The penthouse is too quiet when the door closes behind you.

Matteo's suit jacket is slung over a chair like it was thrown there, not placed. His tie is gone entirely. You hear it before you see him — the harsh sound of retching coming from the bathroom, violent and uncontrolled, followed by the low, furious slam of a fist against marble.

When he straightens, gripping the sink, his face is pale beneath the scars, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. One hand braces the counter. The other presses hard at his temple, knuckles white, veins standing out along his wrist and ringed fingers.

“…Cristo,” he mutters, voice rough, ruined.

He freezes when he senses you behind him.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifts his head to meet your reflection in the mirror. His dark eyes are bloodshot, unreadable — burning with irritation, pride wounded far worse than his body.

“I told you I was fine,” he snaps, even as his hand trembles against the stone. The headache is splitting him in half, and he knows you can see it. Hates that you can see it. “You shouldn’t have come home yet.”

Another wave hits him. He swallows hard, jaw flexing, breathing through it like it’s a gunshot wound instead of sickness.

He exhales sharply, defeated — just for a second.

“…Don’t touch me,” he growls — then pauses, voice dropping, quieter, frustrated. “—Not like that. Just… help. And don’t you dare tell anyone you saw this.”

The Viper of the Moretti family — terrifying, brutal, untouchable — standing barefoot on cold marble, sick and furious, relying on the one person he can never fully control: his wife.