Matteo sat on the black leather couch, one hand resting on the armrest, the other had his fingers curled around a cigar. The smoke wafted the room like a warning.
His jaw clenched as he stared, eyes dark and lethal.
The silence was heavily broken by the ticking clock and the quiet echo of his rage.
He exhaled slowly, thin smoke spilling from his lips like a whispered curse.
His eyes fixed on the painting of a child standing alone in the shadows of an abandoned alley. It hung on the wall across from him, framed in black.
Matteo's gaze pierced through it, unfaltering, like he was staring at a memory. A memory that beared his face.
The longer he looked, the more his eyes darkened, hateful, dangerous. It wasn't just a painting. It was a wound, a scar drawn in oil and canvas. A reminder of the boy given away to the world... and the man it now gives back.
He was eight. Drenched in dirt and hunger. Small hands wrapped around his bruised knees, bare feet numbed from the cold ground. Torn, reeking clothes clung to his body like a shroud.
He hadn't cried in days, not since he fled from home.
Not since his mother's breaking and desperate voice had screamed for him to run.
He remembered her body sprawled bare on the kitchen's floor, her blood pooling her, spreading slowly beneath her.
He had stood still, frozen and shocked, too young to make sense of it, to help.
The sound of heavy boots and gunshots shook him, but his eyes still locked on his mother's, begging him to run.
His legs moved, slowly at first, watching his mother, tears framing his eyes.
Then he ran, barefoot on the cold floor, with only his nightwear on his back. Because even at eight, Matteo knew that he had to survive.
He remembered the hunger more than anything. The hate that gnawed at his ribs.
Hate for the man that abandoned them.
Hate for the men who killed his mother.
Hate for the world that walked past him like they didn't see him, starving and cold.
A tall dark man with a huge cigar in his finger crouched beside him in the dark alley. His face hidden in the shadows beneath a black hat, but his deep voice cut through the silence, low and sharp.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, void of sympathy.
The little boy nodded slowly, lazy, like there was no bone left in his body.
"What is your name?" The man asked, taking a slow drag of his cigar.
He didn't answer right away, he hesitated, his voice caught between fear and a memory he was now losing. He hadn't heard his name in days, the loud voice of his mother calling for him.
"Lu... Luca. Luca" he finally spoke, repeating the name like he needed to remind himself. His body still trembling with cold, fear and hunger that made his stomach ache.
The man leaned in, close enough for the boy to inhale the smoke that coiled around him.
"I will satisfy your hunger... with power and a name that will answer itself."
The words felt too heavy for him to understand, but when the man stood up, eyes as cold as death, and walked away.
He hesitated only for a second before following the shadow moving against the alley's broken light.
A knock sounded at the door, sharp and quick. Matteo didn't move. He took another drag of the cigar, his eyes narrowed, fist clenching.
The door creaked open, and Nico Santos walked in, tall, built and as cold as the steel he heard behind his back.
Nico was Matteo's right hand and childhood friend, the one person Matteo trusted other than himself. He moved with silence like a dangerous predator.
Nico's loyalty to Matteo was unquestionable, a perfect complement to Matteo's volatile nature.
Aside from being his right hand man, he was a friend, one who had seen firsthand when Matteo walked into the room that evening, with tattered clothes and hair caked with dirt and cold.
Nico took a few steps into the room, his boots heavy against the floor.
"We found him," he said, the only word that had reached the walls for hours.
Matteo didn't reply, he let the silence between them stretch. Nico studied him for a moment, he knew.
Matteo wasn't in the mood for a conversation.
Nico settled on the space beside him, he lit a cigarette, the flame illuminating the scar that ran from his mouth to his jaw.
They both sat silently, inhaling and exhaling deeply, drowning in memories they didn't create.
~~
Anastasia sat in the room, her back pressed on the headboard. She stared into the air, the silence around her suffocating. She had been locked up too many damn times to care, but this time she had nothing left.
