Chapter 3: The Devil’s Penthouse

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing a world that didn’t belong to the New York I knew.

Matteo Ricci’s penthouse was a cathedral of glass and steel, suspended forty floors above the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased Manhattan’s glittering skyline like a private art collection. The marble floors gleamed under recessed lighting that seemed designed to flatter, never to expose. Everything whispered wealth. Everything screamed power.

I stood frozen in the elevator’s threshold, my borrowed heels sinking into a rug so plush it felt like standing on clouds. My wedding dress—what was left of it—clung to my skin, stained with rain and fear and the ghost of Dante’s cologne.

“You’re dripping on my floor.”

Matteo’s voice came from somewhere to my left. Low. Amused. I turned to find him loosening his tie with one hand, his dark eyes tracking every tremor that ran through me.

“I didn’t ask to come here,” I managed, proud that my voice didn’t crack entirely.

“No.” He pulled the silk free and dropped it carelessly onto a side table. “You ran. From one monster directly into another. Tell me, principessa—was that brave or stupid?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What should I call you, then?” He crossed the room with predatory grace, each step deliberate. “The runaway bride who crashed my meeting? The daughter of a man who tried to sell her like cattle? Or simply Aria—the girl who looked at death and chose the devil instead?”

My breath caught. He knew my name. Of course he knew my name. He probably knew everything.

“Dante will find me,” I said, grasping for footing that didn’t exist. “My father will—”

“Dante is currently explaining to your father why he let his bride escape from under his nose.” Matteo stopped inches from me, close enough that I could smell cedar and something darker beneath it. Gunsmoke, maybe. Or simply danger. “He won’t find you here. No one finds anything in my territory unless I allow it.”

The implication hung between us. I was in his territory now. His penthouse. His world.

“Why did you bring me here?” The question emerged smaller than I intended.

Matteo studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he did something unexpected. He walked to a linen closet, retrieved a towel, and returned to press it into my shaking hands.

“Because you looked like a cornered animal,” he said quietly. “And I’ve always had a weakness for strays.”

I stared at the towel—white, monogrammed, probably worth more than my monthly allowance—and felt something crack in my chest. “I’m not a stray.”

“No?” He tilted his head. “Then what are you, Aria? A senator’s daughter, raised in silk and secrets. Engaged to a man twice your age so your father could buy protection. Now standing in the penthouse of the very monster you were warned about.” His voice softened, almost gentle. “You’re exactly what I said. Something lost, looking for somewhere to belong.”

The tears came without warning. I hated them. Hated that he saw them. Hated that he was right.

I pressed the towel to my face, hiding behind cotton, trying to breathe. When I lowered it, Matteo had moved to the window, his back to me, silhouetted against the city lights.

“You’re a mafia leader,” I said. It wasn’t a question.

“Don,” he corrected without turning. “Capo dei capi of the Ricci family. The man your father fears more than death itself.”

“Should I be afraid?”

A pause. Then he turned, and something in his expression shifted—raw, unguarded, gone before I could name it.

“Everyone is afraid of me.” He walked back toward me, slower this time. “But not you. Not really. You ran from Dante and got into my car. You let me bring you here. You’re standing in my home, dripping wet, and you haven’t screamed once.” His fingers brushed my chin, tilting my face toward his. “Why?”

My heart slammed against my ribs. “I don’t know.”

“Liar.”

“I felt…” I swallowed hard. “Safe. When you opened the door. When you looked at Dante like he was nothing. I felt safer with you than I’ve felt in years.”

The words spilled out before I could stop them, raw and honest and dangerous. Matteo’s expression flickered—surprise, hunger, something almost like possession. His thumb traced my jaw, feather-light.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he murmured. “I am not safe, Aria. I am the most dangerous thing that has ever touched you.”

“Then why aren’t you hurting me?”

He smiled—not kind, not cruel, something in between that made my stomach clench. “Because you’re interesting to me. Because your father tried to use you as currency, and you had the courage to run. Because—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “Because I don’t want to.”

“Don’t want to what?”

“Hurt you.” He released me and stepped back, and the loss of contact felt like falling. “You’ll take the guest suite. There are clothes in the closet that should fit. I’ll have food sent up. You won’t leave this floor without my permission. Understood?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“Good.” He turned toward a hallway I hadn’t noticed. “One more thing.”

“What?”

“Your father has been trying to contact me all night. He’s offering everything he owns to get you back. Money. Property. Loyalty.” Matteo glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes held fires I couldn’t read. “I’m declining his offer.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not his to sell.” His gaze raked over me, slow and possessive. “And you’re not Dante’s to claim. As long as you’re under my roof, Aria, you belong to me.”

The words settled into my bones like a promise and a threat all at once.

He disappeared down the hallway, leaving me alone with the skyline and the silence and the terrifying realization that I wasn’t a prisoner here.

I was a possession.

And for reasons I couldn’t explain, the thought didn’t scare me nearly as much as it should have.

I walked to the window, pressing my palm against the cold glass, and stared at the city that had always been my home but never felt like one. Somewhere out there, my father was raging. Dante was plotting. And I was standing in the penthouse of the most dangerous man in New York, wearing his towel, breathing his air, and feeling something I hadn’t felt in years.

Safe.

The door clicked open behind me. I turned, heart leaping—

And found myself face-to-face with a woman in a black suit, gun drawn, eyes like ice.

“So,” she said, voice dripping with venom. “You’re the little bride Matteo’s been hiding. How disappointing.”

My blood turned to ice.

“Don’t worry,” she smiled, and it was nothing but teeth. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to save you from him.”

The gun rose, aimed directly at my chest.

“Now be a good girl and don’t scream.”