Matteo woke up slow.
Too slow.
The first thing he noticed was the silence—thick, expensive silence, the kind that hummed in his ears instead of ringing. The second thing was the bed.
Not his bed.
The sheets were impossibly soft, smooth beneath his fingers when he shifted. Satin or silk or something equally stupidly expensive. The mattress cradled him instead of sagging, like it was designed to make people forget where they were.
That alone made his stomach twist.
"…Fuck," he muttered, still tasting the feeling of Aleksanders cock shoved down his throat.
Memory crept in—not all at once, but in sharp, humiliating flashes. The penthouse. Aleksander's voice. The heat. The choices he definitely hadn't planned on making and now couldn't un-make.
Matteo squeezed his eyes shut.
Nope. No. Not dealing with that yet.
He rolled onto his side, then froze.
His face burned.
A low, disbelieving laugh slipped out of him as he dragged a hand down over his mouth.
"I cannot believe I did that," he whispered. "Why didn't I just bite his fucking dick off?"
A guy.
A man.
A mafia boss with control issues and a god complex.
His ears felt hot. His neck felt hot. Everything felt hot in the worst possible way.
"Jesus Christ," Matteo groaned, burying his face in the pillow. "I'm fucking insane."
And yet—annoyingly—his chest felt tight for reasons that weren't just anger.
That pissed him off even more.
He shoved himself upright and immediately regretted it as the room came into focus. The bedroom was massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in pale morning light, spilling over dark wood, marble accents, clean lines. Everything screamed Aleksander—controlled, polished, intimidating.
The other side of the bed was empty.
Cold.
Good.
"Of course you're gone," Matteo muttered. "Fucking cunt."
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, grabbing the nearest clothes he could find—simple black pants, a loose shirt that definitely wasn't his. He didn't care. He just needed fabric between himself and his thoughts.
The bathroom door was open.
He went straight for it.
The moment he caught sight of himself in the mirror, he winced.
Messy hair. Tired eyes. A faint flush still clinging stubbornly to his cheeks no matter how hard he glared at his reflection.
"You're an idiot," he told himself flatly.
He grabbed the toothbrush.
Then brushed.
And brushed.
And brushed again.
Hard enough that his gums started to sting.
Rinse. Spit. Repeat.
"Disgusting," he muttered, scrubbing his tongue like he could erase memory itself.
When he finally stopped, his mouth tasted like mint and bitterness. He leaned forward, gripping the sink, breathing out slowly until his pulse settled.
"…Get a grip," he said quietly. "You survived. That's it. End of story."
Except it wasn't.
Because he was still here.
Dressed. Awake. Alone.
Matteo stepped out of the bedroom and into the mansion proper.
The place was eerily quiet—no guards, no voices, no movement. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, glinting off polished surfaces. Every room looked deliberate, like no one actually lived here.
He wandered without thinking, bare feet echoing softly against marble floors. A sitting room. A dining space with a table long enough to seat a dozen people who probably feared the man at its head. Shelves lined with books he doubted anyone touched.
Control everywhere.
It crawled under his skin.
Finally, at the end of a long corridor, he stopped.
One door.
Dark wood. Minimal design. Closed.
Must be Aleksander's office.
Matteo stared at it, jaw tightening, heart thudding harder than he wanted it to.
Anger flared—hot, familiar, grounding.
"Yeah," he muttered, squaring his shoulders. "We're not done... not until I find something to fuck you over."
He stood there, facing the door, caught between fury and something far more uncomfortable—
The certainty that whatever came next would change things again.