Matteo
Hotel Palacio del Lobo — Madrid
She had no idea who he was.
That alone made her dangerous.
Sofía Delgado.
A name that now repeated itself in Matteo's mind like a prayer and a curse.
He stood shirtless in front of the mirror, wiping condensation from the glass with his towel. His body was sculpted from years of violence muscles built not for display, but survival. Scars. Marks. Every inch told a story of the things he had done, the enemies he'd buried.
But tonight, all he saw in the mirror were her eyes.
Soft. Unafraid. Curious.
Sixteen.
He closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. "Jódete, Matteo."
This wasn't supposed to happen. He didn't look twice at girls not real ones. He used women when he needed them. Expensive ones. Disposable ones. But this girl…
She made him hesitate.
Made him sit still.
Made him wait.
She didn't flirt. She didn't giggle. She barely looked at him, but when she did just for a second he felt it. That heat. That slow ache beneath his skin.
Not lust. Something worse.
Obsession.
He returned the next day.
And the next.
Never asking too much. Just watching. Listening to her voice. Counting how many times she smiled, even if it wasn't at him.
She didn't wear makeup. Her hair was usually tied up, a few strands falling loose. Her clothes were simple jeans, soft sweaters, an apron. But he noticed everything.
The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous.
The tiny scar near her left eyebrow.
The ink smudge on her finger from the pen she always carried.
Each detail fed his hunger.
On the fourth visit, she spoke to him first.
"¿Está bien su café?"
He almost smiled. "Perfect. Like always."
She looked down, but he caught the faintest curve of her lips.
Progress.
That night, he followed her.
Not close enough to alarm her just enough to know. He needed to see where she lived. Who she spoke to. If anyone touched her. If anyone looked at her the way he did.
She walked with her grandmother. Slow. Polite. The kind of life he hadn't seen in years quiet, untouched by the filth he lived in.
He saw her bedroom light go on.
Saw her silhouette behind the curtain.
Watched it for ten minutes.
Then left.
Not because he wanted to. But because if he stayed, he'd do something dangerous.
The following afternoon, he sat in his usual seat.
She brought him the coffee before he could order.
"I remembered," she said softly.
He looked up at her, truly looked. Her eyes were tired. Maybe she hadn't slept. Maybe he wasn't the only one haunted by this strange… thing between them.
"Do you write?" he asked suddenly.
She blinked. "What?"
"You always have a pen. Ink on your fingers. You write."
Her cheeks flushed, and she nodded slowly. "Poetry."
Of course she did. Of course the girl who looked like spring rain and silence would write poetry.
"I'd like to read one."
She hesitated. "They're… private."
He leaned forward. Just enough to make her breath catch.
"Everything worth reading is."
Their eyes locked.
Neither moved.
And for the first time, Matteo felt the burn of impatience in his blood. He wanted more. He wanted to hear her voice at night. Wanted to know what made her cry, what made her laugh. He wanted to own every second of her day.
Too young, the voice in his head whispered.
But the wolf in his chest growled louder.
He would wait.
But not forever.
That night, she left a folded paper beneath his cup.
One line, written in looping script:
"You look like the kind of man who never forgets a sin."
He read it five times before slipping it into his jacket.
Then he smiled.
A real one.