There was a kind of hush that only came before chaos. Amara felt it in her bones as she followed Matteo through the dim corridors of the Bellavita estate — a palace carved from stone and secrets. His gait was measured, almost too calm, the way priests walk before a sacrifice.
The villa seemed older from the inside. Less opulent, more ancestral. Vaulted ceilings veined with age. Tapestries whispering in forgotten dialects. A fresco overhead showed angels turning their backs as devils drank wine. She suspected it had been commissioned by his grandfather — the infamous Don Ernesto, known as "Il Corvo" — The Raven. He had believed in omens. And curses.
"Is this where you bring all your guests?" Amara asked, voice casual.
"Only the important ones," Matteo replied, unlocking a heavy door with a key that looked older than either of them.
The room was cool, underground, lit only by a line of candles down a long table. Not a wine cellar, but something older. A vault. A sanctum.
And in the center of the room, laid out like a saint waiting for resurrection, was a gun.
Not just any gun.
A Beretta 92FS, polished obsidian black, with a grip wrapped in deep crimson velvet.
She paused.
"That's not just for decoration, I take it."
"It's a family heirloom," Matteo said, brushing a speck of dust from it with surprising reverence. "First used by my uncle to shoot a priest. Don't worry. The priest deserved it."
Amara arched an eyebrow. "How very Catholic of you."
He laughed, low and sudden. "He was laundering for the Russians. Bless me, Father."
She approached the table and ran a finger across the velvet handle. It was colder than she expected.
"I didn't bring you here to intimidate you," Matteo said, his tone shifting.
"No?" she murmured.
"I brought you here to offer a choice."
Now she looked up. "A choice, or an ultimatum?"
He stepped closer again. Always closer.
"I know your family," he said. "The Diri-Owei. I know what blood built them. I know you've been trained since you were nine to read lies, dismantle threats, and charm snakes. I know you ran Havana like a ghost for three years and left without a single loose end."
She said nothing. He went on.
"You're not here to marry me. Not unless you choose it. You're not here to spy for your people. They already have ears in my kitchens."
Amara smiled slightly. He noticed.
"You're here," he said softly, "because something's coming. A war, bella. And when it arrives, the only ones left standing will be those with teeth made of gold and guns stitched into silk."
"And you think I'm one of them."
"I know you are."
The silence stretched again. Thicker now. Less velvet, more steel.
Amara picked up the gun, holding it with casual precision. "This is a ridiculous way to flirt."
"This isn't flirting," Matteo said, voice low. "This is foreplay."
A faint noise outside the chamber — quick footsteps, hushed voices. Matteo tensed. His head turned slightly, and for the first time, Amara saw the exact cut of his paranoia. It lived just beneath the skin, ready to strike.
"They're here early," he muttered.
"Who?" she asked.
"The Castagnas. Old enemies with new money. They're not supposed to be in this country. Which means someone tipped them off."
He opened a concealed drawer behind the tapestry and pulled out a second gun — silver, more modern. Tossed it to her like a trust fall.
She caught it with one hand. Checked the mag. Fully loaded. She almost smiled.
"Test already?"
"No," Matteo said, slipping his black jacket back on, eyes like war now. "This is dinner".