Matteo's POV

I leaned against the railing of the estate's upper balcony, the breeze toying with the hem of my unbuttoned black silk shirt.

Binoculars perched against my eyes, I scanned the maze garden with all the calm of a man watching Sunday cartoons, except these episodes bled.

Blood was everywhere. smudges of red on the hedge wall. A body slumped like a discarded puppet. Screams muffled by the high hedges.

I didn't bother telling the applicants everything they'd encounter. Where's the fun in that? The butler warned them it'd be dangerous.

Just enough of a disclaimer to keep the lawsuits away. Not that anyone here gave a damn about legality.

See, inside the maze, there weren't just scared little wannabes trying to prove they were worthy of the De Luca syndicate. No. I'd slipped in some rogues, traitors, loose ends, thorns in my side.

People who thought they could go against me and live to brag about it. The kind of men with grudges in their bones and death behind their eyes.

I made them a deal: kill an applicant, and maybe i will spare their lives. Mercy, after all, is such a fickle little beast.

I lifted the binoculars again, eyes sweeping over the chaos. A rogue had just fired a bullet into a boy who could have been in his twenties. It was almost laughable. The kid had tried to fight-got a solid hit in too-but he didn't stand a chance. Brute force devoured naive ambition every time.

"Pity," I muttered, watching the boy's body slump against a rusted barrel. "He'd have made a decent little waitress somewhere."

Movement to the right caught my eye. Another applicant, lean build, and sharp movements, came face to face with the same rogue who had killed the boy. They stared each other down.

I narrowed my eyes.

There was something... off. Not wrong. Familiar.

The rogue lunged. And the applicant moved.

In ten seconds flat, I watched the applicant dismantle a man twice his size. The crunch of bones-heard even from my perch-was almost musical. I leaned in closer, lips parting slightly.

Who the hell was that?

The way he fought, l the explosive grace, it reminded me of something I'd felt once. Not in a fight. In a bed.

I scoffed and lowered the binoculars, but the image of that "boy's" body language gnawed at me like smoke in the lungs.

I made a mental note right then-this one, I'd see for myself.

First time an applicant had ever pulled my focus like this, and I hated it. Distractions are for amateurs. I don't do "curiosity." Yet my grip on the binoculars tightened instead of letting them drop.

He won't last in the maze, I told myself.

And still, I watched.

The kid moved like water through the hedges, ducking just in time to avoid a tripwire strung low between two stalks. A hidden pressure plate clicked harmlessly under the heel of his boot-because he'd stepped just far enough to miss the sweet spot.

Impossible.

Every man I'd ever hired had been strong and fast. But not like this. None of them were this... flexible. This precise. And the size of him should have been a disadvantage. It wasn't. He'd already proven he could take down someone bigger without breaking a sweat.

I felt it before I noticed it-my mouth curving into a smirk. I don't smile when I work.

The applicant didn't just survive the maze, he danced through it. And finally, he stepped out from the other end of those tall, green walls.

I let the binoculars drop, the strap snapping lightly against my chest.

An hour later, I was inside my office, sifting through the stack of applicant files the butler had dumped on my desk. I wasn't looking for anyone in particular-at least, that's what I told myself-but somehow my hands stopped on one file. Franco. The interesting kid.

Excellent academic record. Physical training that put most men twice his size to shame. Flexible both in movement and thinking. The kind of background recruiters salivate over.

And I hated it. Couldn't explain why. Maybe because the neatness of it all felt like a challenge to me. Or maybe because I'd already decided I didn't like how he'd gotten under my skin in the maze.

I shut the file and headed to the courtyard.

The survivors-battered, bruised, but standing-were gathered like strays after a storm. I gave them the kind of smile that promised nothing good.

"Congratulations," I said, voice carrying just enough mockery to make a few jaws clench. "You've signed up to work in hell. If you think this was bad, pray you don't find out what worse looks like."

But my eyes weren't on the crowd. They were on Franco.

The kid stood there, shoulders squared, chest rising steadily despite the strain. His physique was lean, sculpted-not bulk, but efficiency.

And now that I saw him up close, I noticed the subtle balance in his features-male, yes, but with a certain androgynous symmetry. My mind flicked to the note in his file about it.

