The clinking of cutlery echoed gently in the vast, gold trimmed dining hall. Angela sat across from Matteo, pushing food around her plate more than she actually ate it. He, however, dined with the ease of a man who was never caught off guard, even after an assassination attempt. The warmth of the candlelight flickered against his sharp jaw, casting shadows that made him look both divine and deadly.
He watched her. Quiet. Intense.
Her hands trembled, but she masked it by reaching for her wine glass. She sipped, slowly, but her mouth was dry.
"Eat," he said softly. Not an order. Not quite a suggestion either.
"I'm not that hungry," she whispered.
"You need strength. In case there's another attempt."
She looked up, meeting his gaze. Cold and unreadable. Matteo De Luca was a man who calculated every breath, every glance. Even now, after sharing a meal and surviving a near death experience together, she couldn't read him. That terrified her more than anything.
After a long silence, he stood and tucked his chair back. "Stay here. I'll return."
Angela nodded, watching him disappear beyond the ornate doors, her stomach twisting with every step he took away.
In the weapons chamber, Matteo stood before a long, polished table. Several of his men circled around it. On it, a set of bloodied bodies lay in rows—covered partially, faces exposed.
"You identified them?" Matteo asked.
His right hand man nodded grimly. "Two of them carried the insignia of Don Marcello's guards."
Matteo's brow twitched.
Don Marcello was an ally.
"Are you sure?"
"We triple checked. One of them had Marcello's ring. Another had his crest burned into his belt."
Matteo's jaw clenched. "Then he's no longer an ally."
Silence stretched across the room like a blade.
"He sent men into my home. Against my wife. Against me."
He turned away from the table, his voice low, laced with steel. "Send the bodies back to Marcello. Let him see what loyalty gets him. Return them stripped, burned, and marked."
One of his men raised an eyebrow. "Marked how?"
"Carve the word Traditore into their chests. Deep. So deep even hell can read it."
The order was clear. Unforgiving.
Matteo turned on his heel and stormed out of the room.
Back inside the villa, the balcony doors were cracked open. A cool breeze blew in, tousling Angela's hair as she leaned against the marble railing.
She hadn't touched her food. She couldn't.
Her thoughts were tangled in Matteo's words—"I'll make them bleed for it… inch by inch… I want to hear them scream."
He hadn't been bluffing.
Her hands trembled again, this time without wine to hide them. Her chest tightened.
She was that spy. The one he was hunting.
And when—not if—he found out, there would be no mercy. No last words. Just pain.
Her phone buzzed inside the silk pocket of her robe.
The screen lit up. No name.
Lorenzo.
Her stomach dropped.
She hesitated, every part of her screaming not to answer. But she knew better than to ignore him. She always paid for that.
She pressed the phone to her ear. "Hello—"
"Che diavolo stai facendo, Angela?!" Lorenzo's voice roared in Italian. (What the hell are you doing?!)
She flinched. "I—I don't understand what you mean…"
"Non mentire a me! Lo stai vendendo a lui, vero?!" (Don't lie to me! You're selling me out to him, aren't you?! )
"I don't even understand what you're talking about" she gasped, panicked.
A beat of silence. Then Lorenzo's voice returned, colder. "You forget your place."
Angela swallowed hard.
"This marriage? It's a game. That's all it is. You're a pawn, and pawns don't grow feelings. They obey. Diligently. You hear me?"
Her voice caught. "Yes."
"Good. Because if you mess this up, you'll lose more than just his trust. You'll lose everything."
And then he hung up.
Angela stared at her phone, her hands trembling harder now. Her skin had gone pale. The line between fear and guilt blurred into a thick fog.
She was trapped.
The man she feared had just threatened her. And the man she was married to would kill her if he found out.
She was well and truly fucked.
She turned around to go back inside—
And froze.
Matteo stood just beyond the doorway, one hand casually tucked into his pocket. His expression unreadable. His presence—suffocating.
He had heard enough. Or maybe nothing. That was the thing with Matteo. You never knew what he saw. What he knew. What he suspected.
Angela's throat dried. Her heart skipped several beats in panic.
He didn't move. Didn't blink.
"Matteo…" she breathed.
He said nothing. Just stared. A slow exhale left his lips, smoke curling around him like a warning.
She was dead.