Chapter 15

Matteo's POV

The rage burned in my chest like acid. Every muscle in my body was coiled, ready to snap.

Another attack. Another fucking attack on my life, and this time Isabella had been caught in the crossfire.

Half a second. That was all that had stood between us and a bullet through the skull.

My jaw clenched. The question that kept circling through my mind refused to let go: had the sniper been aiming for me, or for her?

The red dot had been between us. It could have been either target. Or both.

I turned and walked down the corridor, my footsteps echoing off the marble floors.

My men were scattered throughout the estate, searching every corner, every shadow, every possible vantage point where a sniper could have positioned themselves.

They had been at it for over an hour now, and so far, nothing.

Whoever had taken that shot had vanished like smoke.

I pushed through the doors that led to the east wing, where my father's study was located.

The anger in my chest only intensified with each step.

I didn't want to have this conversation right now. I didn't want to hear what he would say, because I already knew.

This was my fault. Everything was my fault. That's what he would tell me.

The guards outside the study doors straightened as I approached.

One of them reached for the handle, but I waved him off and pushed the door open myself, stepping into the room with more force than necessary.

My father stood behind his desk, a glass of whisky in his hand. He looked up as I entered, his face hard and unreadable.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence stretched between is with unsaid words.

"Explain to me how a sniper got close enough to take a shot at you on your own estate."

I closed the door behind me, fighting to keep my voice level. "We're still investigating."

"Still investigating." He repeated the words slowly, as though tasting each one.

Then he downed the rest of his whisky in one swallow and slammed the glass onto the desk. "Still investigating. Do you hear yourself, Matteo? Someone walked onto our property, set up a sniper rifle, and took a shot at the head of this family, and all you can tell me is that you're still investigating?"

"I've had men searching the entire premise for the past hour," I shot back. "Every building, every tree line, every possible position. There's no trace of him."

"Then your men are incompetent."

The words landed like a slap. I felt my hands curl into fists again. "My men are doing everything—"

"Your men failed." His voice rose, filling the room. "They failed to secure the perimeter. They failed to spot the threat. They failed to protect you. And now we have another family thinking they can take shots at us with impunity."

I stepped closer to the desk, my own anger flaring to match his. "We don't know which family it was yet."

"It doesn't matter which family it was." He moved around the desk, closing the distance between us. "What matters is that they tried. What matters is that they think we're weak enough to attack openly."

"We're not weak."

"Then why are they coming after you?" He demanded. "First last week, now this. Two attempts on your life in seven days, Matteo. Two. And do you know what that tells the other families? It tells them that you're vulnerable. It tells them that the Romano family is in chaos."

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to breathe. He was right, and that only made the anger worse.

The attack last week had been brutal—an ambush that had left three of my men dead and me with a knife wound that was still healing. I had barely made it out alive.

And now this.

"The attack last week was the catalyst," my father continued, his voice dropping to something more controlled but no less intense. "They see blood in the water, and now they're circling. Every family that's ever wanted a piece of what we have is watching to see if you'll fall."

"I won't fall."

"Then prove it." He stepped back, his eyes boring into mine. "Because right now, all you're doing is reacting. You're letting them set the pace, letting them choose when and where to strike. That's not how you lead, Matteo. That's how you die."

The words hit harder than I wanted to admit.

"And Isabella," he added, his voice taking on a different edge. "You chose a bride too soon."

Something cold settled in my stomach. "Isabella has nothing to do with this."

"Doesn't she?" He raised an eyebrow. "You announce a bride barely a week after you're nearly killed, bringing in an outsider with questionable connections. What did you think would happen? Did you think the other families would simply accept it?"

"Isabella is not the problem."

"Isabella is a complication." He poured himself another whisky, his movements deliberate. "And complications get people killed. You should have waited. You should have secured your position first, made a statement of strength, and then worried about marriage alliances."

I felt my anger shift, redirecting itself. "The marriage was necessary. That was what you wanted."

"Was it? Or was it a decision made in the aftermath of trauma, a need to grab onto something stable after nearly dying?" He took a sip of his drink, watching me over the rim of the glass. "You're not thinking clearly, Matteo. You haven't been since the attack."

"I'm thinking perfectly clearly."

"Then make a statement." He set the glass down with a sharp click. "Show the other families that attacking us has consequences. Show them that you're not some wounded animal they can pick off at their leisure. Show them dominance, or they will keep coming after you until one of them succeeds."

"I'm handling it," I stated quietly.

"Are you?" My father's voice came from behind me. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're scrambling to keep control whilst everything falls apart around you."

I spun to face him. "I said I'm handling it."

We stared at each other across the room, the tension thick enough to choke on.

My father had always been like this—pushing, demanding, never satisfied with anything less than absolute perfection.

And right now, I was falling short of that standard.

"The families are watching," he reminded me, his voice softer now but no less firm. "They're waiting to see what you'll do."

"I know."

"Then act." He gestured towards the door. "Stop standing here arguing with me and do something about it. Find out who took that shot and make an example of them. Show everyone that attacking the Romano family means death."

The darkness in his words should have bothered me, but it didn't. This was the world we lived in, the world I had been born into and would die in. Violence answered with violence. Blood paid for in blood.

"I will," I promised.

"Then go." He turned back to his desk, dismissing me. "And Matteo? Next time someone takes a shot at you, make sure there isn't a next time."

I left the study without another word, my mind already racing through possibilities.

"Who had taken the shot? Which family had the audacity to attack me on my own property? And more importantly, how had they got so close?"

I was halfway to the security room when one of my men appeared, practically running down the corridor towards me.

His face was flushed, his breathing heavy.

"Sir." He stopped in front of me, straightening immediately. "We've got him."

Everything in me went still. "What?"

"The sniper. We found him trying to leave through the south gate. He's been captured."

The rage that had been simmering in my chest roared to life.

Finally. Finally, we had something concrete, someone to answer for what had happened.

"Where is he?"

"In transit now. The men are taking him to the warehouse."

The warehouse. The place where we handled problems that needed to disappear.

The place where questions were asked and answers were given, whether the person wanted to give them or not.

I looked at my guard, letting him see the cold fury in my eyes. "Tell them I'm on my way. And tell them not to start without me."

He nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."