This time, he brought no pastries. He brought loneliness.
Matteo found her in the small sitting room at the east end of her permitted corridor. She was reading a book Enzo had sent her, a collection of Italian poetry annotated in his sharp script. The annotations were thoughtful, almost tender. She had been surprised by them. Enzo read poetry. Enzo underlined lines about longing and cages. She did not know what to do with that information.
Matteo appeared in the doorway, a small paper bag in his hand. "I asked Signora Esposito if I might speak with you. She said you were here," he said.
Alessia set down the book. "You are persistent," she replied.
"I am lonely." He said it simply, without self-pity. He walked in and held out the bag. "Sfogliatelle. From a bakery in your old neighborhood. Signora Esposito mentioned you missed them. She also mentioned which bakery. I had a driver go there specifically."
Her breath caught. She reached into the bag and pulled out one of the delicate shell-shaped pastries. The scent of orange blossom filled the room. She took a bite. It tasted like home. It tasted like before.
"Thank you," she said. Her voice was rough.
Matteo sat in the chair across from her, keeping a respectful distance. He always kept a respectful distance. That was one of the things that made him dangerous. "I told you last week that I know what it is like to be trapped. I meant it." He adjusted his watch. The vintage timepiece was slightly too large for his wrist. He adjusted it constantly. "I spend most of my time in northern Italy, running my business. When I come here, I am surrounded by people who see me as either a threat or a relic of a dead alliance. You are the first person in a long time who has looked at me like I might be something else."
She studied him. The warm brown eyes. The easy smile. The watch he adjusted every few minutes. The way his gaze kept flickering, just for a heartbeat, toward the corridor that led to the east wing.
"I am not here to offer you escape, Alessia. I am not a hero. I am just a man who recognizes a fellow prisoner." He stood. "But if you ever need someone to talk to, someone who is not part of this house, not part of Enzo's world, I am here. That is all."
He smiled. As he did, his gaze flickered again. To the east wing. Enzo's study. A fraction of a second. Then he turned and walked out.
She watched him go, adjusting his watch. Once. Twice. Three times before he disappeared around the corner. Why had he looked toward the study like he was mapping it? And why did his kindness feel so warm when Enzo's heat burned? The question settled into her chest, heavier than she wanted to admit.
That night, she retrieved her scrap of paper from behind the loose panel in the wardrobe. The hiding place Enzo already knew about. The hiding place he had left untouched, as if to say: I see you. I am choosing not to take this from you. Remember that.
She wrote in her cramped, careful handwriting: Matteo made me feel seen. But he looked at the east wing. Just long enough. He knew which bakery. Signora Esposito told him. Or did she?
She hid the paper and lay on the bed. The numbers repeated in her head. One point eight million. Twenty-five million. Forty-seven thousand. And now a new question. Door or cage? She could not shake that glance. Or the way her hand still remembered his careful, lingering touch. The warmth of it unsettled her more than Enzo's possessive grip ever had. Enzo's touch was a claim. It said mine. Matteo's touch was a question. It said what do you want? And she did not know which answer would cost her more.
The lock clicked from the outside. She had grown used to the sound. But tonight, it felt different. It felt like a reminder that no matter which door she chose, someone else held the key. And until she learned to take it for herself, she would always be waiting for someone else to decide her fate.
She closed her eyes. Tomorrow, Matteo might return. Tomorrow, Enzo might corner her again. Tomorrow, she might finally understand what she was trying for. But tonight, she was still in the cage. And the cage was learning her as much as she was learning it.
She pressed her fingers to the spot on her hand where Matteo's touch had lingered. Still warm. Still a question.
She did not know the answer. But she knew, with a certainty that settled into her bones, that she would have to choose soon. And whichever choice she made, someone would bleed for it.