If Franco were a woman-

What the fuck? No.

I walked toward him anyway, stopping close enough to watch the flicker in his gaze when he realized I wasn't addressing the others anymore.

"I can't believe you survived that trial," I said, letting my voice drop low.

What I wasn't expecting was for him to meet my eyes with no fear, no deference. Just anger. A quiet, burning anger that I couldn't place. Was he furious about the trial? About the blood?

I tilted my head. "What's the matter? Wary of blood?"

His answer came sharp, almost amused. "Not in the slightest."

And there it was-that same pull I'd felt watching him fight. That magnetic friction that made my fingers itch.

I didn't understand the sudden urge to wrap my hand around his neck-not to break it. Just to feel the pulse under my palm. To test how long he'd keep looking at me like that.

I let my gaze rake over him.

"Even though you passed," I said, my tone all teeth behind silk, "even though you were the first to cross the finish line... that doesn't make you better than the others."

"It does," he shot back. The words landed clean, cutting through the air between us.

My brow ticked up. "Bold."

I closed the space, my face now inches from his. The scent hit me first-under the iron tang of blood and the grit of dust, something else threaded in. Subtle, intoxicating, maddeningly familiar. I knew this scent. I'd breathed it in once before.

Not my concern.

"What makes you think that?" I asked, voice dropping low enough to taste the challenge in it.

"I just know it."

He didn't miss a beat. The clap back was sharp, cutting in a way that made my lips twitch with the ghost of a smile.

I stepped back-not because he'd won anything, but because that scent was starting to mess with my head.

Beneath all the chaos of the courtyard, my mind kept reaching for the memory of violet eyes and a night I hadn't been able to shake. The only woman I'd ever let pin me down.

And now here I was, staring at a man.

I forced my focus back to him, my smirk sharpening. "Since you're so sure of yourself, Franco... you're going on another challenge."

His eyes narrowed. "What is it?"

I let the pause stretch until it was almost uncomfortable, then let the answer drop like a blade.

"A one-on-one."

I tilted my head, enjoying the weight of the words.

"With me."

Franco's POV (francesa)

Il Campo di Sangue.

The name of the field we were to fight on.

Blood and soil, a canvas made for me to paint in red.

I smiled slowly, letting him see just enough of my teeth to make it unclear if it was amusement... or hunger.

"I love the name," I purred, my voice low, savoring the syllables as if they were already dripping with his blood.

In my head, I saw it clearly-his body folded under me, his breath rattling as I drove the life out of him. The great Matteo, brought to his knees in his own sacred field.

Would I survive him? Maybe not. His strength radiated off him in waves, a predator's dominance. But arrogance was my armor, and cruelty was sharper than steel. If I could not overpower him, I could unmake him. Break him from the inside out.

I tilted my head, feigning curiosity, but every word was a sharpened barb.

"Are we using weapons," I asked, voice slow, deliberate, "or are you too much of a pussy to stand with only your hands?"

His jaw flexed. For the briefest flicker, I saw his composure tremble-just enough to make my lips twitch in dark satisfaction.

"You'll regret it," he said, stepping closer, his shadow falling over me like a threat. "You'll be begging for the weapons."

I grinned wider, stretching the expression until it was almost a sneer.

The butler's voice broke the tension, his tone neutral, clinical. "Are the contenders ready?"

I bit down on the mouthguard, the bitter taste of rubber mixing with the iron tang already on my tongue. My hands tightened into fists, the wrap snug and familiar.

The whistle cut the air.

Matteo moved first. Too fast. Faster than I expected. A blur of muscle and fury closing the space like a storm.

I dodged at the last second, breath sharp, the rush of wind from his strike brushing past my cheek.

"What the fuck-" I hissed under my breath, adrenaline spiking. He wasn't just strong. He was a monster in motion.

I pivoted, ready to counter, but his fist met me square in the chest before I could slip away.

I felt a pure crushing impact.

The world jolted sideways as I was thrown back, air ripped from my lungs, bones humming with the force. My footwear skidded in the dirt, my body catching itself just before I hit the ground.

Pain bloomed, sharp and electric, across my ribs.

