Chapter 4 - The Game of Phantoms
The dinner ended in a hurried, panicked blur. Within ten minutes of Matteo’s arrival, Victor Vance made a hurried excuse about an early morning meeting, tossing his napkin onto his plate and practically sprinting for the front doors, trailed by three of his nervous lieutenants. The Rinaldi capos followed suit, scattering like roaches when the kitchen light is flipped on, muttering hurried apologies and desperate professions of loyalty.
Only Celeste remained, standing rigidly at the far end of the long mahogany table, her chest heaving beneath her ivory dress.
"You ruined it," she hissed once the heavy oak doors had clicked shut behind the last of their guests, leaving the vast dining hall echoing with silence. "You absolute fool. Victor was bringing three million dollars in port concessions to the table! He was going to secure our financial future!"
Matteo sat motionless, slowly swirling the dark red wine in his crystal glass. He didn't look at her; he watched the ruby liquid catch the light of the blazing chandelier.
"Our financial future?" Matteo asked quietly. "You mean your financial future with Victor."
"You're paralyzed, Matteo!" Celeste shrieked, the veneer of polite society finally shattering completely, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. "You can’t walk! You can’t protect your territories! Every rival syndicate in the Tri-State area knows you're vulnerable! If I don't secure alliances, we are all dead meat!"
Matteo took a slow sip of the wine, savoring the rich, earthy notes before setting the glass down on the small tray attached to his wheelchair. Then, slowly, he turned his head to look at her. His eyes were completely devoid of warmth.
"A bullet broke my spine, Celeste. It didn't touch my brain, and it didn't touch my trigger finger," Matteo said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "And more importantly, it didn't change the fact that every man in this city fears my name more than they respect your ambition."
"You're delusional," she spat, her eyes flashing with pure hatred. "You're trapped in that chair, and you think you're still a king. You're a prisoner in your own mansion."
"Then leave," Matteo replied simply.
Celeste froze. She stared at him, her mouth slightly open. "What?"
"You heard me," Matteo said, leaning back against the leather cushion of his chair. "Pack your bags, take your jewelry, and walk out those front doors tonight. Because if you're still in this house by sunrise, I won't treat you as a fiancée. I’ll treat you as an enemy combatant."
Celeste’s face drained of all color. She opened her mouth to argue, to threaten, to lash out, but one look into Matteo’s unblinking, predatory eyes silenced her instantly. She turned on her heel, her silk dress rustling furiously, and stormed out of the dining room, her footsteps echoing sharply down the grand marble hallway.
When the heavy front doors slammed shut downstairs, the mansion finally fell into a deep, heavy quiet.
Elena stepped out from the shadows near the pantry doors, her expression unreadable. She walked over to the table, picked up a stray linen napkin, and began clearing away the empty glasses.
"That was aggressive," Elena observed calmly.
"That was necessary," Matteo replied, exhaling a long, slow breath that seemed to carry months of pent-up frustration out of his lungs. He looked up at her, noticing for the first time the subtle dark circles under her own eyes. "You didn't have to stay in the room, Elena. You're a nurse, not a bodyguard."
"I was making sure nobody did anything stupid," Elena said, setting the glasses down on a silver tray. She walked over behind his wheelchair and rested her hands lightly on the handles. "Besides, I don't like bullies. And Mr. Vance has the posture of a man who’s never taken a punch in his life."
A genuine, rare chuckle escaped Matteo’s chest—a low, rumbling sound that felt foreign even to him.
May you like
"You have a very strange definition of patient care, Miss Marlowe."
"I treat the whole patient, Mr. Rinaldi," she replied smoothly, beginning to push his chair back toward the private elevator. "And right now, your primary symptom is a lack of strategic momentum. Up to the office. We have work to do."
