The room smelled of blood and old wine. Down in the bowels of the Racci Mansion, where the chandeliers above couldn't reach, Matteo sat with his legs crossed, a glass of red wine swirling lazily in his hand. Before him knelt a man, sweat streaking down his temple, lips cracked from hours of silence.
"You did well," Matteo said finally, his voice smooth as velvet. He crouched, gripping the man's jaw and forcing him to look into those cold, unblinking black eyes. "You brought chaos into that hall... smoke, panic, fear. Exactly as I wanted. My father's idea of tradition was suffocating and boring."
His smile sharpened, slicing across his face like a blade. "And you... You shattered it."
The mercenary let out a strained laugh, relief flooding in. "So... I passed the test? I can go?"
Matteo's gloved finger pressed against his lips. "Pass? My dear friend, you exceeded expectations. La Rosa Negra showed us who she was. Even Alistair D'Amato got tangled in the flames. Perfect, wasn't it" He said talking like a maniac.
The man nodded eagerly, trembling but grateful.
Matteo rose to his full height, dusting invisible specks from his trousers. He spoke almost kindly, a whisper that chilled the air. "But here's the problem." He set aside his half-empty wine glass and slid a pistol from his waistband. "You've outlived your use."
The man's eyes went wide with panic. " No.... wait! I did everything you asked..."
A single gunshot cracked through the chamber, silencing him mid-sentence. The body slumped forward, lifeless
Matteo exhaled, slow and content, as if a weight had been lifted. He holstered the pistol, retrieved his wine glass, and took a delicate sip. "Perfect," he murmured again, this time to himself.
AT THE WILSON MANSION
The Wilson estate was quiet, blanketed by the stillness of midnight. In Isabella's room, the faint glow of candlelight traced shadows across the walls. She had discarded her dress and headed to the bathroom, the gun from earlier already polished and set neatly on her desk.
Camilla sat curled on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, brows furrowed. For once, she wasn't the playful, teasing sister. She looked older, weighed down.
"You shouldn't have snapped at Sebastian," Camilla said finally, her voice soft but edged.
Isabella said from the shower, "He treats me like I'm porcelain, Camilla, I'm not. I don't need to be sheltered."
"I know." Camilla leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "But he cares. Maybe too much. That's who he is , Bella. You don't have to accept his pampering, but you don't have to tear him apart either."
Isabella stepped out of the shower, looking clean and soft, but irritation flashed in her features before softening a little. "He'll learn."
Silence stretched between them. Then, unexpectedly, Camilla smiled faintly. "But still..... Anyways, I get him"
Isabella's lips tugged upwards, just slightly. For a moment, the sisters sat in companionable quiet, the weight of the night's chaos still hanging over them.
But down in the servant's quarters, whispers had already begun. Everyone knew Sebastian's affection for Isabella was no secret. They had seen it in his eyes, and if Isabella noticed, she gave no sign.
THREE DAYS LATER
Steel clashed against steel. Isabella ducked, twisting her blade free from Marcus's strike, sweat glistering her temple. The training hall echoed with the rhythm of their sparring, sharp and unrelenting.
"Better", Marcus said, circling her, eyes sharp. "But you're hesitating before your left pivot. That'll cost you in a real fight. I thought you were the Black Rose."
Isabella gritted her teeth, lunged again, forcing him back
Then his Assistant came to give him his phone, pausing their spar.
Marcus frowned, lowering his weapon. "Five minutes," he muttered, stepping out of the circle. Isabella huffed, wiping her brow, but didn't argue.
He took the phone and answered the call with clipped precision. "Yes, what is it?"
The voice on the other end was nervous, somewhat panicked. "Uhm.... Sir.... we traced the men from the party, and they were bought."
Marcus said, raising his brow "Bought, by who"
The man on the other line replied carefully, "Uhm.... by the Racci heir"
The word hit like a hammer, his face darkening. For a moment, Marcus could hear nothing but the shouts of the party, the gunfire.
He ended the call without another word, shoved the phone back into his pocket, and stormed out of the hall. Isabella called after him, but he didn't turn.
THE BOARDROOM
The Racci's estate boardroom was a cathedral of power. Long polished wood, leather chairs, heavy curtains, the scent of cigars, and dominance hanging in the air. Around the oval table sat men whose names carried weight across continents—elders of the old blood.
At the head sat Don Vittorio Racci, Matteo's father. Regal, iron-willed, his presence commanded silence even without words.
The door burst open. Marcus strode in, fury radiating off him like heat.
"Wilson", one of the elders barked. "This is a private..."
Marcus slammed his hands on the table. "Shut up.."
A ripple of offensiveness ran through the room as their bodyguards raised their guns to Marcus, but Marcus's eyes never left Vittorio.
" You let your son play with lives like pawns?" Marcus' voice was sharp, cutting. "You let him turn a masquerade into a battlefield just to satisfy his boredom?"
Vittorio's expression didn't shift. "Careful boy."
"No," Marcus snapped. "You'll listen. you got my family dragged into this useless game. Is this the legacy you're so proud of? That your son can't distinguish loyalty from amusement?"
The elders murmured, Some glaring at Marcus's audacity.
Vittorio finally leaned forward, eyes narrowing like a hawk. "You forget yourself. This is not your house, Wilson. You will not come here and..."
Marcus leaned closer across the table, his voice a dangerous whisper. "I don't care if he targets anyone else, but if he tries that with my family around.... I won't just come for him, I will come for you also. Remember, you just got your footing here; it'd be a shame for you to fall again."
The boardroom went still.
For the first time, the iron mask of Don Vittorio cracked, just slightly. And in the shadows near the doorway, Matteo leaned against the wall, smirking faintly as if he had been waiting for this exact storm to unfold.