Chapter 3 - Tested

POV: Matteo

I watch her leave the alley.

I don’t follow. I don’t stop her. I let the distance open exactly as it should. Elena Riva walks fast but not panicked, shoulders squared, steps clean. She doesn’t look back.

Good.

People who look back want reassurance or permission. She wants neither.

I wait until her footsteps disappear before I speak.

“Clean,” I say.

My men nod. Efficient. Silent. This will be gone before morning, like everything that doesn’t serve a purpose.

I step back inside through the service door, the bass of the club swelling around me. Nothing has changed. Drinks are poured. Music pulses. Laughter cuts through the dark.

Order restored.

Except it isn’t.

Elena Riva is now a variable.

Not because she saw what she saw. Plenty of people have seen worse and learned to live with it. Not because she stayed. Fear makes people compliant.

Because she spoke.

You shouldn’t do that behind your club.

No panic. No moralising. No threats. Just observation, delivered like a fact.

That tells me more than fear ever could.

Upstairs, in the office above the club, I pour myself a drink I won’t finish and open her file again. Elena Riva. Still nothing new. Clean in all the wrong ways.

I don’t believe in clean.

I replay the night. The way she handled the drunk at the bar. The way she moved through the crowd like she was anticipating problems instead of reacting to them. The way she didn’t flinch in the alley.

She didn’t look away.

Most people do.

She could be reckless. Unlikely. Reckless people break under pressure.

She could be desperate. Also unlikely. Desperate people cling.

She could be trained.

That possibility settles heavier.

I don’t act on suspicion alone. I design situations and watch how people move inside them. Loyalty isn’t proven by words or fear. It’s proven by what people do when given room to choose.

So I decide to test her.

⸻

Two nights later, I narrow her world.

Carlo moves her to the VIP mezzanine without explanation. She doesn’t ask why.

Good.

The mezzanine is quieter. Fewer cameras. Fewer people. Conversations spoken like secrets that assume safety. This isn’t a promotion.

It’s a microscope.

I take my usual seat, back to the wall. I don’t acknowledge her when she arrives. I watch.

She serves efficiently. Doesn’t hover. Doesn’t eavesdrop. Doesn’t miss anything.

She notices exits. Patterns. Men who don’t drink. Phones that appear and disappear under tables.

She sees.

Halfway through the night, I look up.

“Sit,” I say.

She does. No hesitation.

“You stayed,” I say.

“Yes.”

“You weren’t required to.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I was given a choice.”

“And you chose correctly.”

“I chose employment,” she says.

Almost a smile tugs at my mouth.

“People usually choose fear,” I tell her. “Fear keeps them obedient.”

“I’m not obedient,” she replies calmly. “I’m reliable.”

That lands exactly where it should.

“Tell me about yourself.”

She gives me a story. It’s good. Not perfect. Clean edges, just enough damage to feel real. Prepared, but not rehearsed badly.

“When you leave here,” I ask, “where do you go?”

“Home.”

“Every night?”

“Yes.”

A lie.

A good one.

“If I ran you,” I say casually, “what would I find?”

She pauses. Thinks. That matters.

“That I need this job.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“You’d find exactly what I gave you,” she says.

I study her.

“If you were lying badly,” I say, “you’d already be gone.”

Her shoulders ease a fraction. She knows she passed something.

I stand. “You’re finished for tonight.”

She leaves without looking back.

I make a decision as she disappears down the stairs.

I won’t push yet.

Because the most revealing lies are the ones people tell someone else.

person section remains unchanged.

⸻

Elena’s POV

I don’t breathe properly until I’m three blocks away from the club.

The air feels thin, like I have to work for every inhale. My footsteps sound too loud on the pavement, so I slow them, force myself to look ordinary. No rushing. No scanning. Nothing that says I’m anything other than a woman heading home after a long shift.

My flat feels too small when I step inside. Too quiet. I lock the door and rest my forehead against it, counting to ten before I move again.

Matteo tested me.

Not with threats. Not with violence.

With questions.

That unsettles me more than the alley ever did.

I shower without turning on the music, scrubbing the smell of smoke and alcohol from my skin until there’s nothing left of the night. When I’m dressed again, I sit on the edge of the bed with my phone in my hands, staring at the screen until my pulse steadies.

My handler’s name stares back at me.

I know this is the moment everything shifts.

I call.

“Report,” he says as soon as the line connects.

“There was an incident,” I begin carefully. “A patron assaulted a waitress.”

“A waitress?” he repeats.

“Yes.”

“Who intervened?”

“De Luca.”

Silence stretches.

“Violently?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“How violent?”

I close my eyes. “Enough to make a point.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“And you?” he presses. “What did you see?”

This is the line. The one I won’t be able to step back over.

“I didn’t see anything actionable,” I say. “No witnesses. No evidence I could secure. It was contained.”

The lie settles in my chest, heavy and deliberate.

“You’re getting close,” he warns. “That makes you vulnerable.”

“I know.”

“Don’t lose perspective,” he continues. “He’s not protecting you. He’s controlling his environment.”

“I understand,” I say.

I end the call before he can say anything else.

The silence afterward is louder than the club ever was.

I set the phone down and stare at the wall opposite me, letting the weight of what I’ve done sink in. I didn’t just soften details. I redirected the truth.

I lied to the police.

And worse - I know exactly why.

Because Matteo didn’t act like a man afraid of consequences. He acted like a man enforcing order. Not emotional. Not reactive.

Controlled.

That makes him far more dangerous than the monster I expected to find.

I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, replaying the way his gaze held mine in the alley. He didn’t demand gratitude. He didn’t ask permission.

He assessed.

I understand something now with cold clarity.

Matteo De Luca isn’t dangerous because he kills.

He’s dangerous because he gives people the illusion of choice -

and waits to see who damns themselves willingly.