Steam curled around the doorframe of the en-suite bathroom, fogging the mirrors and filling the master bedroom with a heady warmth. Angela sat on the edge of the bed, her phone vibrating against her palm.
Lorenzo.
Her breath caught in her throat. She hesitated, her instincts screamed at her to ignore it—but she answered.
"Hello?"
"I need updates," Lorenzo's voice was sharp, low. "Where is he now?"
"In the shower," she whispered, glancing at the bathroom door. "He's getting ready for bed."
"Has he said anything about the arms shipment?"
"No. He doesn't talk to me about that stuff."
"Start listening more carefully," Lorenzo snapped. "Don't forget who's holding your leash."
Before she could respond, the bathroom door opened with a soft creak, and a shirtless Matteo emerged. His toned chest glistened from the shower, dark hair curling against his forehead. Angela froze.
His eyes narrowed.
"Who are you talking to?" he asked coldly.
Angela's heart thundered. "No one. Just a wrong number."
She tried to end the call, but Matteo crossed the room in two strides and snatched the phone from her hand.
"Hello?" he said into the receiver, his voice thick with suspicion.
Dead silence.
Lorenzo had hung up.
Matteo stared at the screen—no name saved to the number. "A man. In my house?"
Angela shook her head, rising quickly. "It was nothing. Just—"
"Why is there no name attached?" His voice dipped dangerously low as he advanced toward her, step by step. "You didn't think I'd notice?"
"It's nothing, Matteo. I swear."
He didn't yell. He didn't need to. He reached for her neck, his fingers brushing lightly, almost tenderly—but his eyes were fire. "Listen to me, Angela. You don't call anyone from this house unless I say so. No men. Ever."
Her breath hitched. "You can't control who I talk to."
"Oh," he murmured, lips grazing her ear, "but I can. And I will."
She shivered.
He turned abruptly, tossing her phone on the nightstand, and dropped onto the bed. Angela stood frozen for a moment, the heat of his warning burning into her skin.
Eventually, she slid under the covers, careful not to brush against him. Her heart wouldn't stop pounding.
Somehow, she still fell asleep.
When she woke the next morning, the bed was empty.
Angela blinked and sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Matteo was gone.
A soft knock came at the door. One of the guards stood outside when she opened it.
"Where is he?" she asked, tying her robe tighter.
"Mr. De Luca went to work, ma'am."
Angela nodded stiffly. The guard turned to leave, but her phone buzzed again.
Lorenzo.
She stepped back inside and answered quickly.
"He's gone," she said. "Left early."
"Where?" he demanded.
"I don't know exactly. He didn't say."
"Then find out," Lorenzo snapped. "Every detail. I want locations, meetings, times. Don't get comfortable. And keep your damn phone close this time."
Angela swallowed hard as the call ended. Her hands were shaking again.
She paced the villa, wandering from room to room like a ghost. Her nerves hadn't settled since last night—Matteo's warning still lingered in the air like a scent she couldn't wash off. She stared out the window at the manicured gardens, trying to piece herself back together.
But then—
Gunshots.
Sharp, piercing cracks broke the morning silence like thunder. Her blood ran cold.
She ran toward the main hallway, and a guard slammed into her path.
"Back in your room!" he barked.
"What's happening?" she screamed, eyes wild.
"Just stay in your room, ma'am!" he ordered again and turned to yell into his earpiece, "We're under attack. Secure all exits. Keep Mrs. De Luca safe."
Angela stumbled back toward the bedroom, her breath coming fast and shallow. The sound of gunfire echoed again, closer this time. She locked the door and pressed her back against it, heart pounding like a war drum.
Matteo's car screeched to a halt in front of his office building. He had just stepped out when the call came through.
"We're under fire," his guard said. "Multiple shooters, heavy weapons. Mrs. De Luca is secure."
Matteo's jaw tightened. His hand moved slowly, deliberately, to his belt, where his gun rested.
"Get her out of there if it escalates," he said through gritted teeth. "I'll be there in ten."
"Yes, boss."
He turned to his men—his personal guards, trained killers loyal only to him.
"Lock and load," he said. "Whoever thinks they can touch what's mine—" his voice turned lethal, "—I'll send them all to hell."
The men responded instantly, guns drawn, adrenaline pumping. Matteo climbed into the armored SUV, his fury barely contained beneath the surface.
He'd built his empire on blood, on control, on unrelenting dominance. Whoever made the mistake of bringing the war to his doorstep was going to regret it.
Back at the house, Angela crouched by the window, heart hammering. She could see the flash of muzzle fire from the garden wall—guards returning fire, shouting commands. Sirens echoed faintly in the distance.
Another guard burst into the hallway, yelling into his radio. "We're losing visibility! Someone's got a scope back there—take him out now!"
Angela wanted to scream.
She crawled across the floor, trying to make herself smaller, wishing for invisibility.
Then suddenly—silence.
Her ears rang from the abrupt stillness. She crawled to the window again and peered out. Smoke wafted through the air, but the gunfire had stopped.
She didn't know if it was over or just the calm before a second wave.
Minutes later, the sound of approaching engines filled the air—Matteo's convoy.
She held her breath.
She'd never seen him fight. Never seen the monster she'd only heard whispers about.
But now, she was about to.
And for the first time, she wondered—was she more afraid of the men who attacked...
Or the man coming home to kill them all?