Chapter 3 The Dinner Before Death

POV: Fiore

This place was colder than the rest of the house.

Not in temperature. No. In temperature, it was warm, controlled and perfect.

But the air? I mean, the atmosphere had a weight.

The kind of fear that settles in your ribs before your brain even catches on.

Like your body knows something's about to go wrong, but it won't say what.....

That!

A soldier led me in without a word. No eye contact, nothing at all. Just opened the door, pointed at the chair, and walked out like he wanted no part of whatever came next.

Then it was just me and silence.

I cursed under my breath.

The table was glass. Long. Clean. Empty except for one plate. One glass. One knife.

Just one.

Mine.

There was no second setting.

So this was dinner. I thought it was supposed to be with their Don.

Well, I sat. I didn't fidget. I didn't cross my legs like a lady. I let them rest wide, and grounded, like I belonged in the room. Wherever my guts were coming from, I bet I thank the gods.

Houses like this don't need ghosts. They've got cold. And cold eats your insides unless you've got guts to burn.

Tick...

tick...

The goddamn clock was louder than my own thoughts. Even my own heart pounded like it was trying to get out of my fucking body.

I didn't count the time, just felt it rot.

Then, just then...I heard him.

Not footsteps. Not breathing. None.

The shift.

In the atmosphere.

You know when the predator enters the clearing?

That.

Normal people enter a room. But him?

He arrives. Just as he had arrived now.

Don Matteo D'Angelo.

He wore black. Of course. Clean lines, nothing flashy. The collar of his shirt opened just enough to show skin that wasn't soft. Not bodybuilder muscle but the kind of strength that doesn't need gym mirrors. He moved like a knife being sheathed.

I shivered. Didn't even notice it at first it just happened.

He walked... with no word.

Just stood there, staring like he expected me to say something first.

And I felt it. Something related to the bar he'd raised all his life.

The question in his eyes wasn't who are you?

It was: what are you worth, and how fast will you die?

He didn't take the seat at the head of the table.

He took the one beside it.

That told me more than if he'd spoken.

I waited. Let the silence grow legs.

Four minutes passed. Then five. Then eight.

Then I leaned forward, elbows on the glass. I swallow the lumps that had formed in my throat.

"So, am I supposed to curtsy or confess?"

He didn't blink.

I smiled. You know the kind of smile you give out to conceal your fear? "It's hard to know the etiquette when you're summoned by a man whose men frisked me like I was smuggling nuclear secrets in my panties."

Nothing.

Alright, I'll bite.

"Don D'Angelo," I said, voice dipped in velvet and razor, "it's so nice to finally meet the man they all pretend not to piss themselves in front of."

Except me.

Who am I kidding? I'm literally pissing in my panties.

He finally moved just the smallest tilt of his head, like something about that amused him. A little. Maybe.

But his voice, when it came, fucking ice. So damn cold.

Not the kind that tries to scare you...it didn't need to. It was... calm, really quiet, but there was something about it... something that made my stomach clench.

It was deep, he picked his words like he had all the time in the world. Like he'd seen everything already, and nothing surprised him anymore, not even me.

"You have a mouth on you," he said.

Not a question. Not even surprise. Just... observation. Like he'd already undressed my soul and found it uninteresting.

I swear, the sound alone made my knees flirt with betrayal. There was no accent... well, none that stood out but the way he dragged the syllables, smooth and gosh! Fucking controlled! It made it feel like a threat that was dressed as a lullaby.

He didn't need to shout. He was the storm. The eye of it, the silence before something gets torn to pieces.

And I hated how my body reacted. Like it hadn't been warned enough. Like it wanted more.

Get it together, I told myself.

But even my own voice felt too loud after his.

I leaned back trying to speak like he didn't just have effect on me.

"I never do with men who could snap my spine with a word."

"Then why speak like you're trying to die?"

I let that hang in the air for a moment.

Then I smiled wider. "Because if you wanted me dead, I wouldn't have made it past the gate. Which means you're either curious... or bored."

His jaw ticked. Subtle.

I was getting somewhere.

He didn't ask if I wanted to eat. He gestured, once, and a man in gloves brought a plate. Veal, rare. Truffle cream. Broccolini laid out like it was placed by God Himself.

I glanced at the plate. Then at him.

"Do I eat first to prove it's not poisoned? Or do you?"

Their Don Matteo didn't answer. He just picked up the knife. Cut a piece of meat. Ate.

I nodded. "Romantic."

He poured himself a wine. Deep red. I noticed there was only one glass.

He didn't offer to share.

Instead, he set the bottle down, poured half a glass I thought was for himself for me, and pushed it across the table with two fingers. Not looking at me. Like he was moving a weapon. And then, I saw those neatly cut nails!

Gosh!

Well, I didn't drink it.

He noticed. Of course he did.

But he didn't comment.

I picked up my fork. I took a bite. Then swallowed. "Decent."

That got a flicker of something in his eye.

We sat in that heavy silence. Until he finally asked:

"Do you know why you're here?"

I looked at him. "Why does every man who's ever asked me that think I don't?"

He didn't respond. He let the silence hang until it stretched thin.

Then, "So for?"

"To keep me from being used as a political bride. To silence a ghost. To put a leash on something your Family couldn't kill in a headline."

"No."

"Ok then. To entertain you in your boring house." I said, rolling my eyes.

"You're here," he said, "because they're not sure whether to hide you... or let you rot in the light."

I sat back. "Poetic."

"Practical."

"And you? Which are you voting for?"

Matteo held my gaze. "I don't vote."

"You just pull the trigger."

Finally, finally a shift.

Not in him.

In the air.

The whole room turned colder. Like the walls heard something forbidden.

He didn't answer the line.

Didn't need to.

Because we both knew it was true.

Another pause.

Then I pushed the plate forward, tapped one fingernail on the stem of the wine glass. "I'm starting to think this is less dinner and more vetting."

He didn't move. But something in him locked tighter.

I tilted my head. "You like obedience?"

"Silence!"

"Whoops! Then you should've picked a corpse."

He stood.

Just like that.

Not too fast. Not even sudden.

Just rose, like he'd already had enough.

But he didn't leave.

He walked around the table. Stopped behind me.

And for a second, just one, I felt the breath between us shift.

I turned my head slightly.

He didn't touch me.

He just said: "There's a bracelet in your room."

"I know."

"Wear it. Or don't."

"What does it mean?"

He leaned closer just a breath from my neck and whispered:

"It means..."

"Death."