Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

MATTEO

" Y ou're smiling," Elio says as he secures his wraps around his wrists. Before our father passed, he made us promise one thing: Never let yourselves become weak.

"Am I?" I grunt, wiping the smile away when I realize he's right.

He laughs. "It's not a bad thing, you miserable bastard."

"A happy Don isn't any use to anyone."

"So we're quoting the old man now." It was one of our father's sayings.

"Is that a problem?" I snap.

"No," he says, slipping one hand into the boxing glove. "Just curious, that's all."

"The war's over," I grunt.

"Yeah, we sent the Gallos to the gallows. But you didn't have that boyish grin on your face last night."

"Boyish grin," I repeat, shaking my head. "I wouldn't go that far."

"Well, I would …"

Since leaving Bella's apartment around two hours ago, I keep replaying when I put the money into her hand. There was a second when it felt like the most natural thing would be to lean in and kiss her. Not that I love her, or know her, or … or … Hell, anything her. Yet in that moment, it was so damn tempting. Her lips parted slightly. She smelled of perfume and something else, just her.

"Earth to Matteo?"

"You haven't even put your second glove on yet."

"Yeah, 'cause I just asked if I should sort the timer or if you're going to, and you just stared at me like a loon," he chuckles.

"That's the thousandth time you should thank God we're related."

He flashes a smirk. "Every single day."

I move to the corner of the private gym, handling the timer, and then put the pads on my hands. In a fight, Elio or I would be foolish to use our fists, but sometimes, a man has no choice.

"So you're not going to explain the smile?"

"Seems like a strange thing to ask a man to explain."

"A normal man, maybe."

"It's nothing," I snap, relieved when the timer goes off.

Even when we're both sweaty and tired right down to our bones—the way we like our workouts—Elio won't quit. He wipes himself down with a towel and says, "Is it business news?"

"Is what business news?"

"The reason you're smiling like a little kid."

"Can't you just leave it?" I grunt.

"Yeah, I can," he says with a shrug, "but can you blame me for being curious?"

"Hmm." I shrug. "Maybe I smile all the time. Maybe you just don't notice. Not everything is a big puzzle that needs to be solved."

"Fair enough," he replies, though, in classic Elio fashion, he feels the need to give me a searching look that will make me confess something that wouldn't make sense coming from a man like me. "Are you heading into the office?"

"Yeah," I tell him. "There's always work to do."

Plus, it means I don't have to hang around here listening to this crap about smiling. I walk through the house toward my bedroom, pausing when I hear the squeaking sound of a violin coming from Sofia's room. The sound instantly takes me back to the apartment, to the lesson. However, I can't get Bella out of my head.

"Want anything from the city?" I ask, knocking on the door.

"No," she replies. "But Matty?"

I push the door open, finding her sitting on the bed with her violin propped against her chin.

"Yeah?"

"Can I get another lesson soon? Bella's already given me so much to think about. With her, I genuinely think I could make some proper progress."

"When would you like your next one?" I ask.

She laughs. "Now, but realistically … tomorrow? That's reasonable, right? Or is it too much?"

Sofia often seems far younger than she is, and this is one of those times. She's holding a violin that costs more than most people's houses and than most people will earn in their entire life. Yet she thinks a few hundred bucks is too much. "It's fine. I'll book another session."

"Yay!"

After showering, I drive into the city and begin answering legitimate emails.

After about an hour of work, Elio shoots me a text with a link.

Fire Destroys Popular Downtown Bar; Community Seeks Answers!

In the early hours of yesterday morning, a devastating fire consumed "The Crimson Feather," a well-known downtown bar. The blaze erupted around 3 a.m. and quickly engulfed the establishment, leaving it in ruins. Firefighters responded promptly, but the building was significantly damaged, and the bar is considered a total loss.

Authorities have launched an investigation into the cause of the fire. While initial reports suggest it may have been an accident, some in the community question this conclusion. Witnesses reported unusual activity before the fire, including vehicles arriving and leaving in the early hours.

The police, however, have been tight-lipped about the case details. "At this point, we are not ruling anything out," said a police spokesperson without elaborating further. The spokesperson also confirmed that they are working closely with fire officials and other agencies to determine the exact cause of the fire.

As the investigation continues, the community wonders if there's more to the story than meets the eye. The police have urged anyone with information to come forward, but there have been few leads so far.

I don't reply to the text. Elio shouldn't even be sending me stuff like this. We did what was necessary to the Gallo bar, and I'd do it again. Those scumbags were going to turn our city into a cesspit of drugs and filth.

The report doesn't mention bullet casings or bodies, which means our police contacts did their job correctly when hiding the evidence.

As I keep working, I find it far more difficult to focus than I usually do. My mind strays to the moment I heard Bella begin to play the violin. The music instantly changed, becoming angelic. I had to see her. When I did, I almost wished my baby sister hadn't been there.

