Chapter 11

Unspoken Desires - Chapter 11

Matteo

It’s been four fucking days since some goddamn idiots decided to attack what’s mine. They must have a fucking death wish.

I haven’t slept since. Neither have my men. My elite team - the ones I trust, my real crew. We’ve all been running on fumes and rage, tearing through every lead we can get our hands on.

We’ve hit every organization we’ve ever crossed. If they’re even whispering about the kidnapping, we’re at their door.

First day, we paid a visit to La Cosa Nostra. Those arrogant old-world pricks still think they matter. Still act like their code makes them untouchable. It wasn’t them, but it felt good putting a few of their guys in the hospital. Just to remind them they still bleed like everyone else.

Next, we moved on to the Mexican cartels. Focusing mostly on the Sinaloa and the Jalisco New Generation.

They aren’t usually our enemies. But that didn’t stop us. I had to be sure. Those motherfuckers are known for playing both sides when it suits them.

In the end? They didn’t have the balls. They need us more than we need them.

Still, I left a few bodies behind. Little shits who dared to question my authority. Sends a nice, clean message: Fear us. Respect us. Or fucking die.

Now? It’s biker time.

The Hells Angels, we’ll leave alone - for now. We’ve worked with them for years. Still do. There’s honor there, buried under layers of leather and blood, but it’s there.

But the Vagos and the Mongols? Yeah. I wouldn’t put this shit past them. Those two clubs are poison.

Mexican muscle, sure, but no loyalty. Not even to themselves. Always at each other’s throats. Always flipping alliances when it suits them.

A brotherhood with a loose thread isn’t a brotherhood. It’s a fucking time bomb.

If they’re behind this, if they touched Sophia or my mother, I’ll make sure their children’s children run scared every time they see a motorcycle.

I’m just stepping out to go have a little chat with Juan from the Vagos, and Angel and Carlos from the Mongols, when my phone lights up.

Damian fucking Bernardi. Fucking great. What the hell does he want now? I clench my jaw, thumb hovering over the red button. I should let it ring.

My father should’ve put a bullet in his skull when he had the chance. Instead, we get to hear about how Saint Damian saved my Sophia from her father’s filthy home videos. Like that absolves him from being the same sanctimonious Bernardi I’ve always hated.

She talks about him like he’s some goddamn hero. Like he deserves her loyalty. It makes my blood fucking boil.

Still, I swallow it down and answer.

“What, Bernardi? I don’t have time for this shit.”

His voice cuts through, low and tight. “Matt’s been tracking Svetlana Bocharov across Eastern Europe. He found some of her plans. Coded notes. Locations. It looks like—”

I cut him off cold. “I don’t have time for that useless whore.” Then I hang up.

Let Damian chase ghosts and scary little girls. I have real enemies to deal with.

I head toward the armored SUVs waiting at the curb. We don’t even make it a block before my phone rings again. My dad.

I answer instantly. If he’s calling, it means he’s found something. Anything that could help me.

“Yup,” I say.

His voice is calm, clipped. Direct. “Son. Stop and listen to Damian. It’s about your mother and Sophia. It could help.”

Then, without waiting for me to argue, he patches the call through.

Damian’s voice cuts through the line, calm and clipped, like he’s giving a damn weather report.

“Matt just got back from Eastern Europe two days ago. He found some plans, targeted attacks in Vegas, New York, and Chicago.”

I snap. “Get on with it, Bernardi. I don’t have time for slow-motion bullshit.”

There’s a pause. I hear him exhale through his nose, sharp and irritated. Then he unloads. “There’s a traitor in the Camorra.”

My jaw clenches.

“This wasn’t just betrayal for money or out of spite,” he goes on. “It was strategy. Someone is embedded deep, pulling strings, playing a long game. Coordinating with defectors across all three organizations—yours, ours, and Chicago.”

My knuckles go white around the phone.

“They weren’t trying to leave or defect. They plan on taking over. They are staging a fucking coup, Matteo.”

He lets that hang for a second, and I hate how quiet I’ve gone. Hate how cold the air in my chest feels.

