The morning light slipped quietly through the tall windows, washing the room in pale gold.
Matteo stood in front of the mirror, sleeves half-rolled, collar still open.
His hands moved without thought—adjusting the cuffs, running fingers through his hair, letting the silence stretch and settle.
He stared at his reflection, eyes unreadable, the calm on his face betraying nothing of the storm beneath.
Then—
Buzz.
A faint vibration on the dresser broke the stillness. His phone lit up.
One message.
From Ricci.
Matteo picked it up slowly. The photo loaded in seconds—no words attached.
Paulo.
On his knees in a cracked, shadowed alley. Head bowed, skin ghost-pale, wrists cuffed tight behind his back.
A bruise bloomed near his temple, raw and dark.
Behind him—Ricci. One gloved hand pressed to Paulo's shoulder, the other holding the camera.
The street beyond them lay empty, a hollow stretch of cold concrete.
Matteo's gaze sharpened.
No smile. No reaction.
He stared at the photo for a long beat… then tapped the screen once.
Saved.
Slipped the phone into his pocket.
His fingers returned to the collar, buttoning it to the top this time. No tie today.
He already had business to finish.
Matteo descended the staircase with quiet, deliberate steps, the click of his polished shoes echoing faintly off marble.
The robe was gone—replaced with a black tailored coat buttoned high at the neck, collar stiff like armor.
At the bottom, the housemaid glanced up from her tray.
"Good morning, sir—"
He didn't look her way. Didn't nod. Didn't slow.
The pace stayed steady, smooth—unbothered by the weight in his chest or the violence forming like thunder behind his eyes.
At the last step, he paused only long enough to say, low and clipped:
"Get the car ready."
Then he moved on—straight through the front doors, letting the morning chill bite into the fabric of his coat. The staff exchanged glances, silent.
Something had shifted.
They all felt it.
The engine purred low, steady and deep like a held breath.
Matteo sat in the back seat as the city peeled away outside the tinted glass—old streets dissolving into the blur of the highway.
The sky hung overcast, pale gray, like smoke stretching across the horizon.
He said nothing.
One hand rested against the window, fingers loosely curled. The other still held the phone—the image from Ricci filling the screen.
Paulo, pale and cuffed, on his knees like a stray finally cornered.
Matteo's jaw tightened once.
From the driver's seat, a glance flickered in the mirror, but the Don's expression hadn't shifted since they left the estate.
Beside him, Luca sat tense, scrolling through intel on a tablet. He didn't speak. He knew better.
Every few miles, Matteo tapped the screen again. The same photo. The same image of defeat.
No blink. No change.
In the quiet hum of the car, the promise of violence breathed like a living thing.
Milan was still hours away.
For Matteo… it couldn't come soon enough.
---
The tires crunched over gravel as the black car rolled to a stop.
They'd arrived—an old brick warehouse on the edge of Milan's industrial district, half-swallowed by morning fog. Forgotten by the city. Perfect for things meant to stay quiet.
Matteo stepped out first.
No words. No backward glance.
His coat stirred faintly in the breeze as he crossed the concrete.
Luca and two guards followed at a respectful distance, their silence automatic. This was not a place for voices.
Ricci waited by the warehouse doors, wiping his hands on a clean cloth—though no blood marked it. Yet.
"Don." A short nod.
"Where is he?" Matteo's voice was flat steel.
Ricci turned and pushed the heavy door open.
---
Inside, the damp scent of cement clung to the air. Bare walls. A dim overhead light hummed above.
And in the center—Paulo.
Kneeling.
Wrists cuffed behind him. Sweat tracing down his face. Lips cracked. One eye swelling shut.
He didn't lift his head as they approached. The tremble in his shoulders was the only sign he knew exactly who had just arrived.
Matteo came to a slow halt before him.
No questions.
No threats.
Just the weight of his stare—cold enough to make the air feel heavier.
Paulo's lips parted, but Matteo raised a hand.
Not now.
Silence, thick as smoke, filled the space.
Behind them, Ricci and the others stood still. The air coiled like a spring.
Matteo stepped forward, voice low and precise.
"You ran across the ocean for him… and now you're back on your knees. Like a dog that forgot which master it served."
Paulo swallowed hard, eyes dropping to the floor.
"Good," Matteo said coldly. "Stay there."
The Don removed his coat, handing it to Luca without looking. His sleeves already rolled, the scar across his knuckles catching the light.
He stepped closer, each footstep echoing in the silence.
Paulo flinched, shuffling back on raw knees.
"Don Matteo, I didn't mean—"
"You aimed at him." Matteo crouched, his shadow swallowing Paulo. "You aimed at Felix."
No need to raise his voice. The weight was in the words.
Paulo started to sob, shaking his head. "I swear—please—mi dispiace, Don—(I'm sorry, Don)"
Matteo reached behind him. Ricci placed a narrow blade in his hand—one Matteo had used before. Clean. Personal.
"Beg louder," he said. "Let Milan hear it."
The blade traced Paulo's collarbone. Slow. Enough for the blood to bead, to drip. Not enough to kill. Not yet.
Paulo screamed.
"Per favore! (Please!)" he cried. "Ti supplico—Don! Ti prego! (I beg you—Don! Please!)"
Another cut. Lower. Deeper.
"You shot him," Matteo murmured, voice unshaken. "And left him in blood. That's not something I forget."
"Mi pento! (I repent!)" Paulo sobbed, falling forward, gasping through pain. "Basta! Ti prego basta! (Enough! Please, stop!)"
Matteo stood over him, watching the blood stain the concrete.
"Ricci."
Ricci stepped forward.
"Don?"
"Don't let him bleed out too fast."
A pause.
"Not until he forgets his own name."
Matteo walked toward the far end of the room, wiping his hands on the cloth.
Behind him, the scrape of a chair, the rattle of chains, and Paulo's screams filled the air—
But Matteo didn't turn.
Not once.