Back at home she would drown herself with books and try different makeup looks. And, when Peach came into her life, they would play Catch.
Now her fingers itched to reach for something, but there was none. The air was oppressive, thick and heavy with the weight of her thoughts.
She wasn't sure how long she had been there and how many nights she had counted, but the number of times Raquel brought her food proved she had been there for days.
Her eyes moved to the blue floral-patterned dress lying on the sofa on the left side of the room.
Raquel had brought it for her, but Matteo's black shirt complimented her emotions, it signified her reality and she wanted to keep it so.
The lock opened and Raquel strolled in, her steps measured. She didn't come with any food.
Anastasia's gaze flickered, weary and curious why she had come without food like she usually did. It immediately raised her suspicion.
She had no idea what was going on, but she hoped it was a helpline. Maybe Raquel finally decided to help her escape this cage. Maybe she had taken pity on her and grown some balls to help her.
She jumped out of bed, her appearance now more pitiful than when Raquel had brought her breakfast that morning.
"Come with me," Raquel said, giving her a nod, gesturing to her to follow.
Anastasia did, eager with anticipation, hoping her thoughts were defined. Raquel led out the hallway, towards the living room.
She stopped in front of the first room on the left and held the doorknob open. She turned to look at Anastasia, gesturing to her to go in.
Anastasia hesitated, she stood still without uttering a word.
"The Boss's orders. Please don't make it harder than it already is for you."
Anastasia's stomach churned at the mention of Matteo and the faded hope that she was finally fleeing from his claws.
Her legs moved, carrying her slowly into the room, heavy with dread.
Raquel gave a quick dismissive glance before shutting the door behind her.
The air in the room was different, the familiar scent of expensive perfumes lingered in the air.
"Welcome señora," a tall woman with sharp features greeted her, walking towards her and then leading her further into the room.
A young polite guy stood in front of the vanity, his movement poised and precise. The mirror beside him was cluttered with makeup, powders, brushes and cosmetics, neatly arranged.
Clothes hung with precision on racks around the four walls. Dresses, skirts, tops, each more extravagant than the last. The fabrics sparkling under the soft glowing lights.
Shoes lined up perfectly in the brightly lit revolving shelves. Beside them, matching designer bags, purses in different shapes and sizes, in vibrant and dark colors.
Anastasia didn't ask any questions, she didn't bulge at the sight before her. Though a fearful anticipation tickled her, she was curious about what Matteo's next move was.
The stylists set to work, fixing Anastasia's hair into a sleek updo bun, the thick strands pulled back and neatly knotted.
She sat still, watching someone else do her makeup for the first time. The feel of the delicate brush stroking her skin comforted her strangely, like she was back home.
When they were done, Anastasia stood in front of the full-length mirror. Her skin was flawless, her eyes bold with smoky eyeshadow, lips coated with a rich red lipstick.
Her body was framed in a long black dress with delicate straps that fell below her shoulders and a neckline that curved down to the skin in between her breasts. Her ears and wrist were adorned with bold gold jewelry.
She was just as beautiful as she remembered. But unrecognizable from the woman she saw in the mirror a while ago.
The dark circles, swollen eyes from crying, bruised skin, were now all concealed.
One of Matteo's men walked
"Madam, the boss is waiting, we're running late for the event," he said, referring to Anastasia.
It dawned on her, what all of it was for. Her stomach tightened at the realization she was accompanying him to an event tonight.
Events were something Matteo handled on his own or with one of his numerous glamorous escorts, but now he wanted her by his side.
The weight of the thought that he was now making her a part of his image, his name, his reputation, sank like a rock in her chest.
It was a declaration, a symbol of his power and control over her.
He was presenting her to the world, like a trophy, an extension of his power, a wife on paper. It made her insides boil with contempt.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror. The perfect image of the woman he wanted to project, untouchable, elegant and poised.
Anastasia's hands clenched tightly around the clutch purse she was holding. She couldn't let him put her on a display stand like a product for auction.