Novelas y relatos de Dematteis

“What about that mafia guy you told me about? What was his name... Don Matteo?” I sat up straight. “No.” “Why not?” “Horace is...” “Valentina, Horace wants proof and if Matteo can help he should.” Marco pointed at the phone. “For once I agree with her.” “Thank you.” “You two don't get it.” Zuria groaned loudly. “You are impossible. Call Don Matteo.” Absolutely not. The answer was right there on my tongue. But I stopped. Matteo was… a lot. Dangerous. Complicated. Terrifying in that quiet way that made your instincts scream. But really powerful. And right now, options were running out fast.

Matteo replied and exited the room, leaving the don to his cold thoughts. He eased himself in a chair directly facing the door and waited for her. The red haired girl that reminded him of his nemesis. She reminded him of the pain he had neatly tucked away in a lone corner in his heart. She made him mad with anger just by staring at him through glassy caramel eyes, she also made him flush with wonder at how untainted she was. ************* Serena watched as Matteo informed Mariette that the don was waiting. Mariette, a woman whom Serena predicted to be in her 40's, nodded and replied to the underboss in Italian.

It was him. Mateo Santiago.

I shoved the office door open without knocking. Matteo sat behind the large desk, phone to his ear, his expression dark and focused as he spoke in low, clipped Italian. His eyes snapped up the moment I entered, narrowing instantly at the interruption. The air in the room thickened with his presence, crisp black shirt sleeves rolled up, jaw tight, every inch the ruthless enforcer. He muttered something short into the phone and ended the call, placing it down slowly. “Arielle,” he said, voice dangerously calm. “We’re in the middle of something.”

“You think you’re going to get answers by trying to beat them out of him? You're just going to end up killing him and there is not going to be good for us to it.” “He deserves worse.” I snapped. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean we waste our energy now.” Damon’s voice dropped further. “Use your head. Not your rage.” I clenched my jaw. Behind us, Carter said, voice ragged, “She called herself Tatiana. She… she said things about Delilah. About power. About what’s coming.” Damon turned slowly. “Spare me.” Carter blinked. “You don’t believe me?” Damon’s expression hardened. “I don’t believe anything from a man who watched us bleed and said nothing.”

“Would you be free for lunch today?” The message was from Matteo. She stared at it for a moment, trying to remember if she had agreed to lunch. No, she hadn’t. But she’d been dodging him for three days since the gala, and it seemed the new man Vladimir had spotted—Matteo Vescari—was not easily discouraged. He was everything Vladimir wasn’t: lighthearted, effortlessly kind, emotionally available. A venture capitalist from Italy with ties to old European money and none of the emotional carnage that seemed to trail Vladimir like a shadow.

The idea of him being alive again made something cold settle in my gut. Because Damien was more than a ghost—he was the one man who had ever matched me in strategy. And if he was back, it wasn’t for power. It was for her. Matteo entered without knocking. He’d stopped doing that years ago; now it was habit. “You should see this,” he said, dropping a file on my desk. I flipped it open. Photos. Blurred, infrared, taken near the Palermo cemetery. A figure kneeling before the Ferraro tomb.

As I glanced at the screen, it was a call from an Unknown Caller. I hesitated, then answered. “Who is this?” There was silence at first. Then… a low chuckle. “Matteo Romenetti. I believe we have something in common.” I straightened. The voice wasn't familiar, so it was difficult to place who it was talking. But whoever this was, he wasn’t calling by mistake. “I don’t play guessing games. Speak.” “Let’s not pretend you don’t know who you’re hunting, Matteo. The detective… the little lamb you lost. I’m afraid she stumbled into something much bigger than your little empire.”

And because part of him — a part he hated — didn’t want to bring Dominic down anymore. He wanted to understand him. Touch the cracks in his armor. Find the broken boy behind the wolf’s skin. But that wasn’t the mission. That wasn’t what they paid him for. Still… Matteo didn’t pick up a phone. Didn’t write a report. Didn’t give up the location. He just closed his eyes, cursed under his breath, and whispered into the quiet air: “Just one more day.” ---

human. "Mate!" My wolf growled.