Angela stepped out of the store's restroom, her hands trembling despite her effort to steady them. She didn't need a mirror to know she looked pale and shaken—her chest tight, her pulse racing, her body aching with anxiety.
The moment she pushed the door open, Matteo's bodyguard, Luca, was waiting.
He tilted his head slightly. "Are you alright, ma'am?"
Angela forced a tight smile and gave a slight nod. "Yeah. Just… needed a moment."
Luca didn't look convinced, but he didn't press. Instead, he quietly fell in step behind her as they made their way to the car.
On the drive back, Angela spoke up. "Can we stop somewhere for coffee?"
Minutes later, they pulled up outside a quiet café on a corner street. Angela stepped inside, her heels clicking against the tiled floor, and ordered an iced coffee. Something cold. Something to numb the hot panic that still burned beneath her skin.
When she returned to the car, coffee in hand, Luca looked at her again through the rearview mirror.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
This time, the question snapped her fraying composure. "I said I'm fine," she snapped, harsher than she meant. Luca blinked but said nothing.
Angela took a deep breath and looked out the window, avoiding his gaze. Her hand tightened around the cup, and the plastic creaked beneath her grip.
"I want to go to my old place," she said suddenly. "Take me there. I want to see my sister."
The drive stretched in tense silence, the city passing in a blur as Angela's mind churned. Lorenzo's threats still echoed in her ears—his fingers tracing her collarbone, his voice a poisonous whisper promising ruin if she slipped.
By the time they pulled up outside the modest apartment building, her heart was pounding again.
Angela stepped out and headed up the familiar stairs. The door opened before she could knock.
Her younger brother, Jace, beamed the moment he saw her. "Angela!"
She smiled, her heart swelling despite everything, and bent to hug him tightly. He clung to her with small arms that had grown thinner, but his eyes were brighter today, more alert. He looked… better.
Inside, her sister Alexandra sat on the worn couch, a laptop in her lap. She didn't rise. She just stared.
"Surprised to see you," Alexandra said flatly.
Angela straightened, unsure how to respond. She sat beside Jace, brushing his hair back fondly. "I had some time. Wanted to check in."
Alexandra shut the laptop with a click. "Check in? You disappear into the arms of a mafia king and just decide to drop by like it's nothing?"
Angela's jaw tightened. "It's not like that."
"Then what is it like, Angela?" Alexandra snapped. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you left us to play trophy wife to a dangerous man."
"I'm doing this for us!" Angela hissed, rising to her feet.
"Are you?" Alexandra stood too, face flushed. "Because all I see is you lying to us, wrapped up in whatever hell you've gotten yourself into. Is he hurting you? Controlling you? Or are you just pretending this whole thing is love now?"
Angela's breath caught. "You don't understand. You don't know what I've had to do, what I'm still doing."
"No, I don't," Alexandra said bitterly. "Because you won't tell me."
Jace sat silently, his eyes darting between them, wide and scared.
Angela stepped back, her voice softer now. "I didn't come here to fight. I just wanted to see you both."
She pulled out a thick envelope of cash from her bag and placed it on the table.
"For the rent. And Jace's medication."
Alexandra stared at it but didn't touch it. "That blood money won't make things right."
Angela looked away. "I have to go."
Jace hugged her again, tighter this time. "Don't stay gone too long," he whispered.
Her throat tightened. "I won't," she said, lying through her teeth.
The ride back to Matteo's estate was quiet. When Angela walked inside, the silence of the house greeted her like an old friend. Still no sign of Matteo.
She made her way to the kitchen and opened the cabinets. She wasn't particularly hungry, but she needed to do something—anything—to get her mind off Lorenzo's threats and Alexandra's accusations.
Cooking seemed like the only option.
She rolled up her sleeves and started pulling ingredients out—garlic, onions, pasta, tomatoes. The familiar motions soothed her: chopping, stirring, the sizzle of oil in the pan. The kitchen filled with warm scents, and for a brief moment, it felt almost normal. Like a life she could almost pretend belonged to her.
By the time the pasta was simmering, the front door opened.
Angela froze, hands gripping the counter.
Matteo stepped inside, sharp and cold in a black three piece tuxedo, his presence immediately swallowing the room.
He didn't say anything at first. He just looked at her—his wife in an oversized shirt, barefoot, hair pulled up haphazardly, standing in his kitchen like she belonged there.
His lips curved.
"Buona sera, moglie," he said in a rich, velvety voice.
Angela blinked. She only understood good evening and wife, but that was enough. "Good evening," she replied softly.
His eyes flicked to the pan. "You cooked."
"I thought I'd pass the time."
He stepped closer, slowly, until the scent of his cologne and presence wrapped around her. Then, in a low, teasing voice, he murmured something in Italian. His eyes swept over her, amused, dark, almost predatory.
Angela frowned. "What did you say?"
His smirk deepened. "I said you look good enough to eat, princess."
She rolled her eyes and turned back to the stove, pretending she hadn't just felt a shiver race down her spine.
Matteo moved to the living room and loosened his tie. "So did you go out today?"
Angela turned, brows lifted. "Yes, I did?"
He tilted his head, his gaze sharp. "Nice."
And then, just like that, he disappeared into his study.
Angela leaned on the counter, pulse quickening.
Lorenzo. Alexandra. Lies. Secrets. Threats.
But none of that mattered right now.
Right now, the storm outside hadn't hit yet.
But it was coming.
And she was in the eye of it.