Chapter 2 The Cold Throne

Matteo Loki didn't believe in forgiveness.

Not for betrayal. Not for theft. And certainly not for Porsche Wolff, the woman who had slipped from his bed with his mother's necklace draped around her throat, smiling as though it had belonged to her all along.

The necklace wasn't just gold and diamonds. It was the last relic of his mother, a woman whose ghost still lingered in the halls of his mansion, in the lullabies Marta asked him to sing, in the soft scent of lavender that sometimes haunted his dreams. Porsche had stolen more than jewelry, she had stolen blood.

And for that, she would pay.

He stood at the edge of his office window, Bellmere stretched before him like a glittering beast, restless and hungry. Neon lights bled into the night, blinking against the gray wash of clouds. Beneath, the streets pulsed with noise, sirens screaming, engines roaring, the constant thrum of a city that never slept.

Inside, silence ruled. His office was carved from shadow and steel: glass desk, leather chairs, a half-finished glass of whiskey glinting amber on the table. Matteo adjusted his cuffs, the silk brushing over his wrist tattoo, a serpent devouring itself.

Endless. Like vengeance.

"Boss," Marco's voice cut into the stillness. His right-hand man stepped in, dark suit pressed, earpiece glinting. "The men have her."

Matteo didn't move. "Alive?"

"Yes.

"And the necklace?"

Marco hesitated. Just enough to make Matteo's jaw tighten.

"She didn't have it on her."

Of course she didn't. Porsche was bold, not stupid. She would have stashed it the moment she left his bed. He could still see her face that night, eyes lined in smoke, lips painted blood, laughter dripping poison. She had kissed him once more, soft as silk, before slipping into the dark.

He had hunted thieves before. They always bled the same in the end.

"Bring her to me.. I can't afford to lose that," Matteo said, voice like iron.

Marco gave a sharp nod and left.

Matteo poured the rest of the whiskey into his glass, but the taste turned sour on his tongue. He set it down untouched. Tonight wasn't about indulgence. Tonight was about corrections. Order. Retribution.

And Porsche Wolff was going to learn what happened to women who thought they could touch what belonged to him.

-

They shoved me out of the car, my knees nearly buckling against the polished stone steps of the estate. The mansion loomed over me, its cold and unforgiving presence felt in every shadow, with its tall windows gazing down like vigilant sentinels. All aspects of it hinted at peril.

Two men held my arms tightly, pulling me through a seemingly infinite series of hallways. The air carried a subtle scent of smoke and leather, thick and stifling. Each door we walked by was firmly shut, concealing mysteries I wasn't certain I wanted to uncover.When they finally pushed me into a room, the door slammed shut, sealing me inside.

The room was colder than I imagined a mansion could be. The marble floor bit into the soles of my bare feet, leeching away the last of my warmth. A chandelier glittered overhead, but its light didn't feel welcoming. It was sharp, cruel, as though it judged me for simply existing here.

My wrists ached from the ropes, the skin rubbed raw from struggling. They had dragged me here like a criminal, like a thief. Fear coiled in my stomach, tightening until I could barely breathe. And then, I felt him.

He stepped into the light.

Tall. Broad. Unstoppable. Power clung to him, wrapped around him like a second skin. The tailored suit fit his frame like armor, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. But it was his eyes that froze me, dark, piercing, unyielding. They weren't looking at me. They were looking *through* me, as though I was already guilty.

"Where is it?"

His voice was gravel, harsh and commanding, like it had been forged in fire.

My lips trembled as I forced words out. "I... I don't know what you're talking about." My throat was dry, my voice fragile, but I tried to hold my chin high. "I only just arrived in this city. You've made a mistake."

The corner of his mouth shifted, not with humor, but with fury. His anger vibrated in the air between us, restrained but suffocating.

"You stole from me." He moved closer, each step tightening the noose of fear around my chest. "My men saw your face. My bed still carries the scent of your perfume. And now..." his eyes narrowed, "you dare to play innocent?"

Perfume. Bed. The words struck me like blows. My heart hammered so hard I thought it would tear free. I wanted to scream that I'd never seen him before tonight, that he was wrong, that it wasn't me. But he didn't see me. He saw someone else. A thief. A ghost with my face.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move.

His hand slammed against the table beside me, the crack of impact echoing like thunder in the hollow chamber. I jumped, tears stinging my eyes before I could stop them. He saw the tears, but he didn't see innocence,he saw guilt.

"Very well." His voice dropped lower, softer, but more dangerous than any shout. "If you won't return what you stole, then you'll pay in another way."

My stomach turned to ice.

Then his words cut deeper. "Do you know what that necklace meant? It was my mother's. The last thing she left in this world. And now you play dumb, as though you don't know where it is?" His eyes burned with fury, sharp enough to slice me open. "This new behavior of yoursthis little act of innocence, will get you killed if you don't give it back."

The necklace? My mind spun. I had no necklace. I had nothing. But how could I make him believe me when his conviction was unshakable?

The air thickened as he reached for me. Panic clawed at my chest, every muscle screaming to run, to fight, to escape, but the ropes held me fast. I was trapped.

He leaned closer, his breath brushing against my ear. Heat radiated from him, but all I felt was cold.

"Tonight," he whispered, his voice a blade against my skin, "you learn what it costs to cross me."

---