Matteo ended the call with a soft click, sliding the phone back into his pocket as he leaned against the bar’s polished counter. The place had quieted since Lorenzo had stormed out with Lily in his arms—fewer bodies on the dance floor, music turned down to a sultry throb, the kind that made conversations feel intimate even in a crowd. The air still carried the lingering heat of sweat and spilled liquor, the faint trace of her perfume where she’d danced earlier.
He glanced across the room.
Rafael stood near the booth they’d claimed earlier, arms crossed, watching the door Lorenzo had disappeared through with that unreadable expression he wore like armor. Sofia was beside him—close enough that their shoulders almost brushed—drink in hand, eyes narrowed in worry and something sharper.
Matteo’s grin returned, slow and wicked.
He sauntered over, weaving through the thinning crowd with that effortless swagger, coat open, shirt clinging just enough from the night’s heat to remind anyone watching exactly why trouble followed him.
“Well,” he drawled, stopping in front of them, voice laced with pure sarcasm. “That was dramatic. Our brooding prince finally rides in on his black steed to rescue the damsel from her own bad decisions. I give it ten minutes before she slaps him again—or kisses him senseless. Place your bets.”
Sofia turned, eyes flashing. “This isn’t funny, Matteo.”
“Oh, it’s a little funny,” he countered, leaning against the booth table, close enough that she had to tilt her head to hold his gaze. “Come on, Sofia. You saw her tonight. Dancing like the world was ending. And who shows up right on cue? The man who caused the apocalypse. Classic.”
Rafael’s voice was low, steady. “He took her home.”
“His home,” Matteo corrected, grin sharpening. “Big difference. Bold move. Very ‘she’s mine now, back off’ energy.”
Sofia’s grip tightened on her glass. “She’s drunk. Vulnerable. And he just… carried her out like he had the right.”
Matteo’s eyes softened—just a fraction—before the sarcasm slid back in.
“He thinks he does,” he said quietly. “And knowing Lorenzo? He’ll spend the night torturing himself over it. Sitting in the dark, watching her sleep, hard as steel and hating himself for wanting her anyway.”
Sofia’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t look away. “You think this is a game?”
“No,” Matteo said, voice dropping, something raw flickering beneath the tease. “I think it’s a war. And Lily’s the battlefield. Question is—who’s going to win? Him? Her? Or the both of them burning everything down together?”
Rafael shifted, eyes on Matteo. “You pushed him tonight.”
Matteo’s grin turned self-mocking. “Someone had to. He was content to bleed out in silence. I just gave him a reason to fight.”
Sofia studied him, eyes searching. “And what about you? You spent half the night pushing me too.”
Matteo’s gaze locked on hers—heat flaring, undeniable.
“Maybe I like the fight,” he murmured. “Maybe I like a woman who doesn’t make it easy.”
The air between them crackled.
Rafael cleared his throat.
“I’m getting another drink,” he said, moving toward the bar. “You two… behave.”
Matteo didn’t watch him go.
Just held Sofia’s gaze, the sarcasm fading into something quieter, more dangerous.
“So,” he said softly. “Your friend’s in the lion’s den tonight. Question is—what are you going to do about it?”
Sofia didn’t answer right away.
Just took a slow sip of her drink, eyes never leaving his.
The night wasn’t over. And neither was the game.
The bar had slipped into that late-night hush where conversations turned intimate and secrets felt safer in the dim light. The music was slower now—a low, throbbing bass that pulsed like a heartbeat, wrapping around the remaining patrons like smoke. Matteo leaned against the high table near their booth, one hand wrapped around a fresh whiskey, the other loosely in his pocket, his posture all calculated nonchalance. His eyes, however, were sharp, locked on Sofia with that predatory amusement that made her both want to slap him and lean closer.
Rafael had stepped away to the bar, leaving them in a bubble of charged silence.
Sofia stood with her arms crossed, hip cocked, dark hair falling over one shoulder in a way that caught the low light and made Matteo’s gaze linger a beat too long. Her dress hugged her curves just right—elegant but dangerous, like she knew exactly what kind of trouble she could cause if she wanted to.
Matteo broke the silence first, voice low and dripping with that signature sarcasm.
“Oh, I can already imagine the drama,” he said with a dark chuckle, swirling the whiskey so the ice clinked softly. “Lorenzo in his fortress of solitude, brooding over the sleeping beauty he finally dragged home. Shirt open, hair tousled, looking like a fallen angel who’s about to spend the night fighting his own demons—and his hard-on—while she dreams of slapping him again. Poetic, isn’t it? The big bad wolf finally gets the girl in his bed… and has to keep his hands to himself. Tragic. Delicious.”
