Chapter 2 - Cold Coffee and Hot Steel
The next morning arrived without sunlight, merely an upgrade from pitch black to dreary slate gray. I woke up on the massive guest bed, my hand wrapped in fresh sterile gauze that Matteo had professionally dressed at 2:00 AM without speaking a single unnecessary word.
When I padded down the corridor into the open kitchen, the aroma of dark roast espresso filled the penthouse. Matteo was at the kitchen island, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, reviewing financial spreadsheets on a laptop. A cup of black coffee sat steaming beside an empty plate.
""Eat,"" he said without looking up, nodding toward a plate of toasted sourdough, scrambled eggs, and sliced avocado.
I hesitated near the doorway. Old habits died hard. In Derek's condo, breakfast was dictated: half a grapefruit and plain Greek yogurt. Eating without explicit permission earned days of silent treatment or locked pantry doors.
""Is this... for me?"" I asked, hating how fragile my voice sounded.
Matteo stopped typing. He turned his head slowly, taking in my posture—shoulders hunched, bare feet glued to the floorboards. A flicker of something dark and dangerous passed behind his eyes, though his tone remained perfectly level.
""Everything in this kitchen is accessible to anyone standing in it,"" he said. ""You don't need a hall pass to survive, Clara. Sit down.""
I took a stool opposite him, the warmth of the plate radiating against my knuckles. The first bite tasted like freedom. Real butter. Real salt. I hadn't realized how starved I was, not just for calories, but for simple dignity.
""Derek called his family attorneys at dawn,"" Matteo stated casually, taking a sip from his mug. ""He filed a missing person's report, claiming you suffered a severe psychotic break and injured yourself before fleeing. He told the Chicago Police Department that you are unstable, suicidal, and carrying stolen heirlooms.""
A gasp hitched in my throat, almost choking me. ""That’s his playbook! He isolates, discredits, and then poses as the savior who brings the poor crazy girl back into his golden cage! The police will believe him, Matteo. His father is on the board of three city hospitals, and Derek donates millions to mayoral campaigns.""
""Derek’s father owns suburban clinics,"" Matteo countered, his voice smooth like bourbon poured over ice. ""I own the judges who sign the warrants. Let him play his bureaucratic games with city hall. The moment he steps outside legal boundaries—which narcissists always do when their toys run away—he ceases being an annoyance and becomes an open target.""
""I am not a toy,"" I said, my voice firmer than it had been in two years.
Matteo paused, his gaze lingering on mine. A ghost of an approving smirk touched the corner of his lips. ""Good. Remember that when you look in the mirror. Because today, Clara Voss stops running. Today, you start building the case that burns him to the ground.""
May you like
The apartment intercom buzzed sharply. Matteo touched an earpiece, listened for three seconds, and nodded toward the hallway.
""Our guest has arrived,"" he said, rising from his chair. ""Go into the office and watch through the one-way glass. It's time you see how men like Derek are handled when they leave their safe little towers.""