The last time I'd been hit like that-knocked off my center, sent flying-was years ago. Years. And I'd sworn then that no one would ever do it to me again.

Yet here I was, breathless, body thrumming, staring at Matteo with a slow, feral grin stretching across my face.

"Oh," I rasped, spitting blood to the ground like an offering, "I'm going to enjoy killing you."

Matteo's smug look twisted sharper, his voice a bass growl.

"What did you say?"

But I had no interest in answering with words. My reply came sharp and fast-fists slicing through the space, the hiss of my breath syncing with every strike.

He met me, blow for blow, the ground beneath us trembling with the rhythm of our violence.

His punches were brutal. Each one carried the kind of weight that could end a lesser man. They cracked through the air with enough force to rattle bone, to break ribs, to shut down lungs. And still, I refused to fall.

I cut low, my body coiling like a predator, sweeping for his legs-fast, vicious, intending to tear him down from his arrogant height. He twisted, graceful as sin, evading by the skin of his teeth.

He snapped right back, dropping low to scythe at my legs, a brutal hook meant to crush me to the dirt. My body bent backward, spine singing, slipping from his reach by a breath.

Dust spiraled around us, the crowd's hush thick with anticipation.

Matteo's eyes glinted. "Not bad. Most men crumble after my first strike. But you-" he tilted his head, almost admiring, "you're still standing."

I barked a laugh, sharp and mocking. "Those?" I spat blood, tongue savoring the metallic taste. "Those aren't punches. I've had sparring dummies hit me harder without even trying."

His gaze dropped to the crimson streak smeared against my lips.

"Funny. Because that same punch has you bleeding all over the field."

My heart thudded, not from fear, but from the wildfire racing through my veins. Blood sang in me. Muscles burned alive. My body was screaming. But my arrogance didn't give a damn.

He thought I was just another opponent, another challenger to break beneath his fists. But I wasn't. I was something else. Something he had no idea he'd invited into the ring.

And with a low, dangerous chuckle, I straightened, shoulders rolling back, eyes flashing with feral light.

"Do you think blood frightens me?" I purred, voice slicing between us. "I was baptized in it."

My fists rose again.

I lunged, reckless and precise, but Matteo's fist slammed into my ribs before I could twist away. A sickening crack rippled through me, pain flaring white-hot.

He grinned like the devil himself, voice slick with venom.

"I've been taking it easy on you, little man. But let me show you why they whisper my name like a curse." His gaze flicked to my face, lips curling with disdain. "That androgynous mug of yours? Don't worry-I'll fix it. My punches don't just change destinies... they rearrange faces. Maybe after tonight, you'll finally look like the man you're pretending to be."

My heart skipped a beat. No. It couldn't be fear. I refused to name it fear.

I couldn't lose. Not when I hadn't even begun my mission.

Matteo's shadow loomed, his fists hungry. I twisted, ducked, dodged, his laughter following me like a cruel echo.

"What happened to the smug Franco?" he taunted, fists striking the air inches from my face. "Where's that sharp tongue now, huh? Gone soft already?"

My breaths came short, ragged, every step of retreat stoking the fire in my chest.

My ribs screamed with every breath, the dull throb threatening to splinter into something far worse. If it broke further, if I collapsed, I'd be dragged off to the infirmary or-gods forbid-the hospital. And then? Then my identity exposed.

But one faltering thought was all it took, and he was on me.

He lunged, taking me down. The ground slammed into my spine, and in an instant he straddled me, raining blows.

I raised my arms, elbows locked, blocking, covering my face as his fists hammered down. Every strike rattled my bones, each one a promise of the storm still to come.

No. I wouldn't go down like this.

His next punch reared back-and I snapped forward, fist striking first.

The crack of impact silenced the ring.

Matteo's head snapped aside, blood spraying from his lip. He froze, then turned back slowly, eyes burning into mine. For a breath, the world held still.

And in that stillness, memory betrayed me. This wasn't the first time I'd been beneath him like this. That one night flooded back. His hands hadn't been fists then. His weight hadn't been a cage. And gods help me, it had been the most breathtaking, maddening, consuming thing I had ever felt.

Why the hell am I thinking about that now?

I braced for his final blow, ready to feel my bones shatter beneath it.

