Chapter 4 - The Sound at the Door
Matteo’s hand withdrew from Grace’s face so fast it felt like a cold breeze had swept across her skin.
In a single, fluid motion that possessed none of the gentle hesitation he had shown a moment prior, he stood up. His overcoat was buttoned, his posture shifting instantly into something hard, alert, and terrifyingly efficient.
Grace sat frozen in her chair. “Matteo?”
“Stay behind the counter,” he commanded softly. His voice didn't rise, but it carried an edge of absolute authority that made her body obey before her mind could process the order.
The knock came again. Three sharp, rhythmic strikes against the reinforced glass of the door.
Matteo walked toward the entrance, his right hand slipping inside the lapel of his suit jacket. Through the rain-slicked glass, Grace could see the silhouette of a man standing on the wet pavement under the yellow glow of the streetlamp. He was wearing a dark raincoat, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.
Matteo reached the door, but he didn't unlock it. He stood two inches from the glass, his towering frame completely blocking the stranger’s view of the library’s interior—and of Grace.
“You’re out of your territory, Gianni,” Matteo said. His voice was elevated just enough to pass through the heavy wooden frame and the brass mail slot.
The man outside tilted his head up slightly. Through the rain, Grace caught a glimpse of a pale, thin face with a long scar running from the corner of his left eye down into his collar.
“Your men at the corner said you were in here,” the man named Gianni replied. His voice was thin, raspy, carrying the sharp accent of North Philadelphia. “Don Franco wants to know why you missed the four o'clock meeting in Southwark.”
“Tell Franco I had personal business,” Matteo said coldly.
Gianni let out a dry, rattling laugh that sounded like dry leaves scraping over concrete. “Personal business in a public library? Since when do you read, Matteo?” His eyes shifted, trying to peer past Matteo’s shoulder into the dim, warm interior where Grace was sitting. “Who’s in there with you?”
Matteo shifted three inches to his left, completely sealing the line of sight.
“If you step onto these stairs again without an invitation, Gianni,” Matteo said, his tone dropping into a quiet, lethal register that made the hairs on the back of Grace’s neck stand up, “I won't call Franco to complain. I’ll leave you in the alley behind 8th Street.”
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the doorway. Outside, the rain continued to pour, splashing off the granite steps. Gianni stared at Matteo through the glass for three long, agonizing seconds. The malice floating between them was palpable, a thick, toxic fog that seemed to seep under the door.
Finally, Gianni took a step backward, raising his gloved hands in a mocking gesture of surrender.
“Franco just wants to make sure we’re all on the same page about the river developments,” Gianni rasped. “Happy reading, DeLuca.”
He turned and walked down the steps, disappearing into the dark, rain-soaked length of 5th Street.
Matteo remained at the glass door for another full minute, his body rigid, watching the street until a pair of dark headlights flared at the corner and pulled away into the night.
When he finally turned around, the quiet, weary man who had unpacked almond cake ten minutes earlier was completely gone. In his place stood the head of the DeLuca family—a man whose life was built on territories, threats, and violent boundaries.
He walked back toward the circulation desk. His eyes met Grace’s, and for the first time since she had known him, he looked... guarded.
“I should leave,” he said softly.
Grace stood up, her hands resting on the edge of the oak counter to steady herself. Her heart was still pounding, but it wasn't from fear of the man with the scar. It was from the sudden, terrifying realization of the wall that had just dropped between them.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“Nobody you need to know,” Matteo replied. He picked up his gloves from the counter. “He was just delivering a message.”
“A message about you being here?” Grace stepped around the desk, coming to stand in front of him. “Matteo, he was looking for you. He was looking at me.”
Matteo stopped dressing his hands into the dark leather gloves. He looked down at her, his jaw tight, a deep crease forming between his dark eyebrows.
“He didn't see you,” Matteo said firmly. “And he won't come back here.”
“You can’t guarantee that,” Grace said softly. “You just threatened to kill a man on the front steps of a public library.”
Matteo didn't deny it. He didn't offer a smooth excuse or pretend she had misheard him. He simply stared at her, his dark eyes reflecting the dim yellow light of the reading lamps.
“This is my life, Grace,” he said quietly. “It isn't quiet. It isn't safe. And it doesn't belong in a room full of old books.”
“Then why did you bring it here?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. “Why did you bring me that book? Why did you buy me cake?”
Matteo closed the distance between them until he was standing so close she could feel the heat radiating from his chest. He reached down, his gloved fingers lightly brushing the top of the indigo book resting on the counter.
“Because for seven weeks,” he admitted, his voice rough and low, “this was the only place in Philadelphia where nobody was waiting for me to make a mistake. And because... I wanted to give you something you thought you’d lost.”
Grace looked up into his face. The danger that hovered around him was real—she had heard it in his voice at the door, seen it in the way he stood—but looking at him now, she didn't feel afraid. She felt a profound, aching sadness for a man who had to lock doors behind himself just to eat noodles in peace.
“I don't want you to leave,” she whispered.
Matteo’s eyes darkened. For a moment, she thought he was going to take her in his arms. His body leaned toward hers, his breath warm against her lips.
Then, he pulled back.
“I have to,” he said quietly. “I’ll have my men stay at the corner tonight until you lock up and get into your car.”
“Matteo—”
“I’ll see you on Saturday, Grace,” he said.
He turned and walked down the central aisle, his heavy overcoat swaying with his long strides. The front door opened, letting in a quick burst of cold, wet air, and then clicked shut.
Grace stood alone in the center of the silent library.
May you like
She looked down at the counter—at the empty ceramic containers, the red foil box, and the 1894 cloth-bound book resting in the center of the oak desk.
She picked up the book, held it against her chest, and listened to the rain outside.
