Round the neck

Matteo’s POV

I leaned against the railing of the estate’s upper balcony, the breeze toying with the hem of my unbuttoned black silk shirt.

Binoculars perched against my eyes, I scanned the maze garden with all the calm of a man watching Sunday cartoons, except these episodes bled.

Blood was everywhere. smudges of red on the hedge wall. A body slumped like a discarded puppet. Screams muffled by the high hedges.

I didn’t bother telling the applicants everything they’d encounter. Where’s the fun in that? The butler warned them it’d be dangerous.

Just enough of a disclaimer to keep the lawsuits away. Not that anyone here gave a damn about legality.

See, inside the maze, there weren’t just scared little wannabes trying to prove they were worthy of the De Luca syndicate. No. I’d slipped in some rogues, traitors, loose ends, thorns in my side.

People who thought they could go against me and live to brag about it. The kind of men with grudges in their bones and death behind their eyes.

I made them a deal: kill an applicant, and maybe i will spare their lives. Mercy, after all, is such a fickle little beast.

I lifted the binoculars again, eyes sweeping over the chaos. A rogue had just fired a bullet into a boy who could have been in his twenties. It was almost laughable. The kid had tried to fight—got a solid hit in too—but he didn’t stand a chance. Brute force devoured naive ambition every time.

“Pity,” I muttered, watching the boy’s body slump against a rusted barrel. “He’d have made a decent little waitress somewhere.”

Movement to the right caught my eye. Another applicant, lean build, and sharp movements, came face to face with the same rogue who had killed the boy. They stared each other down.

I narrowed my eyes.

There was something… off. Not wrong. Familiar.

The rogue lunged. And the applicant moved.

In ten seconds flat, I watched the applicant dismantle a man twice his size. The crunch of bones—heard even from my perch—was almost musical. I leaned in closer, lips parting slightly.

Who the hell was that?

The way he fought, l the explosive grace, it reminded me of something I’d felt once. Not in a fight. In a bed.

I scoffed and lowered the binoculars, but the image of that “boy’s” body language gnawed at me like smoke in the lungs.

I made a mental note right then—this one, I’d see for myself.

First time an applicant had ever pulled my focus like this, and I hated it. Distractions are for amateurs. I don’t do “curiosity.” Yet my grip on the binoculars tightened instead of letting them drop.

He won’t last in the maze, I told myself.

And still, I watched.

The kid moved like water through the hedges, ducking just in time to avoid a tripwire strung low between two stalks. A hidden pressure plate clicked harmlessly under the heel of his boot—because he’d stepped just far enough to miss the sweet spot.

Impossible.

Every man I’d ever hired had been strong and fast. But not like this. None of them were this… flexible. This precise. And the size of him should have been a disadvantage. It wasn’t. He’d already proven he could take down someone bigger without breaking a sweat.

I felt it before I noticed it—my mouth curving into a smirk. I don’t smile when I work.

The applicant didn’t just survive the maze, he danced through it. And finally, he stepped out from the other end of those tall, green walls.

I let the binoculars drop, the strap snapping lightly against my chest.

An hour later, I was inside my office, sifting through the stack of applicant files the butler had dumped on my desk. I wasn’t looking for anyone in particular—at least, that’s what I told myself—but somehow my hands stopped on one file. Franco. The interesting kid.

Excellent academic record. Physical training that put most men twice his size to shame. Flexible both in movement and thinking. The kind of background recruiters salivate over.

And I hated it. Couldn’t explain why. Maybe because the neatness of it all felt like a challenge to me. Or maybe because I’d already decided I didn’t like how he’d gotten under my skin in the maze.

I shut the file and headed to the courtyard.

The survivors—battered, bruised, but standing—were gathered like strays after a storm. I gave them the kind of smile that promised nothing good.

“Congratulations,” I said, voice carrying just enough mockery to make a few jaws clench. “You’ve signed up to work in hell. If you think this was bad, pray you don’t find out what worse looks like.”

But my eyes weren’t on the crowd. They were on Franco.

The kid stood there, shoulders squared, chest rising steadily despite the strain. His physique was lean, sculpted—not bulk, but efficiency.

And now that I saw him up close, I noticed the subtle balance in his features—male, yes, but with a certain androgynous symmetry. My mind flicked to the note in his file about it.

If Franco were a woman—

What the fuck? No.

I walked toward him anyway, stopping close enough to watch the flicker in his gaze when he realized I wasn’t addressing the others anymore.

“I can’t believe you survived that trial,” I said, letting my voice drop low.

What I wasn’t expecting was for him to meet my eyes with no fear, no deference. Just anger. A quiet, burning anger that I couldn’t place. Was he furious about the trial? About the blood?

I tilted my head. “What’s the matter? Wary of blood?”

His answer came sharp, almost amused. “Not in the slightest.”

And there it was—that same pull I’d felt watching him fight. That magnetic friction that made my fingers itch.

I didn’t understand the sudden urge to wrap my hand around his neck—not to break it. Just to feel the pulse under my palm. To test how long he’d keep looking at me like that.

I let my gaze rake over him.

“Even though you passed,” I said, my tone all teeth behind silk, “even though you were the first to cross the finish line… that doesn’t make you better than the others.”

“It does,” he shot back. The words landed clean, cutting through the air between us.

My brow ticked up. “Bold.”

I closed the space, my face now inches from his. The scent hit me first—under the iron tang of blood and the grit of dust, something else threaded in. Subtle, intoxicating, maddeningly familiar. I knew this scent. I’d breathed it in once before.

Not my concern.

“What makes you think that?” I asked, voice dropping low enough to taste the challenge in it.

“I just know it.”

He didn’t miss a beat. The clap back was sharp, cutting in a way that made my lips twitch with the ghost of a smile.

I stepped back—not because he’d won anything, but because that scent was starting to mess with my head.

Beneath all the chaos of the courtyard, my mind kept reaching for the memory of violet eyes and a night I hadn’t been able to shake. The only woman I’d ever let pin me down.

And now here I was, staring at a man.

I forced my focus back to him, my smirk sharpening. “Since you’re so sure of yourself, Franco… you’re going on another challenge.”

His eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

I let the pause stretch until it was almost uncomfortable, then let the answer drop like a blade.

“A one-on-one.”

I tilted my head, enjoying the weight of the words.

“With me.”