Chapter 3 - The Heir of the Syndicate and the First Test
Matteo DeLuca was not what I expected.
When Carlo reluctantly led me down the eastern corridor and unlocked the heavy oak doors of the family library, I expected to find a paranoid heir hiding in a panic room surrounded by armed enforcers.
Instead, I found Matteo sitting sideways in a deep leather armchair with one long leg slung casually over the armrest, deeply engrossed in a thick Italian novel as though his life weren't carrying a heavy bounty on its head.
He looked up when my boots clicked against the hardwood floor. His gaze swept deliberately from my face down to my sensible shoes, and then back up to my eyes.
"Ah. You must be the new shadow," Matteo said, his voice rich, smooth, and laced with an amused, effortless irony.
"Mia Callaway," I introduced myself, stepping into the room and immediately positioning myself with my back to the structural pillar that commanded a view of both windows and the door.
"You’re considerably smaller than the last brute my father assigned to me," Matteo remarked, turning a page of his book. "He looked like he ate protein powder for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. What do you eat? Anxiety?"
"I eat tactical awareness, Mr. DeLuca," I replied, scanning the perimeter of the room. "And you appear significantly less concerned about your imminent demise than your father’s intelligence files suggested."
The corner of his mouth curved upward into a slow, dangerous smile. "People have wanted me dead since I was nineteen years old, Miss Callaway. If I spent every waking second hyperventilating over it, I’d never finish a good book."
"Ignoring a verified assassination plot is not a sign of bravery, Mr. DeLuca. It’s a sign of terminal arrogance."
Matteo closed his book with a soft thud, resting it against his knee. He rose slowly from the chair. Up close, the photograph in my briefing file hadn't done justice to his height, the broad expanse of his shoulders, or the coiled, predatory grace in his movements. He moved like a panther raised in captivity—smooth, calculated, and dangerously fast.
"Are you always this aggressively direct?" he asked, tilting his head.
"Indirect people waste precious seconds. In my line of work, seconds translate directly into fatal injuries."
Matteo let out a short, rich laugh. "Fair enough. Can you actually handle yourself in a physical altercation, or do you just talk like an instructor at a self-defense seminar?"
"Would you like to find out right now?" I challenged, meeting his gaze squarely.
His eyes danced with sudden, sharp interest. "Not quite enough to risk breaking my favorite antique furniture or explaining to my father why my bodyguard put me in a chokehold."
He tossed his leather jacket over his shoulder and walked toward the doorway where I stood guard.
"Why did you accept this assignment, Mia Callaway?" he asked softly as he drew close enough that I could catch the faint scent of cedarwood and expensive cologne. "My father made his primitive, misogynistic opinions abundantly clear before you even walked through the front door."
"Because he told me I couldn't do it," I answered honestly.
Matteo stopped, staring down at me in surprise. His smile faded into something much deeper, much more thoughtful.
"Carlo told me you completely destroyed a heavy metal trash can during your initial physical interview at the agency," he noted, a teasing glint returning to his eyes.
My shoulders tightened reflexively. "Carlo is a gossipy old-school enforcer who lacks operational discretion."
"He also mentioned that you flat-out contradicted my father in his own private study," Matteo added, stepping past me into the hallway. "Nobody has done that inside this house since my uncle tried to stage a coup ten years ago. You have nerve, Miss Callaway."
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"Nerve doesn't stop a hollow-point bullet, Mr. DeLuca. Precision does."
"Come on," he said over his shoulder, gesturing for me to follow. "Let’s walk the grounds. Let's see what else your miraculous little eyes notice."