Sofia’s eyes narrowed, but the corner of her mouth twitched—against her will.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Guilty,” Matteo admitted, leaning in just enough that she caught the scent of his cologne—cedar and smoke, dark and expensive. “But come on, Sofia. Admit it. There’s something intoxicating about watching a man like him unravel. He’s spent years being untouchable, and now one woman—one soft, stubborn, flower-arranging woman—has him on his knees without even trying.”
Rafael returned then, three drinks balanced easily in his hands—a fresh martini for Sofia, whiskey for himself and Matteo. He set them down, expression calm but eyes flicking between them with quiet amusement.
“Talking about Lorenzo’s inevitable downfall?” he asked, voice low and dry.
Matteo grinned wider. “Naturally. I’m taking bets on how long before he cracks. My money’s on dawn. He’ll sit there all night, hard as steel, telling himself he’s being noble while she sleeps curled up against him like a kitten. And when she wakes up sober and remembers everything? Boom. Fireworks.”
Sofia took her drink, fingers brushing Rafael’s briefly, but her gaze stayed on Matteo—sharp, challenging.
“You two are unbelievable,” she said, voice low and edged with heat. “This isn’t a game. Lily’s feelings aren’t your entertainment. She’s not a battlefield for your cousin’s ego or some dramatic redemption arc. She’s hurting. Really hurting. And you’re both standing here turning it into a spectator sport.”
Matteo’s grin softened, but the sarcasm lingered. “Oh, cara, don’t pretend you’re not invested. You’ve been watching this train wreck as closely as we have. The way you grilled me earlier about whether he’d actually take her home safe? You care. And deep down, you want the drama too—the big gesture, the groveling, the moment he finally admits he’s been a fool.”
Sofia’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t back down. “I want my friend to stop crying herself to sleep. That’s what I want. Not your twisted version of romance where everyone suffers prettily before the big reconciliation.”
Rafael sipped his whiskey, eyes on Matteo. “She’s not wrong.”
Matteo shot him a look—betrayed, amused. “Et tu, Rafael? I thought you were on my side.”
“I’m on the side of not getting shot when Lorenzo finally snaps,” Rafael said dryly. “But Sofia’s right. This isn’t just drama. It’s real.”
Matteo’s gaze flicked back to Sofia, something hotter flickering beneath the sarcasm now.
“Real,” he repeated, voice dropping. “Like the way you looked at me earlier when you thought I wasn’t watching. Like you’re not wondering what happens when the drama stops and the real fire starts.”
Sofia’s breath caught—just slightly—but she held his stare, chin lifted.
“You’re delusional,” she said, but her voice was softer, the challenge still there.
Matteo leaned in, close enough that his words brushed her ear.
“Am I? Or are you just scared to admit you like the game as much as I do?”
Rafael cleared his throat again, louder this time.
“I’m getting another drink,” he said, turning away. “You two… try not to kill each other. Or fuck on the table. Either way, I’m not cleaning it up.”
Matteo didn’t look away from Sofia.
The tension between them crackled—hot, sharp, alive.
And neither backed down. The night was far from over. And the real game was just beginning. Matteo said to Sofia, his voice low and laced with that velvet sarcasm that could cut or caress depending on how she took it: “Why are you so angry about me? I’m just enjoying the chaos. I’m not the one who messed up with her, am I?”
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, the movement pulling his shirt tight across his shoulders in a way that was far too deliberate. His eyes swept the bar lazily—taking in the lingering couples, the bartender polishing glasses, the low throb of music—before settling back on her with that infuriating half-grin.
“But I do like a good game,” he continued, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “And there’s always a way to have a little fun, even when everyone else is playing it all wrong.”
Sofia’s eyes narrowed, dark and dangerous, but she didn’t look away. She leaned forward instead, elbows on the table, close enough that the heat between them crackled—sharp, electric, undeniable.
“You think this is a game?” she asked, voice soft but edged with steel. “My best friend is hurting because of your cousin’s emotional cowardice, and you’re sitting here treating it like prime-time entertainment.”
Matteo’s grin widened, slow and wicked. “Oh, cara, don’t pretend you’re not watching too. You’re invested. You care. And deep down—” He leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed her ear, voice a low rumble. “—you like the drama just as much as I do. The push. The pull. The way it makes everything feel… alive.”