“They didn’t want to just shoot us, they wanted to break us with grief.”

I swallow hard.

“They were going after the people closest to the Capos, our underbosses and our families. Us. The ones whose deaths would break us. Not tactically, but emotionally. Kill the center, leave the structure standing. Let it collapse on its own. It’s brutal. Clean. Precise. And it’s working.”

“Who?” I ask, my voice barely audible. It sounds like someone else. Like someone weaker.

“Right now we know it’s the Bratva, lead by Svetlana Bocharov and someone they are calling the predátel, which means the traitor. He’s Camorra.” He pauses again.

“I’m keeping Sareena hidden,” Damian says. “She was on their list. They almost got Gabriella and Max today, but Max saw it coming. Got her out just in time. They’re safe now.”

And just like that, it fucking hits me. Damian protected Sareena. Maximus protected Gabriella.

And me? I lost Sophia. I was supposed to protect her. Not anyone else. Me. And I failed. She’s gone and I have no fucking idea if she’s alive… or worse.

My chest tightens like there’s barbed wire wrapping around my ribs, dragging inward with every breath. I stare out the tinted SUV window, seeing nothing but the red haze behind my eyes.

I had one fucking job. And I let her down.

I need to hunt down a Russian whore who likes to play games and remind her what happens when you fuck with a Camorrista.

Gabriella

I’m crying so hard I don’t even sound human anymore. It’s just these low, broken noises I can’t stop making, like my body is trying to sob out every stupid hope I had left.

My pillow is soaked. My chest hurts. My throat is raw. But I still can’t stop replaying what happened. What I did.

I pushed Maximus, even when he told me to slow down. He tried to protect me. And I didn’t listen. I wanted the romantic fantasy. The happily-ever-after, the kind of love that sets the world on fire like in the books I write. Like in the books I believe in.

I thought… if I just gave him a push, he’d finally stop holding back. Instead, I broke us.

I hear soft voices by the doorway. My mom and Zia Mia. Whispering about something.

They probably don’t know what to do with me. Hell, I don’t even know what to do with myself.

My bed shifts slightly as they both sit beside me, one on each side like some kind of emotional support sandwich, but I don’t lift my face from the pillow. I can’t. If I do, I’ll see the pity in their eyes and I’ll just fall apart all over again.

Zia Mia’s the first one to speak. “Mia Cara,” she says gently, running her fingers through my hair. “It will all work itself out. You and Maximus did nothing wrong.”

“Your Dad got an earful from me tonight. He forgot all the stuff he did to me when I was much younger than you.” Mom says, probably embarrassed that she’s admitting that to her daughter.

I snort softly into the pillow despite myself.

Zia continues. “Don’t worry, your mom and I, we’ve got you. Always. No matter what.”

I finally lift my head, just a little. I know my face is blotchy and my eyes feel like sandpaper and I look like a disaster, but when I glance at them - my mom with that worried crease between her brows, and Zia Mia with her comforting smirk, I know they’re not judging me. They’re hurting with me.

And somehow, that makes it worse. Because I wanted this. I wanted him. I wanted love so badly, I let it swallow my instincts.

I whisper, “He didn’t want to do anything. Not like that. I made him feel trapped.”

“No,” my mom says immediately. “No, my sweet girl. Don’t do that. Don’t put the blame on yourself. You are human and all humans need is love, touch and connection. If you wanted to be with Maximus and he wanted to be with you, who are those assholes to tell you that you’re wrong.”

“You didn’t trap him,” Zia Mia adds firmly. “You trusted him. That’s what love is. If that man didn’t love you, he wouldn’t have let himself get beaten bloody just to protect your name.”

“Mia,” my mom warns.

Zia just shrugs. “Tell me I’m wrong, we both know that she has loved him since grade three, and we know he loves her too.”

They stop trying to convince me I didn’t screw everything up. They don’t make promises they can’t keep. They just stay. Warm hands on my back. A blanket pulled higher. My mom’s gentle humming, low and familiar.

It doesn’t fix the ache in my chest, or the shame in my gut but it reminds me I’m not completely alone.