The faint light of dawn traced the edges of his silhouette, stretching long shadows across the marble floor.
His bare feet pressed into the cold tile, but his mind was elsewhere—caught in a place far beyond the villa's walls, beyond reason, beyond rest.
He stood by the window, still as stone.
A thin breeze slipped through the slight gap in the window, tugging at the curtain.
It whispered against his skin, carrying the faint chill of morning.
A few strands of hair shifted against his cheek, but Matteo didn't flinch.
His eyes were fixed on nothing. Or perhaps on something only he could see.
The question had been gnawing at him since the night bled into sleep. It echoed now, hollow and unrelenting:
Is it because of the revenge?
Is that why you won't wake up, Felix?
His jaw tightened until his teeth ached.
Felix's voice came back to him, like it always did when his anger burned too bright. Revenge is a chain, Matteo. The longer you wear it, the tighter it gets.
But wasn't this different?
His throat worked around the words before he could stop them, spilling out into the silence like a confession:
"Do you need blood to return, Felix?"
The sound startled him. His own voice sounded foreign, cracked and weary, like it belonged to a stranger.
He lowered his head, lashes brushing the hollows beneath his eyes.
I could do it. I could go against him—just once.
His fingers curled into fists at his sides.
I could kill Frankie the Fox. End this chain before it wraps around both of us. Maybe then… maybe you'll open your eyes.
His chest rose and fell in a sharp exhale, frustration burning like a fever under his skin.
But then—his father's words echoed, steady and unyielding:
Not now. Not like this. Revenge is a fire, Matteo. Don't let it consume the wrong things.
What if it already had?
A muscle twitched in Matteo's jaw. He dragged a hand down his face, the rasp of stubble against his palm grounding him for only a heartbeat. His reflection ghosted faintly in the glass—tired, hollow-eyed, a shadow of the man he once was.
And then, unbidden, Felix's voice again. Soft, teasing. Fix your tie.
Matteo's breath hitched.
He clenched his fists tighter, nails biting into his palms. "What do you want from me?" he whispered hoarsely to the empty room. "Tell me what to do."
But the silence answered. Heavy. Familiar. Crushing.
His shoulders slumped, but his eyes remained sharp, clouded with thought. Slowly, with deliberate motion, Matteo turned from the window. He pulled open the dresser, selected a crisp shirt, and began dressing—each button fastened with the weight of restraint.
If he had to burn the world to bring Felix back, he would.
But not today.
Not yet.
The heavy door groaned as it opened. Matteo stepped into the corridor, his long coat brushing the polished wood paneling, his presence cutting through the villa's hush.
Down the grand staircase, sunlight spilled through stained glass in fractured beams—gold, crimson, sapphire. They bled across the marble floor like spilled wine. Like blood in water.
Two of his men flanked the front door, suits pressed, eyes unreadable. They straightened at once when they saw him, posture taut with respect.
Outside, the car waited, engine humming, driver already at the door with his head bowed.
Matteo's steps echoed as he descended the stone steps. The breeze stirred his dark hair, but his eyes were fixed ahead, unwavering.
The driver moved to open the back door, but Matteo raised a hand. "Give me the keys."
The driver froze. "Sir?"
Matteo's gaze shifted toward him—calm, steady, but final. "I'll drive myself."
A pause. A flicker of hesitation.
Then the keys were placed in his palm.
He glanced briefly at the guards. "Stay here."
One of them stepped forward, wary. "Is everything alright, Don Matteo?"
His tone carried no sharpness, only flat resolve. "Just some things I need to ask God."
The words lingered like a stone dropped into still water.
He slid behind the wheel, the door shutting with a muted thud. Without another word, the car rolled forward, down the gravel drive, the villa receding into shadow behind him.
No radio. No calls. No distractions.
Only the road.
Only silence.
Only the steady rhythm of his breath against the weight in his chest.
The city stretched out in muted gray and pale gold, the morning sun breaking gently over rooftops.
Matteo drove with the precision of a man who didn't need to think about directions—his body moved, but his heart no longer argued.
His gaze flicked to the mirrors now and then. He caught glimpses of ordinary life—children tugging at their mother's hands, shopkeepers unlocking gates, a couple arguing at a bus stop. The world spun forward, unbothered.
Yet to Matteo, it all felt distant. Like he was driving through glass.
The dream clung to him still—Felix's crooked smile, the way his fingers brushed Matteo's collar, and the way he dissolved into mist.
A memory. A goodbye. Or something else entirely.
A warning.
The steering wheel creaked faintly under Matteo's tightening grip.
As the spire of the church steeple cut into the skyline, framed against the pale clouds, Matteo let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He didn't believe in signs. Not until now.
The car eased to a stop outside the wrought-iron gates. The engine ticked as it cooled. Matteo sat still for a moment, fingers lingering on the keys, his reflection caught faintly in the windshield.
No guards. No entourage.
Just him.
And whatever waited for him inside those ancient walls.