IV. Why are you so nervous?

I feel my heart skip a beat and look at Cesare, surprised, my eyes slightly wide, trying to pull away a bit.

But his hand tightens on the back of my neck, forcing me to look at Matteo instead, who’s just as surprised; his thick eyebrows lift, his lips part, and his eyes shift from Cesare to me…

Then, Matteo’s expression hardens.

The momentary surprise turns into a cold, calculated rage—the same expression he had before deciding to make my suffering his favorite pastime.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Matteo sneers, pulling in his lower lip and licking it with a kind of impatient, almost anxious frustration. “You think I picked up my dick in the trash just to react to this boring-ass bitch?”

My eyes narrow, locking onto Matteo’s. He smirks, sarcastically and arrogantly, truly believing I can’t affect him.

But shouldn’t he know better?

Cesare leans in slightly, his voice low and threatening, saying, “I’m not repeating myself.”

He finally releases me, but I can still feel the heat of his hand on my skin—firm and commanding. His body stays close, just inches away, doing nothing to stop his scent from clinging to me.

So, I finally move, sliding away, my hand grazing the wood as I circle the table and step toward Matteo.

The demon’s shoulders tense, and his breathing suddenly becomes heavy. His eyes track me, and with each step closing the gap between us, their brown color deepens, darkening and becoming more menacing.

Matteo tilts his head slightly when I finally stop nearby, arms crossed so tightly it’s like he’s strapped into a straitjacket. I can’t tell if he’s trying to hold back the fury I stir in him, or that other tension he’d rather die than admit.

I lean over the back of Matteo’s chair, slowly bending forward, my breasts pressing against the upholstery. My hands grip the wooden edges, nails digging in dangerously close to his broad shoulders, but I don’t actually touch him. If I moved my fingertips down just a little, I’d feel the texture of his shirt…

But I don’t.

Because Cesare said no touching.

And I know that no man in all of Sicily takes things more literally than Cesare Romano.

Matteo drums his fingers against his own biceps, impatience simmering like a ticking bomb, but he doesn’t stop me. He also knows better than to defy Cesare.

I take a deep breath and lean in even closer, near his neck.

“If I don’t get under your skin, Matteo,” I whisper, voice soft and velvety, meant only for his ears. “Why are you so nervous?”

“Nervous?” he scoffs, but the ending comes out a bit muffled—a sound he tries to hide with a mocking laugh. “You think way too highly of yourself, Marina.”

The slightly rough way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine that I quickly try to suppress, reminding myself of every insult and every time Matteo gave me a reason to hate him. Because there’s no way I’ll let these brothers mess with my head again.

My body is trained now. My body answers to me—not a Romano.

Matteo shifts slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if my closeness requires effort to ignore. A muscle jumps in his jaw, betraying the control he’s trying to keep.

“You really think this affects me?” he says, so lowly it’s almost a whisper, still not looking at me. His eyes are fixed on some spot on the far wall. “You think you can get me hard with only those poisonous little words?”

I pull back, still gripping his chair tightly, but before he can breathe easy or relax, I perch myself on the edge of the table, right in front of him.

My thighs brush against his leg, and he looks down. It was just for a second, but long enough to make it clear that, accidentally—or maybe not so accidentally—I’ve bent one of Cesare’s rules.

When he looks back up, slowly, without moving his head, I feel a new goosebump run down my spine.

I think he’s about to say something, but his lips only form a slight, dangerously provoking smirk. His chin remains high, arms still crossed, but something about his posture has shifted.

It says more “careful” than “I’ll kill you”.

So, I lift one leg slowly and place my stiletto right between his legs, sinking into the chair cushion. But Matteo doesn’t move, doesn’t drop his head, doesn’t even glance down. His eyes stay locked on mine, blinking slowly—too slowly.

Cesare is quiet, but I can feel the weight of his gaze on me. I know for sure he notices how my heel slips just a little, until my toes are near Matteo’s groin. I don’t go any further. I wouldn’t dare touch, not even risk a warning. This should be enough.

I lean forward gently until my face is close to Matteo’s, and I notice his breathing getting heavier. He tilts his face slightly toward mine, mingling our breaths, but he wouldn’t dare break the distance between our lips.

Not with everything on the line.

Not without crushing his pride.

I sigh, and he clenches his jaw even tighter. I can even hear his teeth grinding. That makes me smile faintly and lean in to his ear.

“Matteo,” I whisper, knowing for sure that my words are meant only for him. “If I moan right now, real soft, like I did that night... what are you going to do?”

“You fucking bitch,” he growls between his teeth.

“That’s not what you said when I was on top of you,” I sigh again, deliberately letting my warm breath hit a spot I know is sensitive. “What was it you said back then? You sounded more desperate than this.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he growls again, but this time, it’s not entirely angry-sounding—it’s pure, thick frustration. “Or I’m going to make you choke on those fucking words.”

“On my words?” I chuckle under my breath. “You sure I’m gonna choke on them?”

Matteo takes a deep breath. Very, very deep. His body tenses up more than it should as he closes his eyes, trying to cage the beast inside him and keep his instincts in check—whether to kill me right here or take me on this table.

When his eyes open again and I pull back just enough to meet them, I feel my body betray me once more. The intensity in his stare makes my chest tighten dangerously.

Whatever his instincts are telling him, it doesn’t matter; mine are screaming that this is dangerous and I should run. But running isn’t an option. Not from Matteo, not from Cesare, not from the Romanos. I can see that now.

The only way is to fight for myself.

Because, in the end, no one else will do it for me.

I look at Matteo’s lips, no longer smirking.

There’s no trace of arrogance or mockery.

“You shouldn’t be provoking me like this,” Matteo says quietly, his eyes dropping to my lips this time. “Because if I break Cesare’s fucking rule right now, Marina… you know damn well there won’t be anything left of you for that Bianchi piece of shit.”

He leans in just a little—barely—but even that is enough for his heat to reach me. Too close for our own good. Too familiar for my liking.

Matteo’s eyes, locked onto mine, now glistening and intense, can’t hide the wild, repressed thing burning behind them.

“I’m not kidding,” he insists, hoarsely, voice heavy with barely contained fury and suppressed desire. “If you keep going with this stupid idea… I swear to God…”

“What?” My own voice sounds lower, softer than it should. And I hate myself for it, for the weakness flowing through my body. “Hate me more? Fuck me? Or beg for more, like you did?”

The word beg snaps between us like a slap to Matteo’s face—a direct hit to his pride that makes him abandon caution and reason. His hand suddenly grips my throat in a sharp, firm move.

His fingers press just enough to steal my air for a brief second, then ease, still holding firm in warning. He growls deep in his throat, a sound more beast than man, when he feels my pulse race, and his eyes drop to my lips.

“Let’s see who’ll fucking beg—”

“That’s enough.” Cesare’s voice cuts through the air, cold and commanding. But Matteo doesn’t let go.

His grip doesn’t falter, and neither does the fire in his eyes, threatening to consume.

“Let her go, Matteo. Now.”