Page 224 of The Devil's Thorn
“Careful,” Lorenzo warned, his voice dipping into something colder, heavier. “That mouth of yours has a way of writing checks your bloodline can’t cash.”
Matteo’s smile didn’t waver. “Good thing I never took your name seriously enough to care.”
I felt Yuri shift beside me, but he didn’t interrupt. Just watched. Observed. Like he was cataloging every word, every glance, every breath.
Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You forget who made you.”
“No,” Matteo said, eyes now gleaming with something darker. “I rememberexactlywho made me. And that’s why I make damn sure I’m nothing like you.”
There was silence after that. The kind that turned veins to ice and made even the music in the background feel too loud. Tension coiled, wound so tight it hummed under my skin.
And then Matteo turned his head toward Yuri. “I need air.”
Yuri didn’t speak. He just slid his arm over Matteo’s shoulder, the gesture oddly casual, like this wasn’t a room full of wolves in tailored suits. Like the venom that had just passed between father and son wasn’t still dripping.
But before Matteo stepped away, he looked at me one last time. His gaze wasn’t smug or curious this time. It was sharp. Like he knew something I didn’t. Then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd with Yuri at his side. And I was left standing beside Rafael, directly across from Lorenzo Silvani.
The man turned fully now, but he still didn’t look at me. Not once. Like I wasn’t even there.
“Romanov,” he said, his voice smooth again, restored to its polished edge like nothing had happened. “Didn’t expect to see you so…engagedin these affairs.”
Rafael didn’t move. “I make it a point to show up when it matters.”
“And this matters?”
Rafael’s gaze didn’t waver. “It will.”
The corners of Lorenzo’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. More of an acknowledgment.
“I always wondered how long you’d wait before planting your flag here again. But I suppose your… absence created opportunity for others.”
“Opportunity,” Rafael echoed, voice flat. “Or illusion.”
Lorenzo exhaled through his nose, like he found the comment amusing. “Still playing the philosopher, I see.”
“Better than playing the coward,” Rafael said.
The air froze. And I wasn’t sure if I was breathing anymore.
Lorenzo didn’t react outwardly, but the shift in him was instant. Like glass under pressure—not yet shattered, but one wrong move from fracturing.
“I’d be careful,” Lorenzo said finally. “This isn’t Moscow. And you’re not the only one who knows how to set traps.”
“Then we’ll see who walks into whose,” Rafael replied calmly.
His hand remained at my back, steady and deliberate. But for the first time since he touched me, I leaned into it—not for possession. Forstrength.
He didn’t move. Neither did I.
Lorenzo stood there—imposing, calm, with that kind of elegance that came from generations of carefully honed cruelty. His suit didn’t wrinkle, his tone didn’t waver, and his presence alone made even the marble seem to listen.
But all I could hear was the tight thrum of my own pulse. He hadn’t looked at me once—not really. I wasn’t sure if it was arrogance or calculation, but whatever it was, it had started to crawl beneath my skin like something alive.
Like I was being erased before I’d even had the chance to speak.
Their conversation continued, laced with veiled insults and unspoken history. “How is business in Naples?” Rafael asked, his voice
low and sharp like the drag of a blade. “Still keeping up appearances for the old families?”
