Chapter 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

BELLA

" S he's still in the bathtub," Emily says, fiddling with the scrunchy on her wrist as she walks into the lavish living room. Sitting on the plush armchair, she puts her feet on the footrest. "She doesn't seem happy."

"At least she's here," I murmur. "At least she's safe."

"It doesn't feel like a prison …" Emily looks down at the plush rugs covering the marble floor and then up at the chandelier, wordlessly appreciating all the grandeur we've suddenly found ourselves in. "I guess the only real way to test that would be to see if they'd let us leave."

"I don't think that would be a good idea," I say softly. "You saw how wild and intense Matt looked."

"Wild and intense," Emily muses. "Those sound like the words of a lady in love."

"Oh, stop," I say, shaking my head. " In love . That's the biggest load of craziest crap I've ever heard."

"A journey of a thousand kisses begins with a single … kiss? Isn't that the phrase?"

"I think you're jumbling up your sayings."

"Hmm, maybe." After a pause, she says, "Was that his brother staring at the house earlier?"

"I don't know. I've never met him."

"Tall and lean, with a mop of dark hair?"

"Now, who sounds dreamy and in love, huh?"

Emily rolls her eyes. "You seriously think I'm a love-at-first-sight kind of gal? Men pick me up and fling me away. I do the same with them. That's the way I like it."

"Do you seriously think you're kidding me with that talk?"

She rolls her eyes but says nothing else. We both know that Emily, if anything, is the more romantic out of the two of us. Because of the crap that happened to her when she was a kid, she just does a much, much better job at hiding it—maybe even from herself.

Suddenly, she stands. "I think somebody's outside."

Anxious energy prickles over my skin, making the hairs on my neck itch with tension. After that twisted man cornered me, my adrenaline has been stampeding relentlessly through me, a taunting, sick energy. A wave of relaxation moves through me when I see the shape moving toward the house in the semidarkness.

"It's him—Matt."

"I better make myself scarce."

"You don't have to?—"

But it's too late. Emily leaves the room just as the old-fashioned-sounding doorbell rings through the house. I take a moment to study myself in the gold-framed mirror on the wall. It probably shouldn't, but it feels weirdly important that I look presentable.

I've got my hair tied up. After a quick shower, I changed into a casual T-shirt. It does nothing to complement my build, unlike that video I texted him. Yet it doesn't matter. This isn't about romance or steam. I have to keep reminding myself of that.

When I answer the door, though, Matt's expression tells me I'm wearing something else entirely. It's almost like somebody has magically replaced my outfit. His eyes flit over my body, his hands curling into fists. After a pause, he looks at my face, not my body, but it seems to take an effort. "Can I come in?" he asks huskily.

"It's your place," I say, stepping aside.

"No," he growls. "If you say go fuck yourself, I'm gone."

"Come in …"

When I step aside and wave a hand, he moves past me, his body brushing close to mine. I'd think I was imagining it if it weren't for last night. I close the door behind him. Turning, I find him staring at me with that captivated look— obsessed . That's what I'd think if I didn't know better.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I ask. That's not me speaking, though. That's the confident, sex-filled version of myself I'm not sure exists anywhere other than texts.

"Like what?"

"No, be honest. Why?"

He flinches like my words have had a big effect on him. Maybe it's the word honest that did it. He doesn't want to lie to me anymore. I'm sure I can read that in his earnest eyes.

"Because I need to kiss you again," he says fiercely, "but now isn't the best time, is it?"

No, it's not , Bella from a different universe might say. You owe me answers. Until then, I want nothing to do with you. Until then …

Instead, I do something daring, something I'm only capable of because my body is still aching from last night. I throw my arms around his shoulders, standing on my tiptoes and guiding my lips to his. Before I can reach him, he leans down with a throaty rumble, pressing his lips firmly against mine. I gasp and cling onto him tightly, our mouths opening and our bodies searing with heat as we sink even closer together.

He slides his hands down to my hips, sinking his hands into me with a groan that tells me he needs this. Need . The word should be silly, but as the kiss deepens, it's anything but.

He only stops when he hears movement deeper inside the house.

"Bella?" Mom calls.

"I'm here," I reply, walking into the living room.

"I'm out of the bath. I'm going to take a nap. Wake me if there's anything …" She hesitates and says, "… I need to know."

"I will, Mom. Thank you."

"Why are you thanking me?" She sounds confused.

"Because you trusted me."

"I always will!" she calls, her voice trembling like she's trying to keep herself together. I turn back to see that Matt is leaning against the wall. He's removed his suit jacket and rolled the sleeves up, showing his firm and powerful forearms. "I take it you didn't come here just for the smooching?"

"Smooching," he repeats with a smirk.

"Is something funny?"

"No, it's just … after the day we had, the fact we can both smile is a goddamn miracle."

"So you're basically saying we're Beethoven's Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 61, hmm?"

He flashes a grin. "You've got me there."

"It was a miracle of a composition … so complex, yet he was losing his hearing."

"You're too poetic for me," he says, pushing away from the wall and standing beside me. No, over me, as if he wants to remind me of our size difference. It is as if he needs me to know how much bigger he is, not to intimidate me but to make me feel safe. "But yeah, like that …"

He takes my hand with surprising gentleness. "Sit down, Bella. I need to tell you what's going on. You deserve to know the truth. Even if it'll mean you never want to see me again."

