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Chapter 18: The Scent of Sulfur and Silk
The scent of lavender lingered in the air, but beneath it, something far more unsettling crept in — the unmistakable trace of gunpowder. Matteo's fingers tightened around the stem of his wine glass as his gaze lingered on the door, where her silhouette had disappeared just moments ago.
Alessia.
She had left the room in haste, cheeks flushed with frustration, eyes gleaming with something like betrayal. He knew she had overheard the whispered name: Giovanni Calvetti — a ghost from the underworld, someone Matteo had buried in more ways than one. But shadows, like memories, never truly stay buried.
He exhaled, setting down the glass before it could shatter in his grip.
Outside, the night air was colder than expected. Alessia stood at the edge of the balcony, her back turned to him, the silk of her dress fluttering lightly in the breeze. Matteo walked toward her, every step deliberate, measured. He wasn't used to explaining himself — not to shareholders, not to reporters, and certainly not to women. But Alessia wasn't just another actress playing a role. She was becoming something far more dangerous.
"I thought I told you to rest," he said softly.
She didn't turn. "And I thought you promised no more secrets."
He sighed. "Some secrets keep people alive."
"And others destroy them," she said, voice trembling. "Giovanni Calvetti. He was on the news last year. A bombing in Sicily. You knew him?"
"I did more than that," Matteo said, finally stepping beside her. "I ended him."
Her breath hitched.
But then she turned — and the fury in her hazel-blue eyes had given way to something else. Understanding? Or fear?
"Why?" she asked. "Why was his name brought up tonight?"
Matteo leaned on the stone rail beside her, eyes scanning the darkened horizon. "Because someone wants to make me believe he's not dead. Or worse — that his legacy is still breathing."
She was silent for a long moment. Then, almost inaudibly: "Does this have something to do with the threats you've been hiding from everyone?"
He looked at her. No more lies.
"Yes."
The admission was a crack in the glass barrier he'd kept around his world. And yet, with that one word, something fragile passed between them — trust, raw and imperfect.
"I need you to understand," he said. "This isn't just about business or revenge. It's about survival. For me. For the people who trust me. For you."
Alessia blinked, her lips parting slightly. "Me?"
"You're part of my world now, Alessia. Whether you like it or not."
She searched his face, then whispered, "Then let me help you."
He stared at her in disbelief. "Help me?"
She nodded, stepping closer. "I'm not a doll to be protected, Matteo. I've seen more than you think. Maybe not bombs or bullets, but I've survived another kind of war. This industry — this city — they chew people up. I learned to fight quietly."
Her voice shook with conviction. Matteo could see it now — the silent fire beneath her soft exterior. The steel hidden behind her innocence.
He placed a hand on her cheek. "You're not afraid of me."
"I was," she said honestly. "But now? I'm afraid of what will happen if you keep doing this alone."
The wind picked up, but neither moved. Somewhere in the city, a siren wailed — distant but echoing like a warning.
Just as he leaned in, his phone buzzed. A message.
He read it once. Then again. His jaw tightened.
"What is it?" Alessia asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Matteo's tone dropped to ice. "The studio warehouse. It's on fire."
She gasped.
But he was already turning, already moving.
"Stay here," he ordered.
"No."
"Alessia—"
"I'm not letting you go alone. Not after everything."
Their eyes locked in a silent battle — and in the end, Matteo only gave a frustrated sigh and handed her a jacket.
---
By the time they reached the warehouse, flames were already licking the night sky. Firefighters struggled to contain the blaze while security teams kept reporters at bay.
Matteo stepped out of the black SUV with a face of stone. Alessia followed, wrapped in his overcoat, eyes wide with horror as she took in the destruction.
"They said it was electrical," his security chief mumbled. "But… we both know that's bullshit."
Matteo's eyes narrowed. The fire was too precise, too focused — targeting only the vault room where the latest film reels were stored. Not a coincidence. A message.
He turned to Alessia. "Stay here. Don't move."
But she followed him anyway.
Inside, smoke choked the air and the scent of charred celluloid clung to everything. Matteo's eyes scanned the floor — and landed on the faintest symbol scorched into the ash-covered concrete.
A flame-shaped insignia.
It was unmistakable.
"Il Braccio Morto," he muttered.
"The Dead Arm?" Alessia translated behind him.
He didn't answer.
Because now it was clear — Giovanni's organization hadn't died. They'd gone underground, waiting, watching.
And now… they were back.
---
That night, back at the villa, neither of them could sleep.
Alessia sat by the window, hugging her knees as the city lights flickered below. Matteo stood nearby, phone to his ear, voice low and cold as he issued commands to his men.
"Double the security. No one moves without my word."
He ended the call and looked at her.
She didn't flinch.
"I should send you away," he said.
"But you won't."
"No."
She stood, crossed the room, and stood toe-to-toe with him.
"You need someone who sees the cracks you won't admit are there. Let me stay."
For the first time in a long time, Matteo felt… something shift inside him. Not weakness. Not fear.
Hope.
He placed a hand at the back of her neck, pulling her closer.
"You're dangerous, Alessia."
She smirked. "Good. So are you."
Their kiss wasn't soft. It was desperate, reckless, filled with fire and fury and the unspoken weight of everything threatening to collapse around them.
Outside, the moon rose.
And the war began again.
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End chapter 18