were on him. On Elena. On the lies.
The door slammed open.
Rocco Santoro strode in, leather jacket creaking, hazel eyes gleaming with fury.
"Nico's gang hit another hideout," he growled, ignoring Valeria. "Left a message in blood: Bring back the bride, or Naples burns."
Matteo's hands clamped around hers, fingers unyielding. Valeria watched the ripple of emotion across his face—agony, fury, something deeper. He stepped back. His cross jingled softly. Silence fell like a guillotine.
She lowered the gun, heart galloping in her chest.
"They won't touch her," Matteo said flatly. His knuckles whitened. Fresh blood beaded on old wounds.
Rocco's jaw clenched. He glanced at Valeria, assessing her, then dismissing her.
"She's a liability," he muttered. "You're playing with fire. And we'll all burn."
Valeria's fingers brushed the gun. The key and knife nestled in her sleeve like prayers and poison. Her mind raced. Nico had once held a blade to her throat—but Matteo's secrets were a more dangerous noose.
"Get out," Matteo said. Final. Icy.
Rocco hesitated, boots scraping concrete, then left. The door slammed behind him like a shot.
Matteo turned to her. His gaze held hers. In that moment, she saw it—his mask cracking, the grief leaking through.
"You're not safe here," he murmured. "But you're not safe out there either."
"You think giving me a gun means I'm yours?" she snapped. Her voice sharp. Her hands trembled as she set the pistol down. "I'll never bend."
Her pearl earring caught the light. Elena.
She stepped back, her gown brushing the steel table, secrets burning against her skin—knife, key, letter.
Matteo's jaw clenched. His eyes darkened.
"I don't want you to break," he said, voice low, raw. "I want you to resist."
His fingers grazed hers—barely a touch—and her breath caught. Anger warred with something far worse: desire.
She stepped back and turned away, fleeing the room with her heart in her throat.
Back in her gilded cage, the barred windows mocked her, rain tracing tears down the glass. Valeria collapsed onto the bed, gown pooling around her. The half-burned letter trembled in her grip. Elena, I couldn't save you. The words singed her soul.
Matteo's scars. His grief. His touch.
They were puzzle pieces to a board she didn't yet understand.
Her rose tattoo hummed, a vow inked in blood. She tucked the letter beside the knife, her secrets gathering like dry tinder, waiting for the spark.
Outside, the rain lashed the windows. Valeria stared at the storm.
Matteo wasn't just her abductor. He was a key.
A lead.
And to her horror, part of her wanted to burn with him.