But instead-Matteo spat blood across my face. His jaw clenched, eyes unreadable, and without a word, he pushed off me and walked away.

The silence was deafening. Every gaze burned into me, shock heavy in the air.

A sharp whistle split the stillness.

The butler stepped forward, his voice as calm as it was cutting. "The fight is over." His eyes swept me, lingering with something like disdain before he added, "Mildly impressed, Franco. But don't ever try this shit again."

I won't. Not like this.

If I ever kill Matteo, it will be when I have the upper hand, when I can control the blade, the silence, the way his breath leaves his chest. But brawling like an idiot in the open? Never again. That little fantasy gets crossed off the list permanently.

I pushed myself up, ribs aching with every movement. Pain radiated through my chest, sharp and relentless, but I forced my body to stand tall. The butler stepped forward and pressed a small card into my palm.

"This is to your room," he said flatly, already turning.

I followed him, each step stabbing through my ribs, the burn of humiliation heavier than the injury. When we reached the first floor, he paused, his voice carrying authority that brooked no argument.

"Each floor here has its own hierarchy," he explained. "Since you're a new recruit, you'll remain on the first floor." His eyes flicked toward me, hard and cutting. "But remember this-anyone can be promoted, or demoted, depending on the level of shit they pull. Don't do more than you should."

His gaze lingered like a blade at my throat before he finally walked away.

I stared down at the card. My hands shook slightly-pain, exhaustion, anger, all blurring together-before I followed the numbers to the door that matched. The lock clicked open when I swiped it.

The room was ordinary. Plain walls, a single bed, a desk shoved against the corner. Nothing impressive, nothing comfortable. The kind of space meant to remind you exactly where you stood in the pecking order: at the bottom.

I staggered inside, every breath dragging fire through my ribs. I clutched at them instinctively, teeth gritted, before sinking onto the bed.

My chairman wouldn't be pleased if he learned I'd managed to get myself broken on the very first day. So I wouldn't tell him. Not ever, if I could help it.

The knock at the door jolted me upright. My body tensed, and I moved with caution, opening it just enough to see who it was.

And my heart stopped.

Standing there, holding first aid supplies, was the last face I expected to ever see again.

Antonio.

My ex. The man who shattered me into a thousand pieces and left me to bleed.

I froze, staring at him, every old scar burning open.

Franco's POV

I feared for a split second that he would recognize me, that the name Franco wouldn't be enough to mask the truth beneath my skin.

But what stared back at me wasn't recognition. It was disgust.

That same look I remembered from the end. The look that told me I was no longer enough.

He shoved the supplies toward me. "I was told to bring this to you, Franco." His tone was clipped, detached, as though even standing there dirtied him.

My hand trembled for a heartbeat before I snapped myself out of it, snatching the kit from him without a word.

His jaw flexed, irritation flashing in his eyes. "I was also told to treat your wounds."

"No," I cut in, voice rough but steady. "I'll do it myself."

That wall of rejection-the one I'd spent years tearing my fists bloody against-slammed back into me with brutal force.

Memories of everything all crashed down on me at once.

Antonio's nostrils flared, his annoyance sharp. "Do whatever the hell you want. If you bleed out, it's not my problem."

And just like that, he turned on his heel and walked away.

I stood frozen, knuckles whitening around the kit. Then slowly, I shut the door.

Antonio.

The one man I had given everything to. Three years of my heart, my loyalty, my foolish belief in something real.

He had been my first love. My first weakness.

An assassin, like me-or at least, he had been. I met him when I was still fresh in the Aneres organization, just a girl with a soft heart that hadn't yet been carved into stone.

I'd followed him into the dark, into blood and steel and death. Helped him in missions no one else would have survived. And through it all, I had loved him. Completely.

I regretted it all. Regretted being gullible enough to think love had a place in a world like ours.

No one had taught me how to suppress emotions back then. No one had told me that in this place, emotions were liabilities. I was too innocent.

So when Antonio had asked me to be his girlfriend, I was ecstatic. I didn't care about the warnings. I was in love. And for that love, I did everything he asked without question. Missions,sacrifices. I gave him my loyalty. My time. My body.

On my eighteenth birthday, I'd given myself to him as if it were the most precious gift I could ever offer.

