Porcelain & Fire

Throttle

Alessia

The house feels lighter the next morning.

Not freer—never that—but lighter.

As though my father’s absence has peeled back a layer of pressure that usually smothers every breath I take.

The staff still move in their endless rhythm, the guards still circle like watch dogs, and Matteo is still here—always here, the silent shadow in every doorway. But the weight pressing down on me isn’t quite so heavy. The silence isn’t quite so sharp.

At breakfast, I sit at the long table alone. No voice across from me, no disapproval slicing into every bite. Just silence, broken only by the clink of silver and the curl of steam from my coffee.

But Matteo is still there. Always Matteo.

He stands near the window, arms folded, eyes hidden behind shadow. To anyone else, he’s furniture—part of the marble and glass. To me, he’s the only thing in the room that feels alive.

I tilt my chin a fraction too high when I sip. Smile a little too warmly at the maid who tops my cup. Tiny cracks in porcelain. Tiny sparks of fire.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But I see it—the faint tightening of his shoulders, the narrowing of his eyes. He feels it.

He knows I’m still playing.

By midday, the sun is sharp and golden, spilling over the gardens until the marble paths glow.

I don’t go near the gates. I don’t trace the wall. Instead, I wander to the fountain, the sound of water soft and steady as it spills over carved stone.

I sit on the edge, dip my fingertips into the cool surface, and tilt my head back so the sunlight paints my face. To anyone else, I look harmless. Almost peaceful.

But I know he’s watching. Always watching.

Does he still hear his own words as I do?

I’m not your enemy.

Does he regret them? Or did he mean them?

I trail my fingers in the water, let the mask soften into something that looks almost like surrender. It isn’t. It never will be. But I want to see if he notices.

And when the air shifts—just slightly, like his presence has drawn closer—I know he does.

The house glows warm with lamplight by evening. Not lighter—never lighter with him here—but sharper. Closer.

Last night, he’d sat beside me for the first time. Spoke words that still echo in my chest.

Tonight, I test him.

I curl onto the couch in the cinema again, hair loose, legs tucked beneath me, a carton of leftovers balanced on my lap. The screen flickers with color, but I hardly see it. Because he’s there—leaning in the doorway, shadow and man both.

“You’re really going to stand there all night again?” I ask, feigning boredom.

Silence. Just the tick of his jaw.

I pat the cushion beside me. “You already broke the rules once, Bianchi. You might as well admit you liked it.”

For a beat, nothing. Then the cushions dip.

He sits. Straight-backed, precise, one arm stretched along the backrest. Not casual. Never casual. But close. Too close.

“Why do you always choose these films?” he asks, low.

“These films?”

He gestures faintly toward the screen—neon chaos and noise. “Always something that drowns out the quiet.”

My chopsticks pause. He isn’t wrong.

I lean back lazily. “Would you rather I watched documentaries? War films? Something that feels more like you?”

His lips twitch. “Maybe.”

I smirk. “You’d be terrible company for a rom-com.”

“And you’d be terrible company for the kind of films I watch.”

That sharpens my attention. “And what kind do you watch?”

The silence stretches. Too long. He doesn’t answer. Which means I’ve found something.

“You said you’re not my enemy. Fine. But you’re not my friend either. So what are you, Matteo?”

His gaze stays fixed on the screen, jaw tight. Finally, his voice comes, low. “I’m the one who keeps you alive. Protects you from the world out there.”

The words hit cold. Final.

I lean back, carton forgotten. My pulse thrums hot. “Protection,” I whisper, sharp as a blade. “That’s just another word for cage.”

That makes him turn, his eyes locking onto mine in the dim glow. Sharp. Heavy.

The silence that follows burns hotter than fire. Too sharp. Too close.

Something inside me breaks.

I shove the carton aside, rise in one quick motion. “I’m going to bed.” My steps cut fast across the carpet. The door clicks shut behind me, the silence heavier than any slam.

But my room feels too small. Too suffocating.

I pace once. Twice. Then I rip my clothes off and drag on jeans, a jacket, boots. My hair stays loose, wild. The mirror catches me as I pass—no porcelain, no polish. Just fire.

The hallway stretches long and silent. My footsteps snap against marble, my pulse pounding louder than the guards’ distant movements.

The garage air hits me like fuel—oil, rubber, polished chrome gleaming under fluorescent light. My heart stutters hard when I see it. My Ferrari. Sleek, red, waiting like a predator.

Freedom.

I storm straight for it, yank the door open, and slide into the driver’s seat. Leather hugs me. My hands grip the wheel. One press of the ignition and I’m gone.

The passenger door opens.

Of course.

Matteo lowers himself into the seat, calm, deliberate, like this was always going to happen. His presence fills the car more than the engine ever could.

“Going somewhere?” His voice is low, steady.

“Out.”

“And what then?”

I meet his gaze. Dark. Certain. “Maybe I don’t need a then. Maybe I just want out.”

“You don’t want freedom,” he says finally. “You want escape. There’s a difference.”

“Stop me, then.” My thumb hovers over the ignition. “Stop me like you always do.”

But he doesn’t move. He just watches.

Then, quiet—softer than I expect, but heavier for it:

“If you turn that key… you won’t like what happens next.”

My smile sharpens. “Watch me.”

The Ferrari roars awake. The beast wants blood. I slam the pedal and the car hurtles down the drive.

The iron gates loom—shut. Locked.

Matteo’s radio snaps to his mouth. “Gate. Now.”

Static crackles back, hesitation bleeding through. Guards don’t open the gates without Emilio’s order.

“Open the damn gates!” Matteo barks, urgency slicing through his usual calm. “Now!”

At the last second, chains rattle, iron groans. The gates drag themselves wide.

We blast through, tires screaming.

For once, Matteo isn’t all stone. His jaw is tight, one hand braced hard against the door as the car fishtails and bites the road. His gaze stays fixed on me—dark, sharp, but edged with something rawer.

Restraint. Strain. A flicker of unease beneath the calm.

I laugh, sharp and wild, the sound tearing free. “Still think I need protection?”

He doesn’t answer. He can’t.

Because for once, Matteo Bianchi isn’t the unshakable cage.

He’s in the storm with me—and I don’t think either of us knows where it’s taking us.

The Ferrari slides into the mouth of an underground lot, engine cooling into a low growl as I cut the ignition. Silence slams down, heavy, hot, after the roar.

I unclip my belt, lean back, lips curving slow. Then I turn to him, eyes catching his, daring.

“Observe,” I whisper, soft as a blade. “Learn something.”

I push the door open, neon bleeding up from the club below.

And that’s when I see it—his hand still clenched against the door, knuckles pale. His breath a fraction slower, as though he’s reining himself back in.

The stone mask is almost perfect again. Almost.

But I’ve seen the crack.

And I know Matteo Bianchi is holding tighter to his control now than ever.