Chapter 8 - Scars Beneath the Silk
Three days passed in blissful, uninterrupted quiet.
With Salvatore gone and his loyalists completely dismantled overnight, the tension that had choked the city for months evaporated into thin air. The Ferrara syndicate had closed ranks behind Matteo with absolute, undisputed loyalty. No one dared whisper a word of dissent.
I spent my days resting in the sunlit solarium on the third floor of the estate, surrounded by blooming white orchids and warm sunlight. My morning sickness had subsided, and my appetite had returned with a vengeance, catered to by Rosa’s endless parade of homemade Italian delicacies.
Yet, despite the luxurious peace, an emotional chasm still remained between me and Matteo.
He was home every evening by six, having dinner with me, inquiring about my health, ensuring every craving was met. But he kept a deliberate, respectful distance. He slept in the guest room down the hall. He kissed my forehead, touched my hand, but treated me as if I were made of spun glass that would shatter if he held me too close.
I couldn't take the silence anymore.
Late on a Tuesday evening, I walked down the hall to his private study. The door was slightly ajar, spilling amber light across the hardwood floor.
I pushed the door open quietly.
Matteo was sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, a glass of amber scotch resting untouched beside a stack of shipping contracts. He had his shirt off, sitting in the warm glow of the desk lamp while redressing a bandage on his shoulder from the dock firefight.
I gasped softly.
In the hospital suite months ago, I had only seen his forearm. Now, looking at his bare back and chest, I saw the true cost of his life.
Scars crisscrossed his golden skin—bullet wounds, shrapnel marks, and long, jagged knife scars that told stories of a dozen near-fatal encounters. But what took my breath away wasn't the violence etched into his skin; it was the sheer vulnerability of the man sitting alone with his wounds.
Matteo snapped his head toward the door, his eyes widening as he scrambled to pull a dark silk robe over his shoulders. "Sera! You shouldn't be up. Is something wrong? Are you having cramps?"
"Stop hiding from me, Matteo," I said softly, stepping into the room and closing the door behind me.
I walked straight up to him. Before he could pull the robe shut, I reached out and gently laid my hands against his chest, right over a faded scar near his collarbone.
Matteo stiffened, his breath hitching in his throat. His hands hovered at his sides, trembling with the effort of not touching me. "Sera... don't look at this. It's ugly. My world is ugly."
"It's you," I whispered, stepping closer until my body brushed against his. "Every scar is proof that you survived. Proof that you came back to me."
"I am a violent man, Sera," he murmured, his voice cracking with self-loathing. "I took a life three nights ago. I will take ten more if anyone threatens you. You deserve a saint. A teacher. A normal man who can walk you down the street in the sunshine without looking over his shoulder."
I looked up into his tormented brown eyes, cupping his strong, stubbled jaw with both hands.
"I don't want a saint, Matteo," I said, my voice ringing with total certainty. "I want the man who shielded me with his own body in that garage. I want the man who wept on his knees when he heard our baby's heartbeat. I want the father of my child."
Matteo’s composure shattered.
With a low, desperate groan, his arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me flush against his hard body. He buried his face into the crook of my neck, inhaling my scent like a drowning man finally breaking the surface of the water.
"I love you, Sera," he confessed against my skin, the words pouring out like a dam bursting. "I loved you on that balcony in the rain. I loved you every day I forced myself to stay away. And I will love you until the day my heart stops beating."
May you like
Tears of pure happiness welled in my eyes as I tangled my fingers in his thick, dark hair. "Then stop pushing me away. Let me love you back."
That night, for the first time, he carried me back to the master bed—not as a fragile patient, but as the woman who held his soul. We lay together under the sheets, his warm hand resting over our baby, our breaths mingling in the quiet dark until sleep finally took us both.
