Truth for Truth
1404 Words
Alessia
The music thrums through my chest, heavy and relentless, but it’s nothing compared to the weight of his stare.
Matteo hasn’t looked away since I said it—then maybe I’ll finally get to prove I don’t need protection.
To him, it’s defiance.
To everyone else in this room, it’s confidence.
But to me?
It’s strategy.
Because I see what he doesn’t: the bartender leaning a little too close when he sets my glass down, the men at the corner table nodding like I belong to their circle. They don’t treat me like Emilio Lombardi’s daughter. They treat me like someone untouchable.
And maybe that’s true. Or maybe it’s just what’s expected of me.
I raise the glass, let the burn skim my tongue, though I swallow barely enough to taste it. I don’t drink here. Not really. I can’t afford to. But appearances matter—and appearances are everything in a room like this.
Matteo doesn’t know that. He only sees me calm, poised, unshaken by smoke and money and men who’d kill each other with a smile. He doesn’t see the fire gnawing at me—the one that’s been screaming since Papà told me about marriage, about being bartered away like one more deal in his ledger.
That’s why I come here.
Not for rebellion. Not for danger.
For choice.
Here, no one asks if I’ll be a good wife. No one tells me to fold my hands and keep my mouth soft. Here, I belong to myself.
I set the glass down, mask flawless. Then I look at him. Matteo. Still watching, still dissecting every breath like he’ll find the answer buried in the silence.
He doesn’t understand. Not yet. But he’s close.
So I lean in, let my lips curve. “Relax, Bianchi. You’ll give yourself wrinkles if you keep staring at me like that.”
His jaw tightens—the tell I’ve learned to catch—but he doesn’t look away. He never does.
I swirl the glass, ice clinking faintly. The club hums around me, but I don’t want the noise. Not when he’s beside me like this—not looming, not blocking—just there.
“You know,” I say lightly, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about yourself.”
His head turns, slow, deliberate. “That’s because there’s nothing worth saying.”
I laugh, soft. “Now that’s a lie. You’ve watched me every second for weeks. Surely I’m owed something in return. A detail. A story.”
He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze sweeps the room, then locks back on mine. “Where I come from doesn’t matter. What matters is where I am now.”
“And where’s that?” I tilt my head, feigned amusement covering the challenge.
“Here.”
One word. Certain.
Something flares hot in my chest. Not fire. Something else.
“That was almost poetic,” I murmur. “I might start to think there’s a man under all that stone.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Almost.
Encouraged, I press. “So tell me—did you always want this? Guarding someone else’s life instead of living your own?”
His silence lingers. His hand flexes once on the bar before he answers, quiet: “No one chooses this life. But some of us learn how to live with it.”
The admission hits harder than I expect. Because for the first time, Matteo isn’t just a shadow or a wall. He’s flesh. Bone. A man sharing cryptic messages that tell me nothing and everything all at once.
I finish my drink, set it down, and lean close enough that he’ll have to hear me. “Come with me.”
I don’t wait. I slip off the stool, boots thudding against the floor as I weave through the crowd. I don’t look back. I don’t have to. He always follows.
The hallway is quieter, shadows swallowing the bass until it feels like another world. I stop in a velvet-lined lounge, turn, and smile slow. “Sit.”
He does. Opposite me, posture sharp, distance humming dangerous between us.
“Let’s make a deal,” I say.
His eyes narrow. “What kind of deal?”
“Truth for truth.” My tone is almost playful, but my gaze doesn’t waver. “You want honesty from me? Fine. But I get yours too.”
He hates it—I can see it in the flick of his jaw—but he’s tempted. Matteo Bianchi can live inside silence, but honesty tempts him in ways silence never will.
“You won’t lie?” he tests.
“Not if you don’t.” I lean back, stretching like a cat. “Five questions each. No masks. No evasions. Just truth.”
The silence stretches taut. Finally, he leans back too, one arm stretched along the couch, eyes never leaving mine.
“Truth for truth,” he says at last.
Victory hums through me. Because now, for the first time, the shadow is about to speak.
---
Matteo
The bass dulls through the walls, just a faint pulse under the velvet hush. Alessia commands the shadows like she was born in them. She doesn’t ask. She tells me. Sit.
I do. Not because I should. Because I want to.
“Truth for truth,” she says. No masks. No evasions.
A soldier should know better. But I want this.
---
Round One
I ask first. “What are you running from?”
Her answer cuts clean: “The cage. A life decided for me before I even had a say.”
I don’t react, but the words sting. Because I know cages.
Her turn. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
Too many answers. One memory sharpest. “I hesitated.”
Nothing more. That word is enough.
---
Round Two
“What do you want most?”
“Choice,” she fires back. Immediate. “Even if it kills me.”
Her question lands sharp: “What are you afraid of?”
I could lie. I don’t. “…Failure.”
Something flickers in her eyes. Not victory. Recognition.
---
Round Three
“If you could walk out those gates tonight and never look back, what would you do first?”
“Drive until the road ends,” she breathes. “Then keep going.”
Her strike comes quick. “What would you do if you weren’t following orders?”
Truth aches like old scars. “I don’t know.”
And that’s worse than admitting fear.
---
Round Four
“What hurts more—obedience, or failure?”
Her mask slips just enough for her voice to soften. “Obedience. Failure’s mine. Obedience belongs to someone else.”
She doesn’t hesitate before she asks: “What would you die for?”
“Loyalty. My word. My men.”
Not myself. Never myself.
---
Final Round
“What would break you?” I press.
For the first time, she pauses. When she answers, it’s quiet. Raw. “Being forgotten. Living my whole life as someone else’s possession, and leaving nothing behind that was mine.”
Then her eyes pin mine. “And you, Matteo? What do you want from me?”
I should shut it down. But the truth is already out: “Not obedience. Not performance. Just the fire no one else gets to touch.”
The silence after is dangerous.
She smiles slow. “Game’s over.”
---
We leave the velvet room, but her answers burn in my chest: cages, choice, being remembered. And mine linger with her—hesitation, failure, fire.
The Ferrari carries us back smooth, Alessia’s hands steady on the wheel this time. Not storm, but current.
At the gates, I break the silence. “You’re not reckless. Everyone thinks you are. But every move tonight was precise. Controlled.”
Her knuckles pale on the wheel. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“It’s the truth.”
Her lips twitch. “Truth for truth, hm?”
She doesn’t wait for my answer. Just a soft, “Goodnight, Matteo.”
The door shuts. Her footsteps fade.
I stay in the car, hands braced on my knees, the weight of her words pressing like chains and freedom all at once.
Because tonight, she didn’t just show me fire. She made me want to follow it.
- Writer