Bella looked so damn beautiful as she played, like she was in love with her instrument, handling it with care, skill, and patience. Maybe that's why I take out my phone, go to her number, and click Compose text . I know I'm just looking for an excuse to speak with her. Is that a bad thing? At least with texting, I can control myself, unlike when I let a savage heat grip me, and I ended up masturbating over her.

Do you have any slots free tomorrow, Bella? It's Matteo DeLuca, by the way.

She must be near her phone because she begins typing a reply straightaway.

Yes! I can do any time from 2 p.m.

Great. Book Sofia in for 3, please.

Will do!

I study the message, feeling weirdly hollow. I can't remember ever feeling curious about a woman like this. It's new and exciting and, ultimately, dangerous. She's a civilian, after all. Their world and ours aren't supposed to mix.

Yet I can't help myself. I type, What do you think of Vivaldi's "Summer" from The Four Seasons?

Maybe I can hide behind music. If she's shocked by the question—by me taking this into the nonbusiness realm—she doesn't show it.

It's intense, almost too chaotic for me, but I love the passion behind it. What about you?

It's like I can hear the strings in my mind. When Sofia began taking an interest in violin, I made a point of doing the same. I find it thrilling, like a storm brewing. It has that raw, untamed energy.

Interesting. I guess I prefer something more soothing, like Massenet's "Meditation."

That's beautiful. It's very serene, like a gentle conversation. It's like the violin is whispering secrets.

After sending the message, part of me wishes I could take it back. I rarely speak like this, but Bella doesn't know that. She doesn't have any preconceived ideas about me. I'm realizing why Sofia doesn't want her to know about the Mafiosi side of our lives.

Exactly, she replies. It's like a tender reminder of something … gentle and sweet.

Do you ever listen to anything more modern? I ask, keen to keep the conversation going. I came across Lindsey Stirling's "Crystallize" recently.

Oh, I love her style! She's the reason I decided to start my own channel.

I'm sure you'll be as popular as her one day.

Yeah, right.

You will, I type, finding myself leaning forward, foot tapping, unable to stay still. I heard you play yesterday, but it's more than that. I SAW you play. There was so much gorgeous passion on your face. There was so much sincere affection. For the music. For the craft.

I delete every single word. I'm getting a little too heavy—deluded. Instead, I text, Have you heard David Garrett's version of "Nothing Else Matters?"

He brings such deep emotion to that piece. It's like the violin is singing a love song.

It's fascinating how the same instrument can evoke such different feelings, I reply, feeling like this is a copout somehow.

Yes, it's like each piece tells a different story, a different emotion.

The music in me is sending all kinds of weird signals. I wonder if she finds this strange, the fact I'm going out of my way to message her. Or maybe she just sees me as a friendly older guy. Perhaps she would freak out if she knew how my manhood burns and throbs when I stare at her perfect picture.

Music truly is a language of its own, isn't it? she goes on. It speaks even when words fail.

It's like a way to connect deeper beyond just the notes. I click send, wondering what she'd think if she knew I was holding that image of her stubbornly in my mind, remembering her pursed lips, furrowed brow, and tempting and attractive concentration.

It's like finding a part of yourself in the music or maybe a part of someone else.

I swallow, leaning back in my chair, staring at the "someone else" line. I want to ask if she has a boyfriend. Perhaps she and her long-term boyfriend bonded over music. Maybe I need to kill this whatever-it-is before it gets started. It's not like we even know each other. Hell, I could even send a couple of the men with Sofia instead of going myself tomorrow.

Perhaps that's why it's so powerful, I reply, as though I can't stop. It's personal, yet universal.

Absolutely. It's like sharing a moment, even when you're alone.

Sometimes, I go on, it's like the music understands you better than anyone else.

Wow, that's so true, Matt. It's nice of you to take such an interest in this. When did you start listening to this kind of music?

Two years ago, when Sofia first expressed an interest in it, I tell her. I wanted to talk about her hobby with her. I never expected actually to enjoy it myself, though.

Oh no? What sort of music do you like, then?

Truthfully, I don't listen to music.

WHAT?!

I let out a laugh. It sounds out-of-place in my large office, the tall windows showing a raindrop-coated view of the city. Seriously. Apart from the violin stuff for Sofia, I can't remember the last time I listened to anything.

What about when you're driving?

I keep the radio off.

Do you realize how insane you sound right now?

I laugh again. It feels so good, like I've been waiting for this for a long time. It's the release I never knew I needed.

I'm sorry , her next text reads. I shouldn't have said that. I forgot I wasn't talking to a friend for a second.

It's like the text slaps me across the face. Of course, I shouldn't give a damn. I don't give a damn, but there's something about the message that pisses me off.

You don't have to apologize , I reply. You've done nothing wrong. See you tomorrow .

I put my personal cell in the top desk drawer on silent, promising not to check it again until I finish all my work. I've never had this problem before.