Page 27 of The Marriage Debt

I find Mateo on the roof.

He sits in one of the iron chairs near the terrace wall, shoulders squared, legs stretched out, a cigarette held between two fingers. Smoke curls upward, steady and unbothered by the wind. His jacket is slung across the back of the chair. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled to his elbows. The ember glows when he draws it in, then dims again as he exhales through his nose.

He doesn’t acknowledge me when I step outside, so I cross the stone and sit in the chair next to him. The night air is cold against my arms. I don’t ask why he’s up here. I don’t ask what he’s thinking.

He offers me the pack without speaking. I take one, and he flicks his lighter. I lean in and light the tip, then sit back and take the first drag slowly. I don’t usually smoke, but tonight feels like an exception I don’t need to explain.

Seeing his men running around the back yard playing G.I. Joe made my blood boil, but it also made this all the more real. I was right when I reminded myself that Anton would never have done this around Lev, but maybe there was never a need—never a threat. Maybe Mateo sees a threat Anton never did, and that's why… A million reasons could've prompted his preparations.

For a while, we sit without conversation. The quiet stretches, but it doesn’t feel hostile. It just exists between us. For once, he isn’t trying to control the silence, and I don’t feel the need to break it.

I watch the horizon while the cigarette burns in my hand. The lights from the city below shimmer in the haze, just out of reach. Mateo shifts slightly in his chair, resting one ankle on his opposite knee.

“Anton used to brag about you,” I say. “Said you had no soul. No weak spots.” I bring the cigarette to my lips and take another drag. The menthol lessens the harshness of the smoke, though I still don't see why men do this to their lungs.

He exhales slowly, smoke catching in the slight breeze and blowing away. “That sounds like him.”

“He meant it as praise.”

“Of course he did.” Mateo is callous, probably full of hatred for a brother he never truly felt fit his flock.

“He said you’d never break for anyone. That no one could get close enough.”

He looks at me now. “And he said that while cheating on you.”

So he knew about the affairs? But how could I expect a brother to rat out his sibling? I don’t believe Mateo is any better, anyway. So I nod.

“Yes. Usually with a drink in his hand and a story about how everyone else was weak.”

Mateo gives a dry laugh. It’s brief and humorless. “He wasn’t wrong. At least not all the way.”

I finish the cigarette, press the end into the ashtray, and let my hand rest on the table. “Did you ever want a family?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. He tilts his head back and studies the sky. The stars are faint tonight, half-concealed behind the city glow and partially behind one shelf of clouds moving in off the Mediterranean.

“Never thought about it,” he says. “Still don’t.”

I don’t argue. I lean back in the chair and close my eyes for a moment. The smoke still lingers in my throat, but it feels steadying rather than sharp. I open them again and glance sideways at him. His jaw is tight, and his expression hasn’t changed.

I rest my head on his shoulder without saying anything. His body stays still. He doesn’t look at me, and he doesn’t lean in. He just sits there and allows it.

We stay that way for several minutes. The silence holds, but it no longer feels cold. It’s neutral. Maybe even easy. Never like it was with Anton. He always made a point to make sure I knew how badly I annoyed him.

When I move to stand, Mateo reaches out and catches my wrist. His hand closes around it, not with force, but with enough certainty to stop me. I look down at him. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t explain. He tugs gently, and I sit again. This time, I don’t look away.

The air between us shifts, subtle at first. He doesn’t move, but his grip on my wrist lingers longer than it should. I don’t pull away. I don’t want to. The silence that held us a moment ago begins to change, and I feel the edge of something warmer beneath it, something slow and sharp. He looks at me, not with anger or frustration this time but with something I can’t name. It isn’t soft, but it’s steady.

My pulse kicks hard once, and I know he senses it. I can see it in the way his eyes drop to my throat, then rise again. His hand moves from my wrist to the inside of my thigh, and he lightly traces upward toward my groin.

He’s waiting for me to stop him, but I don’t.

I lean in before I think better of it. My body tilts toward his. The space between us disappears by degrees, breath by breath. He doesn’t kiss me yet. He just watches me, like he’s giving me the chance to change my mind.

I don’t speak. I close the gap myself.

His lips are hotter than I expect, coaxing mine open with gentle pressure. My eyes snap shut as he pushes his fingers into my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss. His tongue brushes mine, tentative and electric. His other hand moves from my thigh to my waist, splaying across the fabric of my shirt like he’s memorizing every curve and dip of muscle underneath. I slide a hand down his back, feeling the strength of him beneath his shirt. He groans low in his chest, and I clench involuntarily.

When he pulls me so I’m straddling him, I feel how hard he is already. Kissing me elicits something inside him that he can’t control. We pull apart, gasping. Our chests are heaving in time with the other as we stare at each other. It feels like the world has tilted on its axis. I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m throwing myself at this man I should hate, but I can’t make myself hate him anymore.

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