Emilio couldn't shake the chill Luca left behind.
The way the man had looked at him like a puzzle he was already pulling apart piece by piece stayed in his mind long after he disappeared down the street.
Back in the pastry shop, the familiar scent of vanilla and cinnamon failed to soothe him. The clatter of trays, the warm hum of ovens, the rhythm of the staff it all felt wrong. Like someone had moved the furniture in his life just enough to make him stumble.
He was rearranging the almond croissants when Matteo walked in through the back door like a storm barely contained in a suit.
"Why are you out front?" Matteo's voice was low, taut.
Emilio raised an eyebrow. "Because I work here? You know, a job?"
"You should've waited for me."
"I'm not a child, Matteo."
"No," he agreed, stepping close, close enough that Emilio had to tilt his head back to meet his eyes. "But you are mine. And that means no one touches you. No one even looks at you the wrong way without answering to me."
Emilio swallowed. Hard. There was something in Matteo's eyes red flame barely cloaked in ice. Not just protectiveness. Not just possessiveness.
Rage.
Luca had shaken something inside him.
"You think Luca will come back?" Emilio asked, softer now.
"I think he never left."
Matteo reached into his coat, pulled out a small silver device, and handed it to Emilio. "You press this if anything feels wrong. If someone so much as breathes funny near you."
Emilio stared at it. "You're giving me a panic button?"
"A lifeline," Matteo corrected, jaw tightening.
The air shifted.
Outside, the sun was bright and golden. Inside, the walls felt too close.
That night, Matteo insisted Emilio stay with him again.
And Emilio didn't protest.
He could pretend it was because the penthouse had better security. But in truth? He wanted the safety of Matteo's arms, the illusion of control Matteo wore like second skin.
But the illusion cracked as soon as Matteo stepped onto a call.
Emilio sat on the edge of the bed, fingers tangled in the hem of his borrowed shirt, eavesdropping through the open bathroom door.
"…He got too close. I warned him."
Luca.
"…I don't care who sent him. You tell them if they lay one more finger on him, I'll burn their entire operation to the ground."
Silence.
Then Matteo's voice, lower, colder: "This isn't about turf anymore. This is about mine."
Emilio's stomach twisted.
He'd known Matteo was powerful. Dangerous. Capable of terrible things.
But hearing it? Hearing the threat wrapped in velvet steel?
It was different.
When Matteo reappeared, his expression softened the moment he saw Emilio.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice roughened by stress. "You weren't supposed to get caught up in this."
"Too late for that, isn't it?" Emilio tried to sound teasing and light but his voice shook.
Matteo moved to him, cupping his face with both hands, thumbs brushing gently along his cheekbones. "You make me weak."
"That's not very mafia of you."
Matteo gave a ghost of a smile. "I'd kill the world to keep you safe."
"You don't need to kill anyone, Matteo," Emilio whispered. "Just… don't lose yourself."
Matteo didn't answer.
And that silence said everything.
The next morning, the city woke up to headlines:
Mafia Lieutenant Found Dead in Alley Behind Italian Restaurant.
No suspects. No witnesses. No mercy.
Emilio's breath hitched as he read the article.
He didn't ask Matteo if it was him.
And Matteo didn't offer the truth.
Because in this world, truth was the first thing to die.