Chapter 16

Matteo's pov

The warehouse sat on the edge of the property, far enough from the main house that screams wouldn't carry.

I had been here countless times before, but tonight felt different. Tonight, the anger that drove me here was personal.

My car pulled up to the building, gravel crunching under the tyres.

The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the rusted metal doors.

Two of my men stood guard outside, their faces grim.

They straightened when they saw me approaching.

"He's inside," one of them reported. "Restrained and waiting."

I nodded, pushing past them without a word.

The man was already tied to the chair, his arms pulled behind his back, wrists bound with thick rope.

His ankles were secured to the chair legs.

He couldn't move more than a few centimetres in any direction.

I stopped a few metres away, studying him.

He was younger than I expected—maybe late twenties, early thirties. His head was shaved in a military-style buzz cut that gleamed under the lights.

His face was angular and cold eyes that tracked my movements as I circled him slowly.

What caught my attention most was what wasn't there. No tattoos marked his skin. No symbols, no family crests, no signs of allegiance to any organisation I recognized.

A professional, then. A hired gun with no ties to any particular family.

That made things both simpler and more complicated.

I came to a stop directly in front of him, letting the silence stretch.

My men stood near the walls, watching, waiting for orders.

The only sound was the faint hum of the overhead lights and the man's steady breathing.

He stared up at me, and I saw no fear in his eyes. But that would change anyways.

"Do you know who I am?" My voice was calm.

He didn't answer immediately. His gaze travelled over me, assessing, calculating.

Then his lips curved into something that might have been a smile.

"Matteo Romano. Heir to the Romano family. The man whose head I was supposed to put a bullet through tonight."

The casual way he spoke, as though we were discussing the weather, sent a fresh wave of fury through me.

I kept my expression neutral, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing my reaction.

"You failed."

"So it seems." He shifted slightly in the chair, testing the bonds. They didn't give. "Bad luck, that. I don't usually miss."

"You won't get another chance."

"I gathered that much." He glanced around the warehouse, taking in the bare walls, the tools on the table, the men watching from the shadows. "Is this the part where you torture me for information?"

I moved closer, leaning down until my face was level with his. "That depends entirely on how cooperative you are."

Something flickered in his eyes then—not fear exactly, but a reassessment.

He was realising that this wasn't going to be a quick execution. I was going to take my time.

"Who hired you?" I asked quietly.

He laughed. The sound echoed through the empty space, bouncing off the walls.

It was genuine amusement, as though I had just told him the funniest joke he had ever heard.

"You actually think I'm going to tell you that?"

The laugh grated on my nerves. I straightened, pulling a knife from my belt.

The blade caught the light as I turned it slowly in my hand, letting him see it and understanding what was coming.

His laughter died, but the smirk remained.

I moved faster than he expected. The knife flashed forward and I drove the tip into the corner of his right eye, just deep enough to break the skin.

Not enough to cause permanent damage yet, but enough to make my point crystal clear.

His scream filled the warehouse. His body jerked against the restraints, trying to pull away, but there was nowhere to go.

Blood trickled down his cheek in a thin line.

I held the knife steady, keeping the pressure constant. "Don't play stupid games with me."

His breathing came in ragged gasps now. The smirk was gone, replaced by a grimace of pain.

His eye watered uncontrollably, tears mixing with the blood on his face.

"You want to keep that eye?" I asked, my voice still calm. "Then I suggest you start answering my questions."

"Alright!" The word burst from him. "Alright, just—just pull it out."

I withdrew the knife slowly, watching as he sagged in the chair. His chest heaved with each breath.

The bravado from moments ago had evaporated, leaving behind a human.

"Shut up," I commanded as another whimper escaped him. "If you scream again, I won't just pierce the corner next time. I'll pluck the entire eye out and make you watch me do the same to the other one."

He clamped his mouth shut, though small sounds of pain still escaped through his clenched teeth.

Blood continued to seep from the wound, running down his face and dripping onto his shirt.

I stepped back, giving him a moment to compose himself. The knife remained in my hand, visible, a reminder of what would happen if he decided to be difficult again.

"Now," I continued, wiping the blade clean on a cloth one of my men handed me. "Let's try this again. Who hired you?"

He swallowed hard, his good eye fixed on the knife. "I don't know."

The knife was halfway back to his face before he threw his hands up as much as the restraints allowed.

"I swear I don't know!" Panic edged his voice now. "It was anonymous. It was a phone call with instructions and then half the payment up front. That's how these things work. You know that."

I paused, considering.

He wasn't lying. I could see it in the way his body trembled, hear it in the desperation coating his words.

Anonymous contracts were common in this world. It created distance, protected the buyer, made it harder to trace things back to the source.

But that didn't mean there weren't ways to find out.

"Tell me everything," I ordered. "Every detail about the contact. How they reached you, what they said, what instructions you were given. Leave nothing out."

He nodded quickly, eager to please now that he understood the consequences of resistance. "The call came three days ago. It was a blocked number, voice disguised and probably using one of those scramblers. They knew my name, knew my work. That's how I knew it was legitimate."

"What did they tell you?"

"Just the basics. Target name, location, time frame. They said you'd be on the balcony tonight around ten o'clock. They were right about that."

My jaw tightened. Whoever had hired him had inside information. They knew my schedule, my movements, where I would be and when.

That narrowed down the list of suspects considerably.

"How much were they paying you?"

"Fifty thousand. Half up front, half on completion." He winced as he spoke, the movement pulling at the wound near his eye. "The first payment came through an offshore account."

"And the second half? How were you supposed to collect it?"

"Same account. Once I confirmed the kill, they'd transfer the rest."

I paced in front of him, thinking. Fifty thousand was substantial but not excessive.

It was the going rate for a professional hit on someone of my status.

Whoever had hired him had money but wasn't showing off about it.

"Is there anything else?" I demanded. "Anything at all that might help identify who hired you?"

He shook his head frantically. "No, I swear. That's everything. The call, the payment, the instructions. That's all I know."

I believed him. There was nothing left to extract. He was just a tool, a weapon someone else had pointed in my direction. The real enemy was still out there, hidden behind anonymous calls and offshore accounts.

But I had an idea.

I turned to one of my men. "Get me a clean phone."

He disappeared and returned moments later with a mobile, handing it to me. I turned back to the sniper, who watched me warily.

"Here's what's going to happen," I stated, my voice cold and clear. "I'm going to put out a statement that you're dead. You completed the job, Matteo Romano is dead, and now you're claiming your payment."

His eye widened. "What?"

"You're going to contact whoever hired you and tell them the job is done. You're going to arrange to collect the second half of your payment." I leaned in close. "And when you do, my men will be following you, track every move you make until we find out exactly who wanted me dead."

Understanding dawned on his face, followed quickly by fear. "They'll kill me when they find out I failed. When they find out I talked."

"Then I suggest you're very convincing when you tell them I'm dead." I straightened, sliding the knife back into my belt. "Because if you're not, if you try to warn them or run, I promise you'll wish I had just killed you here tonight."

He stared at me, trapped between two equally terrible options.

Die now at my hands, or risk dying later when his employers discovered his failure.

"Do we have an understanding?"

Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded.

I smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Good. Then let's make a phone call."