Page 221 of The Devil's Thorn
“Matteo,” Yuri greeted, reaching out to shake his hand.
“Didn’t expect to see you here.” Matteo’s voice was calm, even charming in that effortless, dangerous way I was growing used to.
His gaze turned to me and he smiled—just a flicker, but there was something oddly familiar in the way he held himself. Like a reflection you don’t realize is yours until you step closer.
“Matteo Silvani,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m part of the Naples hosting committee… unofficially.”
I shook his hand, firm and brief. “Charming title,” I said, watching him.
“Wouldn’t want to oversell it.”
Matteo’s presence was… curious. There was an ease in the way he stood, hands tucked casually into his pockets like this place didn’t impress or intimidate him. Like it wasn’t centuries of blood and secrets carved into stone and chandeliers above our heads.
Yuri leaned slightly toward me, murmuring under his breath, “That’s Lorenzo Silvani’s son.”
Silvani.
That name rang faint, buried somewhere deep in memories I didn’t even know were mine. Still, I nodded slowly, keeping my expression neutral.
Matteo glanced at Yuri with a flicker of a smirk. “Still attached to Romanov’s hip, I see.”
Yuri chuckled. “Better the hip than the neck.”
Matteo’s gaze slid to me. “And you must be the infamous Isabella. Word travels fast through these halls.”
His voice was calm, smooth, with a shadow of mischief threading through the edges—like he knew more than he said but was in no rush to say it. His eyes were a deep, striking gray—not warm, not cold—just unreadable.
I tilted my head slightly. “I’d be flattered if I didn’t know how dangerous rumors could be.”
His smirk deepened. “Then it’s true what they say. You’ve got bite.”
I didn’t smile. I didn’t need to.
Matteo turned his attention back to Yuri for a beat, speaking to him in quiet, clipped Italian. I caught fragments—mostly names and references to routes and movements that meant nothing to anyone outside their world. But I noticed how Yuri’s posture shifted slightly. Sharper. More alert.
They were speaking in code. But the weight behind it was real.
I looked around again, the pulse of the gathering still thrumming beneath my skin. Conversations hummed all around us—glass clinking, footsteps on marble, velvet voices threading through the air like smoke. And yet, despite it all, Matteo’s presence created a silence between us. The kind that didn’t settle. It hovered.
Something about him—his posture, his tone, even the amused flicker in his gaze—felt like a missing page I hadn’t realized was torn out of my story. But I didn’t know why.
And then, just like that, I felt it. The change in the air. I didn’t have to look. I knew he was there.
The subtle pause in Matteo’s words. The way Yuri’s eyes flicked just over my shoulder and then sharpened. It was like the room shifted to acknowledge him.
I turned my head just slightly and there he was—shoulders squared, jaw tight, eyes locked on me. And then, slowly, on Matteo.
He stepped up beside me, close enough that I felt the heat of him against my arm.
Matteo’s expression didn’t change, but I saw the faint lift of one brow. “Romanov.”
“Silvani,” Rafael returned, his voice even but edged in steel.
I didn’t miss the way Rafael’s hand brushed against the small of my back as he came to a stop. Subtle. Deliberate. A silent claim.
And the air around us tightened, just enough to feel.
I didn’t speak. I didn’t have to. Because something in Rafael’s silence said enough for all three of us. And yet, I knew this wasn’t over. Not with Matteo. And definitely not with whatever Rafael had just walked away from.
