Chapter 10 - The Unbroken Promise
He didn't wear an overcoat tonight.
Matteo stood in the freezing wind wearing only a black suit, his dark hair dusted with white snowflakes, his face transformed into something so terrifyingly absolute that even the cold wind seemed to die down around him.
He didn't look at Grace. He kept his body positioned entirely between her and the two men, his towering frame casting a long, dark shadow over the snow-dusted pavement.
“Gianni,” Matteo said.
His voice wasn't loud. It carried no anger, no panic, no hesitation. It was the flat, crushing tone of an avalanche moving down a mountain.
Gianni froze. The second man, still clutching his bleeding jaw on the curb, scrambled backward on his hands and knees, staring up at Matteo with wide, terrified eyes.
“Matteo—” Gianni started, taking a step backward toward his sedan, his hands reaching instinctively toward his jacket.
“If you pull that gun from your coat, Gianni,” Matteo said smoothly, stepping forward onto the ice, “you will not live long enough to clear the leather.”
Gianni’s hand stopped instantly inside his jacket pocket. Sweat broke out across his forehead despite the freezing temperature.
“This isn't your block, DeLuca,” Gianni tried to say, his voice cracking slightly. “Franco sent us—”
“Franco is currently sitting in a room at the St. Charles Hotel with four of my men,” Matteo interrupted flatly. “Signing over the Southwark pier deeds. Your crew is finished in this city, Gianni. By midnight, none of you will have a square foot of territory left in Philadelphia.”
Gianni stared at him, his face draining of all color. “You... you took the piers?”
“I took everything,” Matteo said. He stepped closer, stopping two inches from Gianni’s chest, looking down at the smaller man with eyes that were entirely black, entirely cold. “And if I ever see your car on this street again—if I ever hear your name spoken near this neighborhood—I won't call Franco. I’ll end this myself.”
Gianni didn't argue. He didn't offer a dramatic parting threat. He slowly withdrew his hand from his pocket, lowered his head, and backed into the passenger side of his sedan. His partner dragged himself up from the curb, threw himself into the driver’s seat, and slammed the engine into reverse.
The sedan tore down the snowy street, its tires screeching against the asphalt, vanishing into the darkness of Washington Avenue.
Silence returned to the street.
The snow fell softly, covering the tire tracks, blanketing the dark sidewalk in a layer of pure, untouched white.
Matteo remained standing near the curb for a long moment, his chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths. He slowly turned around.
Grace was standing on the bottom step of her brownstone, clutching her coat around herself, her breath coming in white clouds, her body trembling uncontrollably from the shock and the freezing wind.
Matteo walked toward her. He stopped at the bottom of the steps, looking up at her face.
The dark, lethal mask he had worn moments ago shattered, replaced by a raw, agonized concern that made his eyes shine in the pale light of the streetlamp.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice shaking slightly.
Grace looked at him—at his dark suit covered in snow, at his long fingers red from the cold, at the man who had torn apart an empire in three weeks because he thought she was safe without him.
“You came,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
“Elena told me what she did,” Matteo said softly, stepping up onto the first stone step. “She told me on Tuesday. She thought she was protecting the family. She didn't know... she didn't know you lied to me to keep me safe.”
Grace let out a small, choked gasp, a tear spilling over her lashes and freezing against her cheek. “You knew I was lying?”
“I didn't know at first,” Matteo admitted, his voice dropping into that quiet, resonant cadence she had missed for twenty-two days. “For two weeks, I believed you were afraid of me. I thought... I thought I had ruined the only place where I felt human.”
He reached out, his hand bare tonight, his fingers warm as they gently wiped the frozen tear from her cheekbone.
“And then I saw the 1894 book on your nightstand through the window three nights ago,” Matteo whispered, a faint, tender smile touching his mouth. “When I was watching your street. You kept it right beside your bed, Grace. A woman who is afraid of a man doesn't keep his gift where she can touch it before she goes to sleep.”
Grace let out a wet, genuine laugh that broke through the cold quiet of the night like a silver bell.
“You were watching my apartment?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“I’m always watching, Grace,” Matteo said softly, stepping onto her step, closing the distance between them until her body was pressed against his chest, safe within his warmth. “I told you. I don't forget things that are important.”
Grace looked up into his dark eyes, her hands rising to rest against the lapels of his suit jacket, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart beneath her palms. The danger of his world was real—she knew that now, had seen it on this very street—but standing here in his arms, surrounded by the falling snow, she knew that the fear she had manufactured three weeks ago was completely gone.
“It’s my turn to make a wish,” Matteo murmured, his face lowering until his lips were inches from hers.
“What are you wishing for?” she whispered against his breath.
“I’m wishing,” Matteo said, his mouth softly brushing hers, warm and absolute, “that you’ll let me stay.”
Grace closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him closer as the snow covered the quiet streets of Philadelphia.
May you like
“Wish granted,” she whispered.
And for the first time in thirty-three years, Grace Holloway knew that she would never be forgotten again.
