Chapter 3: Fractured Marble

The estate feels like a tomb wrapped in luxury. I wander its marble halls that same night, bare feet silent against floors still carrying the faint metallic tang of blood. Every corner seems designed to remind me I'm trapped—high ceilings that swallow sound, shadowed corridors that could hide a dozen threats.

My fingers trail along a console table, brushing a vase that probably costs more than my old apartment. The bandage on my arm pulls with each movement, a dull throb that matches the ache between my legs. Matteo's touch lingers everywhere, even when he's not in the room.

I shouldn't be thinking about how his mouth felt on me while bullets flew. Instead I trace the scar on my wrist, the raised line a map to memories I'd rather forget. A car accident at sixteen, or so my father claimed. Now I wonder what else he lied about.

The library door stands ajar at the end of the east wing. I push inside, drawn by the scent of old paper and leather. Floor-to-ceiling shelves tower over me, but it's the massive oak desk that snags my attention. My hidden sketchbook sits dead center on the blotter. The one I thought was still tucked behind my childhood headboard at the old house.

My stomach drops like I've missed a step on stairs. I snatch it up, flipping through pages with shaking hands. Violent scenes stare back—knives slicing through silk, bodies tangled in ways that blur pain and pleasure. My secret shame. Someone's been through every page. A faint thumbprint mars the corner of one drawing, too large to be mine.

Matteo. Of course it's him. The violation burns hotter than any bruise he left on my thighs. He didn't just watch me for years. He reached into my life and plucked out the pieces I kept hidden even from myself.

"Looking for something?"

His voice slides over me from the doorway, low and controlled. I slam the sketchbook shut but don't turn around. My pulse hammers in my throat, a mix of fury and that traitorous heat pooling low in my belly.

"You had no right." The words scrape out. I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood.

Matteo crosses the room in that predatory way of his, stopping close enough that his body heat seeps through my thin black robe. His scarred knuckles brush my hip as he reaches past me to close the book. "Everything about you is my right now, Simone. Those drawings... they're beautiful. Violent. Like you."

I whirl on him, chest heaving. His ice-grey eyes hold mine without flinching. For a second I see something crack in them—raw hunger edged with what might be uncertainty. Then it's gone.

"Don't pretend this is romance," I whisper. "You stole my future. My art. My father's life. Now you steal my secrets too?"

His hand cups the nape of my neck, thumb pressing just hard enough to remind me of his strength. "I saved you from a future that would've gotten you killed. Your scholarship would've put you in rival territory. Alone. Vulnerable." His breath ghosts my ear. "I won't apologize for keeping what's mine safe."

I should push him away. Instead my body leans in, traitorous and aching. The marble floor feels colder under my feet, grounding me in this nightmare I can't wake from.

---

The city penthouse overlooks Chicago's glittering skyline, all glass and steel and cold modern edges. Matteo brought me here after we left the estate, claiming we needed to show face at one of his underground clubs. The club had been a blur of pulsing lights and watchful eyes—his hand never leaving the small of my back, his body a constant shield against the crowd.

Now we're alone. The jealousy that simmered in him all night boils over the second the door closes. Some asshole at the club had stared too long at my legs. Matteo's eyes had gone feral.

He doesn't speak as he backs me against the floor-to-ceiling window. The city lights sprawl twenty stories below, making my stomach flip. His hands are rough, yanking the pins from my hair until honey-blonde waves tumble down my back.

"They all want what belongs to me," he growls, voice rougher than I've ever heard it. His mouth crashes down on mine, all teeth and demand. I taste the whiskey he drank earlier, feel the tremor in his scarred hands as they grip my hips.

I should fight this. My mind screams that I hate him, that this is the man who ordered my father's death. But my body arches into him anyway, fingers digging into his shirt, pulling him closer. The glass chills my spine through my dress while heat builds everywhere he touches. His jealousy shouldn't turn me on. It shouldn't make me wet.

But it does. God help me, it does.

Matteo spins me around, pressing my palms flat against the window. The city twinkles beneath us like stars fallen to earth. He yanks my dress up around my waist, the silk bunching obscenely. Cool air hits my bare ass as he rips my panties aside.

"Look at them," he says against my neck, teeth grazing the skin there. One hand slides between my legs, fingers finding me slick and ready. "None of them get this. Only me."

Two fingers thrust inside me without warning. I gasp, forehead pressing to the glass. The stretch burns so good it makes my knees buckle. His other hand wraps around my throat, not squeezing, just holding. Possessing.

"Say it, Simone." His voice fractures on my name, that first real crack in his armor. "Tell me who you belong to."

I bite back the words at first, shame burning in my throat. My father's killer. The man who ruined everything. But his fingers curl inside me, hitting that spot that makes white spots dance in my vision. My hips rock against his hand desperately. The vulnerability of being exposed like this, twenty stories up with the whole city potentially watching, sends a shameful thrill through me.

"You," I finally choke out. "I belong to you, Matteo."

