CHAPTER 8
Amara’s POV
The two men stared each other down and
my heart drummed against my chest, torn between fear and an odd sense of safety
from Matteo.
Luca’s hand fell away from my wrist, but his eyes never left mine. “This isn’t over,” he muttered before stepping back and disappearing as he turned to a corner.
Then Matteo turned to me, his eyes. softening despite his rigid face. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, though my hands were still trembling. “I – I think so.”
He studied me for a moment before
reaching out with a gentle touch as he brushed a stray tear from my cheek. It surprised me that Matteo Vitale could be this gentle, even though our relationship was only a business deal to take down
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Luca, a mutual agreement that would both
benefit us.
“Let’s get you back to the party,” he simply uttered, sounding distant, too professional for my liking. But who was I to complain, it was not his job to console me or anything. This was a business. arrangement with a common goal, so it remained as it was.
Matteo’s hand rested lightly on the small of my back as he guided me through the sea of guests. I was not sure if it was his touch or the lingering effects of Luca‘ s presence, but my skin prickled.
When we reached our table, his hand fell away. “Sit,” he instructed and I obeyed, grateful for the chair beneath me as my legs threatened to give out. Matteo straightened his jacket and turned to one of his men standing nearby. His entire
demeanor shifted to cold and
commanding.
“How did Luca Moretti walk into my
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event?” Matteo‘ s voice was quiet enough to remain unnoticed by the guests but sharp enough to send a shiver down my
spine
The guard stiffened. “Don Vitale, we checked every-”
“Clearly not well enough,” Matteo interrupted, cutting the man. “I want a full report by the end of the night. Increase. security. Nobody comes in or out without. clearance. Do you understand me?”
The guard nodded quickly. “Yes, Don
Vitale.
Matteo’s gaze lingered on the man for a moment longer before dismissing him with a slight tilt of his head. He turned back to me, his expression softening just enough to unsettle me. It was the same look he had given me earlier, when he had brushed the tear from my cheek, a fleeting crack in his otherwise impassible front.
“Are you sure you‘ re all right?” he
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asked, his voice quieter now.
I nodded, though my fingers fidgeted with the edge of the linen napkin in front of me.
“I’m fine.”
His dark eyes studied me, as if searching for a lie. Then, to my surprise, he lowered himself into the chair beside me, leaning closer. “You don‘ t have to be,” he murmured, his words so low they were meant for me alone. “Not here. Not with
me.”
Something inside me wavered. It was not just his words; it was the way he said them, the way his gaze softened for the briefest moment before he looked away. But before I could respond, the orchestra struck up a new melody, a slow and haunting waltz that sent a ripple of anticipation through the hall. I knew the song too well, I had attended dozens of Mafia parties before, and this melody had already become a tradition.
I glanced around, noticing the subtle shift
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in the room as guests were turning toward the center of the floor with an expectant look. Matteo noticed too. He sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching in what might have been a smirk.
“It’s tradition,” he said, standing and offering me his hand. “The Don and his companion open the floor.”
My stomach twisted, “I don‘ t think-”
“It’s not a request, Amara,” Matteo said, his voice was firm but not unkind, it was more business like. His hand remained extended, waiting, and the attention in the room bore down on me. Refusing was not an option, not here, not now. So I placed my trembling hand in his, and he pulled me to my feet with a support that made me feel like I would not fall apart. At least not yet.
The crowd parted as we made our way to the center of the floor. Matteo’s hand found its place on my waist while his other hand clasped mine. The music swelled
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around us, and we began to move.
For a man as cold and stern as Matteo Vitale, he danced with an effortless grace that took me by surprise. His movements were fluid, and though I struggled to match his rhythm at first, he guided me with a subtle pressure on my back and a gentle pull of my hand. It was impossible not to follow.
“Relax,” he whispered close to my ear. “You‘ re too stiff.”
I scoffed softly, though my voice wavered.
“I wonder why.”
