Chapter 9 - The Blood and the Birch
Matteo stood in the doorway.
He looked like a shadow risen from the underworld.
His coat was soaked with rain and mud, dark blood staining his left cuff and lapel. His black hair was plastered to his forehead, his hazel eyes burning with exhaustion, his jaw tight.
He stepped into the room, holding his empty handgun by his side.
Behind him, the hallways of the estate were quiet, the smoke of gunfire slowly drifting out through broken ventilation shafts.
Elena dropped the steel briefcase onto the sofa and ran across the room.
She didn't care about the blood on his coat. She didn't care about the dirt or the smell of cordite. She threw her arms around his broad neck, burying her face into the cold, wet crook of his neck, sobbing openly against his skin.
“Matteo,” she sobbed, holding him with every ounce of strength she possessed. “Matteo...”
Matteo dropped his weapon onto the rug, his arms wrapping tightly around her waist, lifting her off her feet, burying his face in her dark hair.
He held her as if she were the only real thing left in a world of ghosts.
“It’s over, Elena,” Matteo whispered, his voice hoarse, rough, and trembling. “Vincent is dead. O’Connor’s fleet is sunk. The Commission has accepted my authority.”
He set her down gently, his large hands cupping her waist, taking in her face, her eyes, her safe, warm body.
“No one will ever come for you again,” Matteo swore, tears finally cutting paths through the dirt on his cheeks. “No one will ever threaten our child.”
Elena reached up, wiping the rain and tears from his face with her thumbs.
“What about the ledger?” Elena asked softly.
Matteo looked over at the steel briefcase sitting on the sofa.
He walked over, picked up the case, and set it on the massive stone hearth in front of the roaring fire. He pressed the combination, popped the seal, and pulled out the thick red leather notebook—the Archivio Nero.
He looked at the book that had defined thirty years of violence, blackmail, and blood.
Then, without a single moment of hesitation, Matteo threw the red leather notebook directly into the heart of the roaring flames.
Elena gasped, stepping forward. “Matteo!”
The dry leather caught fire instantly. The gold leaf lettering curled into black ash, thirty years of dark secrets, judge bribes, and family betrayals burning away into bright orange sparks that rose up the stone chimney.
Matteo stood by the hearth, watching the ledger burn until nothing remained but grey dust.
He turned back to look at her, the firelight reflecting in his hazel eyes.
“I don't need blackmail to protect my family, Elena,” Matteo said softly, walking back to her side. “I don't need blood money to keep you safe. The past is dead.”
He took her bare left hand in his, reaching into his pocket, and pulled out a simple, platinum band—not the heavy diamond ring he had bought her three years ago, but a delicate, hand-engraved band set with a single white sapphire.
He slid it onto her finger, his eyes locking onto hers.
“Will you marry me, Elena?” Matteo asked softly. “Not for a border dispute. Not for your father’s debts. Marry me because I am a foolish man who loves you more than his own life.”
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Elena looked down at the ring, then up into the eyes of the man who had burned his entire world down just to hold her hand.
“Yes,” Elena whispered, tears of joy streaming down her face. “Yes, Matteo.”
