The air outside the Cavallaro estate was thick with tension and cigar smoke. Suits unbuttoned, goodbyes exchanged. The Vitiello brothers leaned against their blacked-out Raptors and cruisers — ready to roll out.

Matteo Vitiello, 6’3", razor-sharp with a cocky smirk and a blade always hidden somewhere. The better-looking Vitiello, if you asked him. Second-in-command but no one’s shadow — playful, dangerous, and lethal with a knife or a grin. He stood there, relaxed, arms folded, still simmering from the argument with YN — the curvy, fire-tongued daughter of Mexican capo Dante Cavallaro, and his so-called “best friend.”

Best friend, his ass.

Everyone knew something burned hotter under the surface. No one dared say it. Not with how Matteo growled, “Touch her, you die,” to anyone who looked too long.

And then —

The front doors flew open.

YN stormed out in that fitted dress that hugged her wide, round, dangerous ass like it was stitched to her skin. Her heels clicked fury. Everyone straightened. Time slowed.

She didn’t say a word. Just marched up to Matteo, grabbed two fistfuls of his open collar, and smashed her lips to his like she owned him — like she was done pretending.

The kiss was all heat, rage, teeth — make-up and meltdown in one breathless collision.

Silence. Everywhere. Even Luca blinked.

Matteo (grinning against her lips, low and breathless): “Guess we’re done pretending, huh, princesa?”

He wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed her back harder — owning it, claiming it, in front of everyone.

Matteo (looking at the crowd, cocky as hell): “What? Thought we were just friends?”