6 - A Mother’s Advice

Matteo

I sit at the edge of my bed, my jaw tight, running a hand through my hair as the events of last night replay in my mind. I lost control, but now, with some distance, it’s clearer what I need to do.

She thinks she has me figured out. She thinks she can provoke me, twist the knife, and that I’ll react. But that ends now.

I need to stay away from her for a few days, let her stew. Let her wonder what’s coming next. Amara Cerulli is like a coiled spring, full of tension and fire, and if I want to break her, I need her wound so tight she snaps under her own pressure.

With a growl, I shove off the bed, throw on a shirt, and head toward my mother’s wing of the mansion. Her and my father’s rooms are worlds away from the rest of us—secluded, private, and steeped in the quiet authority only they can command.

The guards nod as I pass, but I barely notice them. My mind is too busy running through the conversation I’m about to have. My mother may be sharp as a blade, but she’s also the only person in this world I trust to give it to me straight.

I knock once before pushing open the heavy wooden door. The room smells faintly of lavender, and the soft sound of classical music plays from a small speaker on the bedside table. 

My mother sits by the window in her wheelchair, her delicate frame draped in a shawl. Her hair, once brunette, is now streaked with silver, but her eyes are as sharp as ever when they meet mine.

Even now, she carries herself with the kind of poise that commands respect without needing to demand it. But anyone who thinks my mother is weak doesn’t know the history of the woman who was also once known as The Dragonetti Queen.

“Matteo,” she says, her voice soft but steady as she turns her head to look at me. “I wasn’t expecting you this morning.”

I move closer, leaning against the wall near her. “Figured it’s been a while.”

Her lips twitch into a faint smile, but her sharp eyes don’t miss a thing. “When you say it’s been a while, what you mean is you need something.”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Can’t a son visit his mother without an agenda?”

She raises a brow, the look so familiar it almost makes me laugh. “You? No. Sit down, Matteo. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

I drop into the chair across from her, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. “It’s about the Cerulli girl.”

Her expression doesn’t change, but I see the flicker of recognition in her eyes. “Ah. I thought she might be a thorn in your side. What’s the problem?”

“She’s… difficult,” I admit, the word tasting bitter in my mouth. “Every time I think I’ve got her cornered, she finds a way to push back. She doesn’t know her place.”

My mother raises an eyebrow. “And that bothers you?”

“It’s not just that,” I say, shaking my head. “She gets under my skin. I shouldn’t let her, but she does.”

“Hmm.” She closes her book and sets it aside, resting her hands in her lap. “You’re angry. Not just at her, but at yourself.”

I glare at the floor, not answering. She always sees through me.

“This vendetta—” she pauses, her eyes sharp as they bore into mine, “—it’s justified. What they did to me, to this family… they deserve every ounce of your wrath. But don’t let it consume you, Matteo. Don’t let your hatred for the Cerullis blind you to everything else.”

“This isn’t about me,” I argue, leaning forward. “This is about making them pay. It’s about showing the world what happens when someone crosses the Dragonetti family. They hurt you, unprovoked. None of them deserve to live.”

She studies me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “And what happens to you in the process? Do you even know where this ends, or are you so focused on the fight that you’ve forgotten what victory looks like?”

Her words hit harder than I expect, but I push back. “I know exactly what victory looks like. It looks like the Cerullis begging for mercy they’ll never get.”

“And then what?” she presses, her voice quiet. “What happens when you’ve crushed them? When there’s no one left to fight? Do you think that will fill the void they’ve left in your soul?”

I clench my fists, hating the way her words cut through me like a scalpel.

“You sound like you think I should stop,” I mutter.

“I’m not telling you to stop,” she says. “I’m telling you to think. Your father and I didn’t raise you to be a man driven solely by hatred, because he knows how that hate can eat into your soul and blind you to everything else.”

Her words hit harder than I want to admit. I exhale slowly, trying to loosen the knot of tension in my chest.

“She makes me weak,” I say finally, the admission heavy in the air.

“No,” my mother says firmly. “She doesn’t make you weak. She challenges you. There’s a difference.”

“She’s not supposed to challenge me,” I mutter. “She’s supposed to be leverage. A pawn. Nothing more.”

“Then treat her like a pawn,” she says simply. “But don’t confuse dominance with power. You can control someone without stooping to their level. You’re better than that, Matteo.”

“She’s fire,” I say, my voice low. “And if I don’t put it out—”

“You’ll burn?” she interrupts, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Maybe. But fire has its uses, doesn’t it? You just need to learn how to contain it. Redirect it, if need be.”

I shake my head, frustration bubbling under my skin. “I don’t want to contain it. I want to end it.”

“Then you’ll lose,” she says bluntly. “Not to her, but to yourself. To your anger. Your hatred. And once you lose yourself, Matteo, you lose everything.”

The room falls silent, her words settling like lead in my chest. I run a hand through my hair, the tension in my shoulders refusing to ease.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit, my voice quieter now.

“Yes, you do,” she says, leaning forward and placing a hand on mine. “You’re your father’s son, Matteo. But you’re also mine. You’re smart and ruthless when you need to be. Use that. Think, don’t just react.”

I nod slowly, the weight of her gaze grounding me.

“And Matteo,” she adds, her voice softer now. “Don’t lose sight of who you are in the process. You’re not just your father’s heir. You’re my son. We didn’t raise you to be ruled by hatred.”

Her words stick with me as I stand and kiss her on the cheek before leaving the room. She’s right—I can’t let this vendetta control me. I’ve been playing this all wrong.

If I want to win, I need to stop letting her get to me. I need to remind her exactly who she’s dealing with.

But first, I’ll make her wait. Let her wonder what’s coming. Let her stew in her own fear.