Page 223 of The Devil's Thorn
Matteo’s smile didn’t falter. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off them. Every word was barbed but elegant, their respect buried beneath challenge, past wounds hidden beneath careful phrasing. And yet… there was something familiar between them. Not warmth. But recognition. As if they’d once stood side by side with blood on their hands and the same enemy in their sights.
I needed to know more. But for now, I stayed quiet.
Matteo’s gaze returned to me. “So… Isabella.”
I met his eyes without flinching.
“You’ve got every room talking,” he continued. “The girl with the dagger. The whisper in Viktor’s ear. The one who walks beside Romanov without flinching.”
He said it like it was a compliment. Or a warning. Maybe both.
I didn’t blink. “Let them talk. I’m not the one hiding behind whispers.”
A pause. A beat of silence. Then—Matteo smiled. Not a smirk. A real, amused, open smile. And it was… disarming. Infuriatingly so.
Rafael, beside me, said nothing—but his hand moved just slightly on my back. A reminder. A tether.
Matteo spoke again, this time to Rafael. “She’s bold. I like her.”
Rafael’s voice was quiet but laced with steel. “I don’t care what you like.”
The smile lingered, but Matteo didn’t push further. Instead, he turned slightly, looking past us toward the large doors. “Well. Looks like the guest of honor’s finally decided to show.”
I followed his gaze instinctively—but before I could make out who was approaching, Rafael’s voice cut softly beside me. “Stay close.”
He didn’t look at me when he said it. But I felt it all the same.
Rafael’s words echoed in my mind even as the crowd shifted around us, parting just enough to reveal the man who had just walked in.
Tall. Composed. His presence didn’t announce itself—itdemandedattention without needing to say a word. His suit was tailored so precisely it looked like the fabric had been carved directly onto him, and his dark hair was brushed back with an elegance that made him look almost regal—if kings had hearts carved from ice.
He walked with the kind of authority that didn’t come from noise or bravado. It came from blood.
Lorenzo Silvani.
I didn’t know him, not really. Only what Rafael had told me in passing. He was a Don. A player. Powerful enough to make people disappear without lifting a finger. Untouchable, in the way people who think they’ve escaped consequence always are. But as his gaze moved through the room, pausing briefly on people like they were items on a list to be checked, my stomach twisted.
There was something about him. Something familiar that I couldn’t place. Not in features. Not in voice. Not in any logical sense. But something…off.
Rafael stayed rooted beside me, body like stone, but I felt the way his muscles tensed, his stance shifting subtly as Lorenzo made his way across the room. Toward us.
No. Toward Matteo.
And Rafael didn’t stop him.
Matteo didn’t move. He stood there, one hand still in his pocket, the other lifting a glass of untouched champagne to his lips. He didn’t sip it. Just held it. Like the moment didn’t warrant the pleasure of tasting anything.
Lorenzo stopped a few feet away, and suddenly the air felt too tight, like the walls were inching inward.
“Matteo,” Lorenzo said, his voice smooth and low—but laced with the same disdain you’d reserve for a stain that wouldn’t come out no matter how hard you scrubbed.
Matteo looked at him slowly, that calm amusement never leaving his face. “Father,” he replied, the word laced with mockery so thick it might as well have been poison.
A muscle in Lorenzo’s jaw ticked. “Didn’t realize we were letting in strays tonight,” he said coolly, glancing once at Yuriand then at me—briefly, like I was a prop in the background, not a person.
“Funny,” Matteo said, smiling faintly, “I was just thinking the same thing. Must be hard to keep track of your guest list when half the people here are only loyal until someone offers them better wine.”