I swallow, my belly twisting with nerves. Cowardly voices hiss inside that I should tell him no. I don't need to know. I don't need the truth. All I need is to live in a bubble we'll create together.

Slowly, I do as he says, sitting on the couch. He sits next to me, never letting my hand go. I shuffle closer to him and rest my head against his shoulder. His body stiffens for a moment, almost like he's going to push me away, but then he wraps his arm around me.

Let's just stay like this.

Instead, I say, "You're a criminal, right?"

He sighs tiredly. "It's a bit mo—No, you're right. Yes, that's what I am."

"You were going to say it's more complicated?"

"That's a copout," he says. "That's dancing around the issue."

"Tell me, then," I whisper, still stunned at how easy it feels to wriggle closer to him.

"I'm the Don of the DeLuca crime Family," he says, his tone flat. It's almost like he's emotionally distancing himself, just in case I freak. "I took over when my father passed away. He made me promise to lead it well, and I'm doing my best. That's the reason we're so wealthy. We've been working in the shadows for almost three decades, building legit businesses alongside our other operations."

I look up at him. He's staring down at me with his jaw clenched. I can tell he's readying himself for my reaction, preparing for a rejection.

"What other operations?" I ask. "What do you do? Deal drugs? Hurt people? What?"

"No," he grunts. "No. Fucking. Way. We could make a lot more money if we dealt with that filth, the things other Families indulge in. My old man always refused, and so do I."

"How do you make money, then?"

"We run high-stakes gambling operations … off the books. We loan money to people with bad credit. We counterfeit goods. We trade in black-market items such as stolen paintings. We evade taxes. We smuggle high-value goods so that we're not subject to tariffs. We make fraudulent investments on the exchange. We protect high-value targets like celebrities or foreign oligarchs when they visit the city. We force other gangs to pay us a stipend and to stop their little corner of the city from turning to complete mayhem." He sighs, leaning back, eyes narrowed as if he's thinking. "Yeah, that's it. Apart from that, we run our legit businesses, but don't let me give you the wrong idea."

"The wrong idea?" I ask, trying to keep my voice level.

"I don't want you to think I'm some force for good in the world. I try to walk on the right side of the tracks, as much as my life will allow, but I've hurt people, sometimes badly. A lot of the time, I don't feel a damn thing about it. A lot of the time, I convince myself they had it coming."

"Hurt them how?" I ask, goosebumps suddenly pricking my skin, making me feel cold.

"Killed them. Maimed them. Tortured them."

"Who?" I move away from him slightly, a deep-rooted response I can't do much about.

He looks down at me steadily. "Rival gang members, mostly. Once or twice, I've taken out predators, men who deserved it, but other times, it was simply war. Just battle after battle to make sure the DeLucas, and nobody else, rule this damn city." When I say nothing for long beats, he nods matter-of-factly. "I get it. You don't want to be around me anymore."

"I didn't say that," I protest, but I'm unsure what I feel. "I've just never spoken to a killer before." My voice trembles.

"It's okay. I understand. I just wanted you to know the truth."

"Is that who cornered me, then? A gang member?"

"There's a group called the Gallos moving in on our turf," he says, nodding. "They've been lacing drugs with TNT. It's a super-strong opioid that's led to at least fifty ODs that we know of. I thought we beat the bastards, but one remains. Soon, he'll be out of circulation, too."

"Out of circulation?" I murmur.

"Do you really need me to explain?" he counters, his tone darkening.

I swallow, shaking my head. "No, I get it. I guess it's just surprising how casual you sound about it. How many …"

When I trail off, he narrows his eyes, watching me closely. "How many people have I killed? That's what you were going to ask, isn't it?"

"Yes," I admit.

His eyes seem to glaze over momentarily, like he's reliving all the chaos and the pain. Then he says, "Thirteen. Nine were rival gang members. The other four deserved it, at least by my morals. They all laid their hands on women or children."

"And all of yours were …"

He stands up, fists clenched, staring down at me like he's about to snap. "What?"

"I didn't even finish the question."

"You were going to ask if any of my victims were women or children." When I don't reply, he snaps, "Tell me I'm wrong."

I bolt to my feet, passion making my cheeks glow red. "I have to know. Otherwise, I'll never be able to …"

I trail off. What was I going to say? Love you. Want you. Need you. My mind sparks with impossible, crazy thoughts, havoc, and madness. Clearly, I'm letting the stress, fear, and everything else affect me too much.

"They were all men," he growls. "I'd never do that. I'd never …" He shakes his head. "Anyway, you know now. You don't deserve to be kept in the dark. You deserve the truth, and now you have it."

He walks toward the door quickly, his shoulders broad, his breathing coming so huskily and passionately it's like he's about to erupt into a roar. When he slams the door, the whole house trembles. I bring my knees to my chest, hugging them tightly.

Did he seriously storm out because I asked him a reasonable question? Does he honestly think he has the right to do that after he pulled me into his mess?

Looking at myself in the reflection of the switched-off TV, I can't help but note how small and vulnerable I look. It's like I'm waiting for him to return, move up behind me, wrap me in his strong arms, and whisper that everything will be okay.