The car pulled away from The Fox Empire, tires grinding the gravel with a brittle crunch—like bones breaking underfoot, too fragile to matter.
Matteo leaned back in the leather seat, jaw locked, the scent of dried blood clinging faintly to his sleeves. He said nothing.
Eyes fixed on the blur of Milan sliding past the window, untouched.
His phone lit up—Father.
He answered with a low, controlled, "Yes."
Luciano's voice slipped through the speaker, calm as ever. "I heard you were in Milan."
"I was," Matteo said, gaze unmoving. "Came for Frankie. But he's vanished. They claim he's in China."
A pause, deliberate.
"I see."
"I'm heading there now."
Luciano didn't shout. He never had to.
"Don't."
Matteo sat forward, as if bracing. "Father—"
"I said don't," Luciano interrupted—sharp and elegant, like a dagger slipped beneath fine linen. "Come back."
Silence laced the air. It wasn't confusion—it was pressure. Weight.
Matteo swallowed, the muscle in his jaw twitching.
Luciano's voice dropped, lower now. "You think this is about revenge. It isn't. Not yet. When I destroy Frankie, there will be no noise. No loose ends. When I move, he vanishes. Entirely."
Matteo's fingers hovered near the pistol resting in his lap, but he didn't touch it.
"This isn't your fight to finish," Luciano said, his tone velvet over steel. "Not with blood still burning in your veins. Not now."
A long breath passed between them.
Matteo closed his eyes briefly. "Understood."
Click.
The call ended, the screen dimmed. He stayed still—phone still pressed to his ear, as if the words still lingered.
From the front, the driver's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.
"Sir?"
Matteo looked up slowly, gaze unreadable.
A quiet breath.
"Turn the car around," he said. "We're going home."
The car kept gliding forward, the hum of the engine the only sound between Matteo and the world outside. Buildings shifted.
The city blurred like ghosts through tinted glass.
He hadn't moved since the call ended.
Then—ping.
A message dropped onto his screen.
Luciano: Stop by the office.
Matteo read it once. No emotion flickered across his face.
He lowered the phone, voice calm but firm. "Change of plans."
The driver straightened slightly. "Yes, sir?"
"We're stopping by the office."
No questions asked. The car adjusted course with a smooth, obedient swerve into the next lane.
Matteo didn't lean back this time. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped—still and coiled like something waiting for release.
The city ahead opened wide, and somewhere behind tinted glass and cold silence, Luciano was waiting.
The car slowed to a smooth halt in front of Luciano Holdings.
The building loomed above—black glass and steel, rising like a blade against the Milan sky. Cold. Perfect. Unyielding. Just like the man waiting inside.
Matteo stepped out, ignoring the valet who rushed over. He didn't speak, didn't pause.
His shoes clicked against the marble floor as he entered the lobby, the cold air swallowing him whole.
He didn't head upstairs.
Not yet.
Instead, he veered left—toward the executive wing. Past closed doors, down a quiet hallway lined with silence and control.
His office door was already open.
Inside, Bianca stood waiting. Sleek, composed, eyes sharp behind thin frames.
"Morning," she said, handing over the folded suit. "Charcoal. Tailored last week. I took a guess."
"You guessed right," Matteo murmured.
He took the suit, disappearing behind the partition screen.
The soft rustle of fabric was the only sound as he shed the bloodstained shirt and slipped into clean layers.
The silence in the room felt respectful—Bianca knew better than to ask about the stains.
When he emerged, he looked the part again—immaculate, unreadable, every line of his suit cut like intention.
"Anything else?" he asked.
Bianca handed him his cufflinks. "Your father's waiting upstairs."
Of course he was.
Matteo adjusted the cuffs, then headed to the elevator—no rush in his steps, but something taut beneath his posture. Like a lion in dress shoes.
As the doors closed behind him, Bianca finally breathed.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.
Two of Luciano's men stood at the office entrance—black suits, earpieces, posture like loaded guns.
As Matteo approached, one of them opened the door, the other stepped aside without a word.
Inside, more men stood along the wall, silent and alert.
But the moment Matteo crossed the threshold, they moved—filing out swiftly like shadows vanishing before a storm.
Luciano sat behind his desk. A single hand rested on polished wood, the other slowly turning a silver pen between his fingers. His eyes lifted.
"How did it go?"
Matteo stopped just a few feet in. His voice was low. Steady.
"Paulo won't speak again."
Luciano gave a small nod. "Good."
A pause.
"Don't follow Frankie."
Matteo didn't flinch, but his jaw set. "He's the one who hurt Felix."
"I know," Luciano said, voice quiet but razor-edged. "And I won't forgive him for that either."
He leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly.
"But there's more to this than one wound. You've handled the rat. That's enough for now."
Matteo's mouth parted, but he didn't speak.
His expression shifted—something cold flickering in his gaze. Still, he held it in.
Luciano watched him a moment longer, then added, calm and deliberate:
"Let him keep running for now."
The silence that followed felt like a test.
Matteo finally spoke, quieter now. "And if he attacks again? If someone else gets caught in it?"
Luciano set the pen down, slow.
"Then he'll have written the terms of his own execution."
He rose from his chair, each word laced with certainty. "But I choose when. I choose how. And when I strike… no one will be left standing."
Matteo lowered his gaze, just slightly. "Understood."
Luciano didn't speak again. He didn't need to.
The meeting was over.
Matteo left his father's office with his hands in his pockets, jaw tight, eyes forward.
No words exchanged with the guards outside.
They parted for him like tides around stone.
Back on the executive floor, Bianca stood from her desk the moment she saw him.
"Sir." She handed him a stack of folders, brisk and efficient. "Board reports, supplier adjustments, and two contract renewals. Mr.Nattapol called twice about the Bangkok deal."
He took the files without a word and moved into his office.
The door shut behind him with a soft click.
Inside, sunlight cut across the floor-to-ceiling windows, gleaming off the glass table where more folders waited—neatly stacked by priority.
Bianca followed him in, tablet in hand, heels quiet on the tile.
He shrugged off the tailored suit jacket, rolling up his sleeves.
"Let's start with the Bangkok deal," he said, pulling the first file open.
Bianca nodded. "They've adjusted their terms. Twenty percent increase on logistics but they're willing to renegotiate if we extend the exclusivity clause."
"Send them a counteroffer by noon," Matteo said, scanning the document. "Drop it to fifteen. If they hesitate, pull our offer completely. They'll crawl back by Friday."
"Yes, sir." She scribbled something on her tablet. "Also, the finance team needs your signature on the quarterly reports before closing."
"Leave them here."
She hesitated, glancing at him once.
She hesitated, eyes flicking briefly to the faint trace of red on his cuff. "Are you okay?" she asked, voice softer, but careful—as though testing how close she could step to the edge of his silence.
Matteo didn't look up. "Just handle the work, Bianca."
A beat of silence.
Then she nodded and turned, leaving him to the quiet hum of responsibility.
He sat down, pen in hand, flipping to the next folder.
Whatever fury lingered in him—the urge to put a bullet through Frankie's skull—he buried it beneath numbers, contracts, and signatures.
Here, blood was replaced with ink. Vengeance, with profit. And Matteo knew how to kill with both.
Because here, there was no room for vengeance.
Just business.