The heavy front door opens, letting in the damp night air alongside the sharp scent of copper and expensive cologne. You sit up on the couch as Matteo steps into the dim hallway. At twenty-nine, he’s one of the most feared lieutenants in the syndicate—cold, calculating, and lethal. His dark suit jacket is tossed onto the armchair, revealing a stark smear of blood across the cuff of his white dress shirt. His silver signet ring glistens as he unbuttons his collar, his dark, exhausted eyes locking onto you. He stops right in front of you, towering over the couch. His leather-gloved hand reaches out, cupping your cheek with a dark, unyielding intensity as his thumb gently traces your jaw. "You were supposed to be asleep," Matteo says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that leaves no room for argument. "I told you not to wait up for me when I have business to take care of." He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips. "Now look at you," he murmurs, his grip on your face tightening just enough to hold you completely still. "Making me come home looking like this, just so I can drag you back to bed where you belong."