chapter 3- -worst tuesday

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Matteo shifted in his seat, side-eyeing the man in the back like he might sprout horns.

“Okay,” he said slowly, “so just to recap... I steal a random pouch of keys, run for my life, hide in a totally innocent-looking luxury car, and now I’m being held at gunpoint by someone who may or may not be a professional murderer.”

The man didn’t respond.

Matteo raised an eyebrow. “Seriously, not even a tiny laugh? Tough crowd.”

The gun stayed tucked just out of sight, but Matteo could still feel its presence like a shadow breathing on his neck.

“Do you always threaten people who accidentally sit in your car,” he asked, “or am I just special?”

“You’re not special,” the man said coolly. “You’re just stupid.”

“Fair. But—hear me out—what if I told you this was all fate? Like, the universe brought us together for a reason. Maybe you need a partner. Maybe I’m your long-lost conscience. Maybe—”

“Shut up.”

Matteo threw up his hands. “Okay, wow. Clearly someone skipped nap time today.”

The man leaned forward slightly, and Matteo finally got a clearer look at his face. Late thirties, maybe. Sharp cheekbones. Dead-serious eyes. That same expensive cologne from earlier, mixed with something darker—gun oil, maybe. Or danger.

Definitely not an Uber driver.

“What do you want from me?” Matteo asked, tone softening. “Because I got nothing. Just the pouch. No cash, no ID, not even clean socks. If you’re looking to rob me, you’re wasting your time.”

“I’m not robbing you.”

“Oh good,” Matteo said dryly. “Then this is just... a very aggressive form of friendship.”

The man’s lip twitched like he almost smiled, but didn’t.

“You have no idea who you stole from, do you?” he asked.

Matteo frowned. “Nope. Just saw the guy drop it and... grabbed it. Thought it might have a few credits, maybe some keys to a spare scooter. Not my best plan, I admit.”

“You picked the worst possible target.”

Matteo blinked. “Worse than the cops?”

The man’s gaze sharpened. “Much worse.”

Matteo swallowed. “Cool cool cool... So I’m probably gonna die. That’s fine. Honestly, I’ve had worse Tuesdays.”

Silence fell again.

Matteo tapped the dashboard. “So… do I get a name? Or do I just keep calling you Mr. Glare-and-Gun?”

The man didn’t answer. He just opened the glovebox, pulled out a small black phone, and began typing something fast.

Matteo leaned over, squinting. “Texting your boss? Your mom? Someone I should say goodbye to?”

The man’s thumb stopped. He looked up, eyes meeting Matteo’s.

“If I were you,” he said quietly, “I’d shut up, sit still, and start thinking very carefully about what you want your last words to be.”

Matteo leaned back, lips pressed tight.

But after a second, he muttered, “I mean... probably something cooler than this.”

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Matteo sat still, eyes darting between the dashboard and the rearview mirror.

His breath fogged the glass. The silence was stretching. Dangerous.

“All right,” he said slowly, clearing his throat. “Let’s talk this out like grown-ups. You clearly have a gun. And... cheekbones that could cut glass. I have charm. And a winning smile. So how about we just... call this even?”

No response.

Matteo pressed on, voice turning more desperate, more theatrical. “Look, I’m not a threat. I’m a very minor inconvenience. You don’t kill minor inconveniences. You step over them. Like gum. Or dead pigeons.”

The man blinked, unimpressed.

Matteo sighed. “Okay. Fine. New strategy.”

He turned in his seat, hands still up like he was surrendering to a fashion photoshoot.

“What if I work for you?” he said suddenly.

The man tilted his head. That got his attention.

“I mean, think about it,” Matteo continued, faster now. “I’m quick, sneaky, obviously a natural at stealing stuff—accidentally or not. I could be useful. You need someone on the ground? Someone who doesn’t look like a threat? That’s me! Matteo Rossi. Professional underdog.”

He waited.

The man’s gaze was unreadable.

“Okay, I’ll admit,” Matteo said, voice faltering, “I may have overplayed the confidence card. But I learn fast. I’m like a stray cat — I land on my feet, I’m hard to kill, and I hiss at people when cornered.”

A small twitch of the man’s lip. Almost a smile.

Almost.

Then—

Bang!

Something slammed into the back of the car — a trash can, maybe, or someone stumbling in the alley.

The man glanced toward the sound, just for a second.

Matteo moved.

Fast.

He threw the door open, dived out of the car, and bolted down the street.

His legs burned. His heart hammered. But he didn’t stop.

He didn’t even look back until he was half a block away, panting, hiding behind a parked truck.

He peeked around the edge.

The man was still in the car.

Just sitting there.

Watching.

Then — slowly — he leaned back in the seat...

...and laughed.

A low, dark laugh that echoed off the alley walls like a promise.

Matteo’s stomach dropped.

Why was he laughing?

He didn’t wait to find out. He turned and ran into the maze of city lights, the pouch still pressed against his chest.

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Elsewhere…

The man in the car wiped a speck of dust from his sleeve and picked up the phone again.

“He has the keys,” he said into the receiver.

A pause.

“No. He doesn’t know what they’re for.”

Another pause.

“Yes. I let him go.”

He listened for a moment, then smiled — slow, sharp, like a knife being drawn.

“Because now... I know exactly where to find him.”

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