Red Wine and Revolvers
1022 Words
Matteo stood on the balcony, smoke curling between his fingers, though he hadn’t taken a drag in over five minutes.
He didn’t smoke. Not really.
He hated the taste. Hated the way it reminded him of his father—the real one, the drunk one. But tonight, he needed something to quiet the war in his head.
Inside the villa, music played low—jazz, soft, haunting. The Boss always had a thing for the old-school stuff. Said it made the bullets feel classier.
The girl was still in the cell.
No—Lena.
He’d been trying not to think of her by name. Not to notice the fire in her eyes, the proud tilt of her chin, the way her mouth didn’t tremble, even when her body did.
She was supposed to be a job. An exchange. A threat wrapped in silk skin and a sharp tongue.
But she wasn’t breaking.
And he was the one cracking.
Behind him, the glass door slid open.
“Trouble sleeping?” said the voice he’d grown up fearing.
Matteo turned.
Vincenzo Ricci. The Boss. His uncle. The man who raised him after his parents disappeared into body bags.
He was dressed in black as always. Gold rings. Leather gloves. He walked like the world owed him something—and he was still collecting.
“No,” Matteo replied simply.
Vincenzo lit his own cigar, one eye on the moon. “Then why haven’t you ended the girl?”
Matteo's jaw clenched.
“She’s leverage,” he said.
“She was leverage. Now she’s a liability. Word is her father isn’t budging. That means we send a message.”
Matteo said nothing.
Vincenzo narrowed his eyes. “You going soft?”
“No.”
“Then prove it. Blood for blood. That’s how this world works.”
He took a long drag, then flicked the ash into the wind.
“I want her dead by morning.”
Matteo didn’t move.
“Do you hear me, boy?”
“Yes,” he said.
But when Vincenzo walked back inside, Matteo didn’t follow.
He stood in the dark a little longer, heart pounding like a war drum.
And knew he couldn’t do it.
---
Lena sat on the edge of the mattress they'd finally given her. The cell was cleaner now. Brighter. The food had improved. So had the silence between her and Matteo.
He hadn’t come back that night after he left the door unlocked.
She didn’t try to escape.
She wasn’t stupid.
One wrong step out there and a bullet would find her skull before she could say please.
So she waited.
Plotted.
And then the door creaked open again.
He stepped in without speaking, closing it behind him.
No tray this time.
Just him.
And a gun tucked at his side.
Lena’s pulse kicked.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said carefully.
“Worse.”
She stood slowly. “What is it?”
Matteo stared at her for a long moment.
Then said, “I was ordered to kill you.”
A cold wave swept through her body.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“I didn’t bring you food,” he added. “I brought you a choice.”
She stared at him, numb. “A choice?”
“I can shoot you here. Quick. Clean.”
Her lip trembled. “And the other option?”
He hesitated. Looked away.
“There’s a wine cellar. Old one. Hidden tunnel. It leads into the mountains.”
Her breath caught.
“But once I take you out,” he continued, “there’s no going back. For either of us.”
“You’d… help me escape?”
“I shouldn’t,” he said. “But I can’t kill you either.”
She stepped closer, slow and cautious, like he was a bomb about to go off.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s a lie,” she whispered.
He looked at her then—really looked.
And something in his eyes shattered.
“I think I hate your father,” he said. “But I don’t hate you.”
Silence.
And then, she did something reckless.
She stepped even closer—chest to chest.
“If we leave,” she said softly, “what happens to you?”
“I become a traitor.”
“And you’re willing to risk that? For me?”
He didn’t speak.
Instead, he cupped her face suddenly, roughly—like he hated himself for doing it.
And then he kissed her.
It wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t gentle.
It was bruising. Hungry. Like he’d been starving for her and finally broke.
Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer.
The kiss deepened—tongues tangling, breaths stolen, lips parting in a desperate dance of wrong and want.
When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard.
Matteo’s voice was hoarse. “We don’t have time. If we’re doing this, we go now.”
She nodded, still dazed. “I trust you.”
He stared at her like those words cut deeper than a knife.
“You shouldn’t,” he whispered.
But she followed him anyway.
---
They crept through stone halls, past guards who had no idea the girl they were holding was escaping right under their nose.
Matteo had memorized every blind spot. Every camera angle.
They reached the wine cellar. Ancient. Dust-covered. The air was thick with history and secrets.
He pulled open a loose panel in the wall, revealing a dark passageway.
“Go,” he said.
But she paused.
“Matteo.”
He turned.
She stepped forward, pressed her forehead to his.
“I don’t care where this ends,” she whispered. “I just didn’t want to die in that room.”
He took her hand. Held it tight.
Then led her into the dark.
---
By dawn, the villa burned behind them—metaphorically. The moment Matteo helped her escape, a fuse had been lit.
And someone—somewhere—was going to pay.
But for now, they were free.
Blood-stained. Breathless.
And running.
Together.
- Writer