He rewards me by freeing himself, thick and hot against my entrance. In one brutal thrust he's buried to the hilt. We both groan. The sound of our bodies meeting fills the penthouse—wet, obscene, perfect.

He fucks me like he's trying to erase every other man who's ever looked at me. Hard. Deep. Possessive. His hand slips from my throat to my breast, pinching my nipple through the dress until I cry out. Every stroke drags me closer to the edge, my body clenching around him like it was made for this.

I hate how much I need this. Hate the way tears prick my eyes even as pleasure coils tighter. My mind fractures between the man who destroyed my family and the one whose touch makes me feel terrifyingly alive.

When I come, it's with his name on my lips and tears tracking down my cheeks. My walls flutter around him, pulling him deeper. He follows seconds later, spilling inside me with a guttural sound that sounds almost pained. His arms wrap around me as we both shudder, holding me like I might disappear.

For a long moment after, he doesn't pull out. Just stays buried in me, arms tight around my waist, face pressed to my neck. His heart hammers against my back. The tenderness lingers, unexpected and terrifying.

"Simone..." he starts, voice hoarse. Something in his tone makes my chest tighten. Like he's about to say something that could change everything. But he stops. His arms loosen. The moment fractures.

He steps back, tucking himself away with mechanical precision. The loss of him inside me leaves me hollow. I turn, legs shaky, and watch him light that ritual cigarette he never smokes. The flame illuminates his sharp cheekbones, the tension in his jaw.

Whatever he almost confessed dies between us. The silence stretches, heavy with all the things we can't—or won't—say.

---

Back at the estate, sleep won't come. Matteo left for some late meeting, his side of the bed cold. I slip downstairs in nothing but one of his black shirts, the fabric hitting mid-thigh and carrying his scent. The marble chills my feet as I head toward the kitchen for water.

A shadow detaches from the hallway. Luca. His stocky frame blocks my path, silver lighter clicking in his hand. The nervous laugh that escapes him raises the hairs on my arms.

"Can't sleep, princess?" His Chicago accent thickens with something ugly. "Wonder why that might be. All that fucking your father's killer must wear a girl out."

I freeze, heart slamming against my ribs. His eyes rake over me, lingering on my bare legs. The resentment there feels personal, dangerous.

"Move, Luca." My voice stays steady even as fear coils in my gut. I trace my wrist scar without thinking, the old habit grounding me.

He doesn't. Instead he steps closer, lighter snapping open and shut. "You know Matteo gave the order, right? I was there when your old man begged. Offered up all kinds of secrets to save his sorry ass."

The words hit like bullets. My mother's hints click into sharper focus. The grave offenses. The blood debt. My knees threaten to buckle but I lock them, staring Luca down even as nausea rises in my throat.

"Why are you telling me this?" The question comes out whisper-thin. Inside, something fractures further. The man who owns my body, who just fucked me against a window like I was his salvation, ordered my father's execution. And this volatile asshole carried it out.

Luca's laugh turns bitter. "Because you're a distraction. Boss is losing his edge over that pussy of yours. And if you think spreading your legs will save your brother or your mother, you're dumber than your old man was."

His hand shoots out, gripping my wrist—the scarred one. Pain flares. For a second I see the real violence in him, the recklessness Matteo keeps chained.

Then he's gone, melting back into the shadows with one last click of his lighter. I sag against the wall, breath coming in short gasps. The marble feels like ice against my back.

I trace the scar again and again, the raised tissue familiar under my fingertip. My father's killer. My husband. The lines blur until I can't tell where hate ends and this sick craving begins.

Part of me wants Matteo to destroy me completely. To fuck me until nothing else matters. The admission tastes like ash and honey on my tongue.

I slip back upstairs, body still humming from the penthouse, mind reeling from Luca's words. The master suite feels too big, too empty. Matteo's antique knife collection gleams from a locked case on his dresser—blades I'd missed before. The one with my initials sits separate, almost reverent.

I pick it up, testing its weight. Beautiful. Deadly. Like him.

The sound of his voice drifts from the study down the hall. Low. Urgent. I creep closer, knife still in my hand, bare feet silent on the marble.

The door stands cracked. Matteo paces inside, phone pressed to his ear. His shirt hangs open, revealing the hard planes of his chest still marked with faint scratches from my nails earlier.

"The boy can never know the truth about his real father," he says, voice tight with something I've never heard from him before. "If that secret gets out, Simone will never forgive me."

The words slam into me. The knife slips from my fingers, clattering against the marble. Matteo's head snaps toward the door, ice-grey eyes meeting mine through the crack.

His face goes carefully blank, but too late. The fracture I'd glimpsed earlier widens into something vast and terrifying between us.

Tommy. My little brother. Not my father's son?

The floor tilts beneath me as the full weight of inherited sins crashes down. Matteo takes a step toward the door, mouth opening like he might finally tell me the truth.

I turn and run before he can, heart shattering with every step.