Porcelain & Fire

The Hunt

Matteo

The distraction hits just after midnight.

Lights flicker, alarms wail, guards scatter on instinct. Sloppy. Predictable. I know it’s false before the fuse even blows.

Because storms don’t hide their weather. Alessia’s been restless all day, pacing her cage like a tigress. Tonight, she was always going to run.

So I don’t chase the alarm. I don’t bark orders. I stand still, listening.

There—her window. The faint scrape of wood. The hush of her feet on the trellis.

She thinks she’s clever. She thinks she’s fooled me.

I let her go.

I trail her from the shadows as she meets Luca at the hedge. He’s grinning, cocky, tugging her hand like he’s stolen a prize. She laughs, reckless, and they vanish into the orchard.

I don’t stop them. I don’t reveal myself. I follow. To the car. To the city. To the club throbbing with neon and bass.

She thinks she’s free. But freedom isn’t real when I allow it.

On the dance floor, Luca spins her like he owns her, hands bold, mouth greedy. She burns against him—wild, alive—but I see it for what it is. Not surrender. Control. Every move measured. Every mask deliberate.

They slip upstairs, into VIP, into a corner she thinks is hidden. She straddles him, drinks too fast, kisses harder, lets him believe he’s untouchable.

I let it play long enough for her to believe it too.

Then I make the call.

Luca smirks when he answers, voice casual over the bass. I match him—light, easy—until I drop the line.

“Luca… where are your hands right now?”

Silence. Their faces shift together: his grin gone, her eyes wide.

That’s when they understand.

They were never out of my sight.

They were never free.

Not for a second.

---

Alessia

I slide off Luca’s lap before Matteo even appears, instinct kicking in. My pulse hammers, but I keep my chin high, settling beside Luca like nothing’s wrong.

Then Matteo is there.

He doesn’t shove. Doesn’t raise his voice. He just sits opposite us, broad shoulders loose, gaze locked steady on me. The chaos of the club doesn’t touch him.

He nudges a glass across the table. His voice is calm, almost conversational.

“You’re drinking too fast, signorina. Pace yourself.”

It cuts sharper than any shout.

Beside me, Luca stiffens. His grin cracks, his bravado thins. “Bianchi. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Matteo doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay on me. When he finally speaks, it’s quiet, absolute:

“Go home, Luca.”

The command lands like a blade.

Luca tries to laugh it off, cocky grin wobbling. “She came with me. If she wants to stay—”

Matteo finally turns his gaze on him. Flat. Unblinking. Deadly. “I said go.”

The air between them chills. Luca’s throat works, his bravado crumbling. He mutters something low, bitter—then slides out of the booth and disappears into the crowd without another word.

Gone.

Matteo hasn’t moved. He’s still watching me, his calm heavier than the music.

I force myself to hold his stare. My voice is low, sharp: “Don’t tell my father I was here with him. It was my choice. If someone pays for it, it should be me.”

Nothing. Just those eyes, unblinking.

“Please,” I add, softer. “Leave him out of it.”

Something flickers in his gaze—recognition, not mercy. He leans forward, elbows braced. His voice rasps low, meant only for me.

“Your father doesn’t need to know. I decide what he hears. And what he doesn’t.”

Relief surges, tangled with dread. Luca’s life isn’t in my father’s hands tonight. It’s in his.

Then: “Why him?” The words land like iron. “Of all people—why Luca?”

I falter, caught. I’d expected a threat, not a question.

“Because…” My throat tightens. I force it out. “Because he made me feel free. Even for a moment.”

Matteo’s jaw sets.

“He doesn’t look at me like property,” I push on, fierce. “He just looks at me. And for once, I wasn’t locked in a house with you at the door.”

The music roars, but between us there’s silence. His silence.

Then he leans closer, eyes cutting through me. “Freedom isn’t in Luca’s hands. It never was. And you don’t see the difference between running—” His gaze sharpens, pinning me. “—and being led.”

Heat claws at my skin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His voice is a blade. “It means you’ve only stepped into a different cage. Mine.”

The words slam into me, cold and hot all at once.

Before I can snap back, he delivers the verdict: “You’re going to end it with him.”

I laugh, sharp, disbelieving. “You don’t get to decide—”

“I do.” His tone slices, final. “Because you’ll destroy him. And I won’t watch you set fire to a man who doesn’t know he’s already drenched in gasoline.”

Luca’s fear flashes in my mind. The way his grin cracked when Matteo told him to go home. My throat knots.

Matteo doesn’t let me look away. “If you care about him,” he says quietly, “you’ll let him go. Before your father learns what I already know.”

The truth lands heavy. Luca walked away alive tonight. If I don’t end this, he won’t next time.

Matteo rises, towering over me. “Come.”

I want to resist, to dig my heels in. But when I meet his eyes—calm, relentless—I know it’s useless.

So I slide out, chin high, heart thrashing. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t need to. His presence clears a path through the crowd until cold air hits my skin outside.

A car waits at the curb. His, not Luca’s. He opens the door, waits. I hesitate a beat, then slip inside. The leather is cool, my pulse burning hot.

The ride back is silent. City lights smear across the glass. His presence beside me is weight enough.

And as the car carries me home, the truth bites deep: whatever freedom I thought I tasted tonight, Matteo has taken it back.

I keep my gaze on the window, my voice a whisper—steady, calm, fire threaded through.

“You won’t cage me forever.”

For the first time, his head turns. His eyes catch mine in the dark. His reply is soft, final.

“We’ll see.”

And the silence that follows tells me I’ve already lost this round.