Chapter 3 - WHISPERS IN THE EAST WINGThe East Wing of the Moretti estate felt less like a home and more like a fortress within a fortress. High vaulted ceilings of dark oak, heavy velvet drapes that blocked out the raging winter storm outside,
"You don't have to lock your door at night," Matteo said, standing by the fireplace as he tossed a single piece of dry oak into the flames. "No one on this floor moves without my permission."
"And if you decide to walk through it?" Clara asked, leaning against the edge of the mahogany table, her arms crossed defensively over her chest.
Matteo turned slowly, the firelight casting sharp, dramatic shadows across his chiseled jawline and dark, intense eyes. A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. "If I wanted to walk through your door, Clara, I wouldn't need to knock. You would already be waiting."
Before Clara could think of a sharp retort, a low, rumbling thud echoed from the adjoining kennel doors. Bruno pushed his massive head through the gap, letting out a soft whine as he locked eyes with Clara. The terrifying beast looked like a loyal, gentle giant in her presence.
Matteo watched the interaction, his expression turning thoughtful. "In the three years I've owned him, Bruno has never allowed anyone to touch his left hind leg. The vets had to sedate him just to x-ray it last month. Yet, twenty minutes after meeting you, he let you massage it."
"Pain makes animals defensive," Clara said quietly, walking toward the kennel door to scratch behind Bruno's ears. "And humans, too. People expect aggression, so they project aggression. He just wanted someone to listen to what his body was telling them."
"And what is your body telling you right now?" Matteo asked, taking a slow, deliberate step toward her. The air between them grew suddenly heavy, thick with an unspoken, electric tension that made Clara's pulse race.
"It's telling me that working for a mafia boss is a very good way to get killed," she whispered, refusing to break eye contact.
Matteo stopped just inches away. He smelled of expensive cedarwood, cold winter air, and faint gun oil—a lethal combination. He reached out, his knuckles brushing lightly against her jawline, trailing down her neck with agonizing slowness. Clara’s breath caught in her throat.
"You survived six days of scrubbing floors, you stood your ground against Bianca Russo, and you tamed a 150-pound killer without blinking," Matteo murmured, his voice a low, rough velvet against her skin. "You aren't afraid of dying, Clara. You're afraid of finally feeling alive."
Before she could pull away or formulate a reply, the heavy exterior doors of the East Wing banged open. Shouting echoed down the corridor, followed by the unmistakable, terrifying sound of a cocking firearm.
Matteo’s entire demeanor shifted in a millisecond. The seductive, dangerous boss vanished, replaced instantly by the cold, ruthless syndicate leader. His hand dropped from Clara’s face, and he drew a sleek, silver-plated pistol from his shoulder holster with terrifying speed.
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"Stay in this room," Matteo ordered, his voice dropping into absolute ice. "If anyone opens that door who isn't me, you shoot them. Do you understand?"
Before Clara could answer, Matteo vanished into the hallway, pulling the heavy double doors shut behind him, leaving her alone with the howling wind and a growling dog.