And then came the day I caught him cheating. That was when I finally saw him for who he really was.

He never loved me. He only loved what I could do for him. My abilities. My usefulness. Nothing more.

I still remember the way he looked at me afterwards-mocking, cruel.

He told me my body disgusted him, that every time we had sex he felt nothing but revulsion. His words gutted me more than any blade ever could.

"You're nothing to me," he had told me with that cold smirk. "A setback. Dead weight."

Three years. Three years wasted on a selfish man who thrived on using me.

I exhaled through clenched teeth, forcing the memory back as I dropped the kit on the desk. My fingers worked methodically, stripping my shirt away, each movement tugging at my wounded rib until my breath hissed sharp between my teeth.

My skin was mottled with dark bruises, and where the rib had taken the worst of it, the flesh was split open.

I dipped gauze in antiseptic, pressed it to the cut. The sting flared white-hot, but I didn't flinch. The pain was familiar.

With practiced hands, I wrapped the bandages tight around my chest, winding them until the rib felt bound, locked in place. My fingers were steady, even when my vision blurred.

That night be broke my heart was the night I buried my heart for good. I swore I'd never fall again. Never let emotions blind me. Because here, in the Aneres organization, love wasn't real. It was a weapon. A distraction. And a trap.

And I would never be trapped again.

I forced the last layer of bandage into place, pinning it tight. My ribs protested with each breath, but I ignored it, sliding my shirt back on. I snapped the kit shut and shoved it aside before lowering myself onto the bed.

I would kill Matteo. And when I do, I would finally have my revenge.

He was my target, nothing more. The son of the bastard who had murdered my twin. The boy who carried his father's blood, the boy who didn't deserve to breathe the same air as me.

My heart ached

My twin sister. My only sister. The other half of me, ripped away before she could even grow into the woman she was meant to be. By now, she would have been identical to me. Two shadows, side by side. But that chance was stolen.

I felt warmth on my cheeks. My fingers twitched up and came back wet. Tears.

I froze. No. No, that was wrong. Crying was weakness. The Chairman drilled that into us every day, that feelings break you, tears destroy you. He was right. I had no room for this.

With trembling hands, I slipped the pendant from my pocket. The half-moon charm swung softly. The other half had been hers. My throat tightened as I pressed it to my lips.

"I'll avenge you," I whispered, voice raw, cracking despite my will. "I promise. No matter what it takes."

The pendant's cold kiss seared into me.

I slid the pendant back into my pocket, snapping the chain shut like I was locking the grief inside with it.

Antonio. His name slid like poison through my veins. He had left the organization to crawl at Matteo's feet. Why? For power? For safety?

Antonio never moved unless it served himself. Selfish, calculating bastard. I should feel nothing for him anymore. The Chairman had taught me how to sever attachments clean. And I did.

Or at least, I told myself I did.

I had gotten over it. I followed every one of the Chairman's lessons. That I should burn it down, bury it, kill it before it kills you. And yet... Antonio's betrayal still lingered in the marrow of my bones.

I rolled onto my side, pulling the sheet over me. The silence was suffocating. I waited for sleep to take me, for the void to drag me under, but the darkness betrayed me.

The last image that slipped into my mind wasn't Antonio. It was Matteo.

He had me pinned beneath him, straddling me like I was his altar, his breath ragged against my ear. "Mine," he growled. His hands dragged down my sides, as if memorizing the shape of me. "Every inch of you," he whispered, lips ghosting my collarbone, "belongs to me."

His mouth followed the path of his hands, kissing, biting, worshipping. Heat seared where his tongue traced lines of fire across my throat. When his teeth sank into my skin.

He moved lower, his palms spreading across my stomach, anchoring me as if I might vanish. His words came between kisses. "No one will ever touch you the way I do. No one will ever see you the way I see you." His voice broke into a groan, almost a prayer spilling from his lips again and again. "You're mine. My salvation. My sin."

Every touch, every word, was worship. The worship of a man on his knees before a goddess he couldn't live without, even if he had to burn for it.

My mission was clear. Matteo had to die. And I would be the one to put him in the ground, no matter how my body betrayed me with the memory of his touch.