Dematteis Novels & Stories

he muttered. Matteo’s voice was calm. “Tell your sister to stop acting like a prostitute.” Click. The call ended. Carl froze in silence before groaning internally. Matteo returned his gaze to the night sky, taking another slow drag of his cigarette. He wasn’t interested in distractions. Not women. As unbelievable as it may seem, he was waiting. For his mate. He looked up to the moon in the sky and inwardly cursed the moon goddess — Laughter echoed through the training grounds.

"She's not a whore. She's my mate." The room went silent. Damon's head snapped toward Kael. "What?" "You heard me," Kael said, his voice steady. "My wolf has claimed her. She's mine. And if you have a problem with that, you take it up with me." Marcus laughed again—cold, cruel. "A mate? You can't mate with a human. She has no wolf. She has no scent. She's nothing." "She's not human," Kael said. "She's something else. Something I've never felt before."

“You noticed.” "I notice everything.” A faint smile appears on his face, “I’ve heard.” I don't smile at him; I came here for answers, not a reunion. I tap the Belladonna file, “You said Belladonna is not a company.” “It’s not.” “Then what is it?” Matteo’s fingers drum against the desk, then go still again, “A name.” "I know that.” “No.” He shakes his head, “You know the word; you don't know the person.”

The kind a person cultivates over years of learning that the less they move, the more other people reveal. He had sharp, unhurried eyes that catalogued everything in the room when he walked in without appearing to look at anything in particular. He reminded me, in a way I couldn't fully articulate, of Kian himself. That same sense of someone who processed everything and disclosed very little. Reina Santos was Matteo's. Portuguese, she told me when she shook my hand, her accent warm at the edges. Compact and precise, close-cropped hair, a small scar above her left eyebrow.

"You have thirty seconds to disappear. Use them wisely." Damon’s gaze still burned into me, furious and possessive, until Davis yanked him back with a hissed, "That’s Matteo Moretti, you idiot. Even I can’t save you from him." Then they were gone. And I was left standing there, my pulse hammering so hard I swore the alleyway could hear it. Matteo Moretti. The name alone carried weight. Founder of the Moretti Group. Ruthless investor. The man who’d toppled governments with a single phone call.

My brother’s quieter voice, he spoke like he didn’t want to be a part of the conversation. And a third voice, oily, amused, dripping with Naples accent. I reached the dining room doorway and every hair on my body stood up. Matteo Moretti rose from his chair like a snake uncoiling. Thirty-two years old and dressed like money and violence had a baby: midnight-blue suit, no tie, his top was three buttons open to reveal a thick gold chain and the Virgin Mary tattooed over his heart.

And two new faces. One of them Ava recognized instantly from dossiers she wasn't supposed to have accessed, from networks that shouldn't have existed, from conversations that had happened in rooms with white noise generators and signal jammers. Matteo Sorelli. Italian industrial magnate. Defense contracts that never appeared in annual reports. Silent partner in half of Europe's emerging AI infrastructure, the half that made decisions before humans knew there were decisions to make. A man who never raised his voice because he never needed to. A man who never lost because he defined winning before the game began.

Her hands were soft, but her grip was firm and confident, like any Alpha’s. “I’m Victoria Bia... Greco,” I corrected myself with a sigh that came out way too natural. “And this is my mother, Antonella Bianchi.” Mom nodded politely, but I knew that look, the distrust in it, as she sized up my mate’s “partner.” Mom sat beside the Matriarch, and honestly, I wanted to sit across from her, anywhere but wedged between Lorenzo and his little friend. “Don’t worry about the formalities, stay in your plac...”

' I asked. He smiled. 'My villa. Don't worry, just follow me.' His arms were warm and comforting, and I couldn't resist his mysterious scent. Inside, I glanced around at the exquisite decor, uneasiness creeping in. A business card on the coffee table caught my eye. 'Michael Edward Carter?!' I gasped. This was the legendary Alpha King, the most esteemed pureblood werewolf, controlling the wealth and resources of countless Lycan packs across North America, and James's uncle.

The tip came early that morning—a flagged irregularity in the Montclaire financial records, subtle discrepancies traced directly to Luca Moretti, one of Matteo’s most trusted accountants. Someone had accessed the Zurich files recently, transferring sensitive records without authorization, risking exposure. Matteo had quietly ordered Luca’s detention, but Elise had learned about it through her own network, carefully concealed behind layers of trusted intermediaries Matteo himself had underestimated.