She didn’t pull back.
Her pulse jumped at her throat, visible in the low light, but her eyes stayed locked on his—challenging, fierce.
“You’re delusional,” she said, but the words came out breathier than she intended.
“Am I?” He tilted his head, gaze dropping to her mouth for a heartbeat too long. “Or are you just mad because I’m saying out loud what you’re thinking? That maybe Lorenzo’s mess is exactly what Lily needs to finally burn clean. That maybe all this pain is just the prelude to something… hotter.”
Sofia’s cheeks flushed, but she held his stare. “You’re twisting everything.”
“Or I’m seeing it clearly,” he countered, voice dropping even lower, rougher. “You’re angry at me because I don’t pretend. Because I don’t hide behind noble bullshit. I see the fire, and I want to play with it.”
The air between them thickened—charged, heavy with unspoken things.
She leaned in closer, close enough that her knee brushed his under the table.
“You want to play?” she whispered, voice low and dangerous. “Fine. But don’t cry when you get burned.”
Matteo’s eyes darkened, grin turning feral.
“Burn me, then,” he murmured. “I’ve always liked it hot.”
Rafael returned then, drinks in hand, pausing at the edge of their bubble.
He took one look at them—eyes locked, bodies angled close, tension thick enough to taste—and sighed.
“I leave for two minutes,” he muttered, setting the glasses down. “And you two are about to set the table on fire.”
Matteo didn’t look away from Sofia.
“Join us,” he said, voice rough. “Or run. Your choice.”
Sofia’s lips curved—just slightly.
Rafael sat down slowly.
The game wasn’t over.
Matteo didn’t look away from Sofia.
“Join us,” he said, voice rough, low enough that it vibrated through the small space between them like a challenge wrapped in velvet. “Or run. Your choice.”
Sofia’s lips curved—just slightly. Not a smile. Not surrender. Something sharper. Something that made the air between them spark.
Rafael sat down slowly, setting the fresh drinks on the table with deliberate care, as if the glasses were made of nitroglycerin. He took the seat across from them, leaning back, whiskey in hand, dark eyes flicking between the two like he was watching a fuse burn and deciding whether to cut it or light another match.
The music shifted—a slower, heavier beat, something with a bass line that pulsed like a heartbeat in the dark. The remaining crowd had thinned, leaving pockets of intimacy in the dim light. A couple in the far corner was already half-lost in each other, her back against the wall, his hand disappearing under the table. No one was watching Matteo and Sofia.
Except Rafael.
And he wasn’t going anywhere.
Sofia finally broke the stare, picking up her martini, the olive speared on a silver pick catching the light as she swirled it. She took a slow sip, eyes never leaving Matteo’s over the rim.
“You think I’m scared of you?” she asked, voice soft but edged with steel. “That I’d run because you turn the charm up to dangerous?”
Matteo’s grin returned—slow, predatory, utterly unrepentant.
“Scared? No,” he murmured, leaning forward just enough that his knee brushed hers under the table. He didn’t move it away. “Curious. Definitely curious. The way you’re sitting there pretending your pulse isn’t racing. Pretending you don’t wonder what happens if you stop saying no.”
Rafael exhaled through his nose, sipping his whiskey. “You two need a referee or a room?”
Matteo didn’t look at him. “Both. But I’ll settle for her answer.”
Sofia set her glass down with a soft clink, leaning in until their faces were inches apart. Close enough that he could see the gold flecks in her dark eyes, the faint sheen of gloss on her lips, the way her breath caught—just slightly—when his knee pressed deliberately against hers.
“You want an answer?” she whispered, voice husky now, laced with challenge. “Fine. I’m not running. But I’m not playing your game either. You want to push? Push. But don’t cry when I push back harder.”
Matteo’s eyes darkened, the grin turning feral.
“Promise?”
The word was a growl.
Rafael cleared his throat again, louder. “I’m still here.”
Matteo finally glanced at him, smirk sharpening. “Then you get the best seat in the house. Watch and learn, cousin. This is how you play when the opponent’s worth it.”
Sofia’s laugh was low, throaty—genuine and dangerous.
“You think I’m worth it?”
Matteo’s gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered, came back up.
“I know you are.”
The tension snapped taut—hot, electric, alive.
Rafael sipped his drink, eyes amused but wary.
The night had just gotten very interesting.
And none of them were backing down.
