Heir To Silence. Book 1 The Pact of Blood Series

7.

Marco doesn’t look at me when he speaks.

“You’re coming with us today.”

“Where?” I ask, already suspicious.

Antonio answers instead. “A site visit.”

“That sounds vague on purpose.”

Marco finally meets my eyes. “You’re not staying here alone.”

“I didn’t ask to go anywhere.”

“You’re not asking,” he says. “You’re coming.”

Gio gives me a look that says don’t fight this one. Alessia isn’t there. That alone tells me something’s wrong.

I grab my bag and follow them outside.

The car waiting in the drive is not the usual one.

It’s longer. Darker. Tinted windows that don’t show anything inside.

My stomach tightens.

Marco opens the door.

I stop short. “I’m not getting in that.”

“Yes, you are,” he says. “And you’re going to sit quietly.”

“With who?”

Antonio exhales. “Lucia.”

I already know.

The door opens wider.

He’s inside.

Sitting back, one arm resting along the seat, posture relaxed like this was always the plan. Dark shirt. No jacket. The faintest trace of a bruise along his knuckle like a punctuation mark.

Matteo De Luca lifts his eyes to mine.

They don’t soften.

“Good morning,” he says.

I freeze.

Marco’s hand presses gently but firmly between my shoulders.

“Get in.”

I do.

The door closes with a sound that feels final.

The car moves.

Silence stretches thick and deliberate. I cross my arms, angle my body toward the window, refuse to look at him.

He lets me.

The city slips past. Stone buildings. Narrow streets. Sunlight flashing and disappearing.

“You shouldn’t have left with him,” he says eventually.

I laugh once. “You shouldn’t have followed me.”

He turns his head then. Studies me openly.

“I didn’t follow you,” he says. “I anticipated you.”

“That’s worse.”

“Usually,” he agrees.

I glance at him despite myself.

Up close, he’s calmer than he was at the club. More contained. Like whatever edge he carries has been deliberately sheathed.

“You carried me,” I say. “Without my consent.”

“You were leaving with someone who didn’t understand what no means.”

“I said yes.”

“You didn’t know who was watching.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“It became mine.”

I scoff. “I’m not your responsibility.”

“No,” he says quietly. “You’re your family’s.”

“And yet you intervened.”

A pause.

“I don’t like disorder,” he says.

“I’m not disorder.”

His gaze flicks to my crossed arms. My rigid posture. The tension I haven’t bothered to hide.

“You are,” he says. “Right now.”

The car slows. Turns through gates that open without hesitation.

A private estate comes into view. Smaller than my father’s, but sharper somehow. More controlled.

The car stops.

I don’t move.

“What is this?” I ask.

“Neutral ground,” he says. “A meeting your brothers are attending.”

“And me?”

“You’re staying,” he replies.

“With you?”

“With me,” he confirms.

I stare at him. “That’s not protection. That’s captivity.”

He opens his door. Steps out.

Then pauses and looks back at me.

“You ran,” he says. “I’m making sure you don’t have to today.”

Something in his voice lands heavier than everything else.

I hesitate.

Then I follow him out of the car.

The door closes behind me.

And for the first time since arriving in Italy, I understand something with absolute clarity.

This wasn’t an accident.

This was containment.

And Matteo De Luca has decided I belong where he can see me. They don’t put me in a room.

They put me beside him.

The meeting spills out onto a terrace overlooking the hills, long tables set with drinks and quiet conversation. Men linger in clusters, jackets off now, voices looser, eyes still sharp.

Matteo stands near the railing, one hand resting casually against the stone, posture relaxed like this is his natural state. Antonio joins Marco at the far end of the terrace, already deep in conversation.

I’m left exactly where he can see me.

On purpose.

I fold my arms. “This is your idea of supervision?”

He doesn’t look at me. “This is your idea of freedom.”

I scoff. “You brought me here.”

“And you walked out of the car,” he replies calmly.

I turn toward the terrace instead of answering.

The air is warm. Late afternoon sun brushes my skin. Glasses clink softly. Laughter drifts in pockets.

One of his men steps closer to the drinks table beside me.

He’s younger than Matteo. Broad shouldered. Dark hair cut close. He glances at me, curious but careful.

“You look bored,” he says.

“I am,” I reply easily.

He smiles, uncertain. “First time at one of these?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“A little,” he admits.

I take a glass from the table, deliberately letting my fingers brush his wrist as I do.

“I’m Lucia.”

He hesitates, then smiles wider. “Enzo.”

“Nice to meet you, Enzo.”

I feel it immediately.

The shift.

Not from Enzo.

From Matteo.

I don’t look at him yet. I let the conversation breathe.

“So,” I say, leaning slightly toward Enzo, “do you always stand around talking about serious things, or is this a special occasion?”

Enzo laughs. “Depends who’s watching.”

“Lucky for you,” I say lightly, “I’m not.”

His eyes flick past me for half a second.

Then back.

“You’re trouble,” he says, amused.

“I’ve been told.”

I laugh softly and take a sip of my drink, letting my gaze linger on Enzo a moment longer than necessary.

Then I turn.

Matteo is watching us.

Not openly.

Intently.

His jaw is tight. His expression unreadable. His hand curls slowly against the stone railing like he’s grounding himself.

I raise my brows at him.

A silent question.

He steps closer.

Not rushed. Not aggressive. Controlled.

“Enzo,” he says calmly. “Go check on the cars.”

Enzo stiffens immediately. “Yes.”

He doesn’t look at me again as he leaves.

I turn back to Matteo, irritation flaring. “That was rude.”

“That was necessary.”

“You don’t own the people around you,” I snap.

“No,” he agrees. “But I am responsible for them.”

“And what about me?”

He studies me carefully. “You’re testing boundaries.”

I smile. “You don’t like that?”

“I don’t like uncertainty,” he replies.

“Then you picked the wrong woman.”

A corner of his mouth twitches. Not amusement. Recognition.

“You think flirting with my men proves something,” he says.

“It proves I’m not obedient,” I counter.

His gaze darkens. “You don’t know what game you’re playing.”

I step closer, lowering my voice. “Then stop acting like I’m the only one enjoying it.”

Silence stretches between us.

This time, it’s charged.

“Don’t do that again,” he says quietly.

I tilt my head. “Or what?”

He leans in just enough that only I can hear him.

“Or you’ll find out exactly how thin my patience is.”

I don’t move.

Neither does he.

Finally, he steps back.

The tension doesn’t ease. It just settles.

I exhale slowly, heart pounding.

Because I understand something now that I didn’t before.

He isn’t trying to control me.

He’s trying not to.

And the fact that I can make him lose focus, even for a moment, tells me everything I need to know.