Page 57 of Shadows of Steel
That seems to rouse him fully. With a quiet sigh, he pushes himself upright, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Alright.”
I take a step back, granting him space. “Come on, get dressed and meet me downstairs.”
After lunch, he bolts back to his room, to throw on his gear and grab his bags. By the time he returns, he’s barrelling down the stairs toward me, dressed in his team kit, his last name emblazoned across the back alongside his number, nine.
At last, we make our way to the door. Whoever said women take the longest to get ready has clearly never met Mattia. The boy requires more time than even I do, and I need plenty.
Once, I overheard him singing in the shower, and if that performance was anything to go by, staging a full-blown concert evidently adds to his routine.
Outside, the heat lingers, as if the afternoon refuses to surrender to the approaching evening. It’s nearly half past four by the time we leave, and we have only minutes to make it to practice. I scan the driveway, expecting to see Piero, but he’s nowhere in sight. Instead, another man steps forward, one of Dante’s Soldati.
“Signora Salvatore.” He greets with a slight nod, his posture rigid, his tone all business.
“I’ll be taking Mattia to practice today.” I inform him.
He hesitates. “Signora, that’s not advisable—”
“You’re welcome to follow in another car, but I’m the one driving him.”
I don’t wait for further protest. Plucking the keys from his grasp, I nod at Mattia and stride toward the garage. He rushes after me, practically launching himself into the passenger seat just as I start the engine.
I arch a brow. “Are you even old enough to sit in the front?”
He yanks the seatbelt across his chest and clicks it into place, flashing me a smug grin. “Not really, but I’ve got my seatbelt on, and it’s just a short drive. So it’s fine.”
I exhale, shaking my head. “Whatever. Not like you’d listen even if I said no.”
“Exactly,” he utters, leaning back as if that settles it. “You’re not my mom, and I’m big enough to decide for myself.”
I smirk, resting a hand on the steering wheel. “Keep dreaming, kid. And let’s drop the mommy thing, we’ve already talked about that. I’m not here to boss you around. That’s your father’s role.”
He wrinkles his nose, clearly unimpressed.
We drive in comfortable silence for a few minutes before I glance at him. “I heard you got into a fight at your last practice,” I say. “Want to talk about it?”
His lips press into a thin line. “No.”
I nod, keeping my tone light. “Alright. But if you ever do, I’m here.”
He stays silent, staring out the window.
Stubborn. Just like his father.
When we arrive at the football field, the air is warm, the sky clear.
“Did you put sunscreen on?” I ask as Mattia grabs his bag.
“Yes.” He mutters before running toward the field.
I make my way to the benches, the ones reserved for matches, where parents and spectators gather to watch. As I settle in, I catch the unmistakable weight of lingering stares. Dressed in leggings, a T-shirt, and my trainers, with a cap pulled low over my face, I should blend in. But apparently, that’s not enough to go unnoticed.
A few of the mothers eye me with thinly veiled judgment, whispering among themselves, their gazes assessing. Others offer tight, artificial smiles, the kind that scream forced friendliness rather than any genuine attempt at connection. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
My shoulders tense instinctively, a reaction I can’t shake. I hate that I do this now, scan my surroundings, brace for something unseen, something lurking just beyond my reach. Sitting out in the open like this, I feel exposed. A target. And I hatehimfor it. For turning me into someone who flinches at shadows, who second-guesses every stare. Anger coils beneath my skin, hot and volatile, but I force it down. I won’t let him have that power over me.
But somehow, he does.
And I hate how weak that makes me.
