MATTEO
I pushed myself off the floor, the metallic taste of my own blood sparking something primal in my gut. I didn't just want to hit him. I didn't want a fair fight. I wanted to dismantle him, piece by pathetic piece, until there was nothing left but a warning for the next fool who thought a Ricci was a target.
I let out a low, predatory chuckle that silenced the remaining whispers in the room. The air grew heavy, thick with the kind of ozone that precedes a storm. "Well… looks like tonight just became mandatory viewing," I muttered, my voice dropping into that register that usually preceded a funeral.
The fool stood there, chest puffed out, still riding the high of a lucky shot. He didn't realize that he'd just signed his own death warrant. "I paid for her, specifically, you asshole! Who the hell do you think..."
I didn't let him finish. I didn't have the patience for the barking of a dog.
I pushed the brim of my fedora up, letting the harsh, flickering club lights expose my face. The moment he saw the cold, dead eyes of a Ricci staring back at him, his "impotent fury" evaporated. It turned into a death rattle right there in his throat.
"Ma… Matteo Ricci?"
"In the flesh," I whispered, the words a cold promise.
I didn't wait. I rolled my jaw once, feeling the dull ache of the bruise he'd gifted me, and exploded forward. I didn't use a weapon. I didn't need one. I wanted to feel the bone break under my own skin. My fist collided with his face with the force of a sledgehammer hitting a wall. The crack of his nose shattering wasn't enough to satisfy the itch in my blood. As he stumbled back, eyes rolling, I grabbed his expensive lapels and drove my knee into his ribs with everything I had. I felt the snap, the air leaving his lungs in a pathetic, wet wheeze.
He hit the marble like a sack of leaking garbage, a heap of expensive fabric and broken pride. But I wasn't done. Mercy was a concept for the church, and I hadn't been to confession in over a decade.
I stepped over him, my heavy Italian boot coming down hard on his throat. I didn't just press; I crushed. I watched his eyes bulge, his hands clawing uselessly at my custom slacks, leaving desperate streaks of blood on the dark fabric. I enjoyed the sound of his windpipe straining under my heel. I wanted him to see the abyss before he died. I wanted him to know exactly who was sending him there.
"You just had to pick the wrong fucking day to test me, dog," I hissed, my voice low and vibrating with a lethal, terrifying calm.
My men moved in from the shadows, hands on their holsters, ready to finish the job for me. I didn't even look at them. My focus was entirely on the man dying beneath my boot. "Back off," I commanded. "This one is mine."
I reached into my jacket, my fingers curling around the textured, cold grip of my gun. I was going to paint this marble with his brains. I wanted the spray to reach the front row. I wanted every person in this club to remember the cost of touching a Ricci for the rest of their lives.
I was seconds away from pulling the trigger, the hammer of the gun ready to strike, when I felt it.
A hand. On my back.
It wasn't a desperate grab. It wasn't a clawing plea for mercy. It was soft. Warm. An anchor in the middle of my blinding blood-lust. Everything froze. The music, the terrified gasps, the very pulse in my neck. I turned slowly, my thumb still hovering over the safety of my piece, the rage still boiling in my veins.
And there she was. Masked.
Sin.
She was closer than I expected. She stood there in the wreckage of the fight, her eyes holding that same quiet, dark fire I'd seen on the stage. The red club lights caught the edges of her hair, making her look like a saint standing in the middle of a slaughterhouse.
"You can have me, Matteo," she said.
Her voice wasn't a plea. It wasn't the sound of a woman begging for a man's life. It was a trade. A smooth, dark purr that cut right through the ringing in my ears. Every word rolled off her tongue like a promise of something filthy and addictive, something that promised more heat than the barrel of my gun.
She stepped into my space, closing the gap until our chests were inches apart. I could smell her...vanilla and something sharp, like ozone before a storm. She leaned in, her lips brushing the sensitive skin just below my ear, sending a jolt of raw electricity straight to my gut that threatened to undo my last shred of discipline.
"Tell me where you want to fuck me," she whispered.