The Wolf In His Bones

Chapter 3

My eyes open slowly, like my body is scared to let the world in again. My head throbs—heavy, dull pain pulsing at the back of my skull. It takes a moment before I remember why.

The party.

The gunshots.

The warehouse.

My kidnapping.

I suck in a sharp breath and push myself up. The mattress beneath me is thin, scratchy, and smells like metal. A dim bulb hangs overhead, flickering like it’s fighting for its own life. The room is small—concrete walls, a steel door, no windows.

Definitely not a hospital.

Definitely not my apartment.

Definitely mafia territory.

Pain pulls tight across my ribs when I sit up fully. Someone hit me. More than once. My cheek still stings from Crooked-Nose’s slap.

If I ever see him again, I’m breaking his nose the other way.

Before I can stand, the metal door clicks. I stiffen.

It swings open slowly.

And he walks in.

Not the gray-eyed guy from earlier Someone younger. Softer-looking—but not soft. Tall, tan skin, dark curls tied back loosely, a faint scar under his lip. He wears a black t-shirt, fitted enough to show muscle, and has tattoos down one arm. He looks dangerous the way a knife looks dangerous—clean, sharp, purposeful.

His eyes sweep over me, assessing, not pitying.

“You’re awake,” he says.

His voice is deep, surprisingly calm.

I stay silent.

He steps a little closer. “I’m Matteo.”

He stops a few feet away, hands in his pockets like he doesn’t want to frighten me.

Too late for that.

“How long was I out?” I ask.

“Seven hours.”

My jaw clenches. “ Thank crooked-nose for the slap”

Matteo’s expression darkens just a little, like he didn’t like hearing that. “I heard. If it makes you feel better, I broke his nose.”

A shocked laugh escapes me.

He smirks faintly. “You talk back too much to let someone like him touch you.”

“I talk back because I’m right,” I say. “And because he was an idiot.”

Matteo’s smirk grows. “Yeah. I figured that out.”

Silence stretches for a moment—heavy but not suffocating. He watches me like he’s trying to decide something.

Then he asks, “Do you want water?”

My throat is dry as sandpaper, but I refuse to sound weak. “Sure.”

He walks to the corner, grabs a bottle from a crate, and hands it to me. I take it carefully, eyeing him.

“You’re surprisingly polite for a kidnapper.”

He shrugs. “I’m not the one who took you.”

“Still working for the people who did.”

He doesn’t argue. “Fair enough.”

I drink the water, slow, controlled. Matteo watches, not staring, not creeping—just… studying. Like he’s trying to read me the way gray-eyed guy did earlier.

He nods at my bruises. “Does your head hurt?”

“Only when I think about the idiots who hit me.”

He snorts. “Good. You’re fine.”

“Not fine,” I correct. “Kidnapped.”

“Temporarily.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That supposed to comfort me?”

“A little,” he says with a small shrug.

The door creaks again, but no one comes in. Matteo’s gaze flicks toward it, then back to me.

“They still think you’re connected to the Ukrainians,” he says.

“For the last damn time— I met them eleven minutes before the gunshots.”

“I believe you,” Matteo says simply.

I blink.

I didn’t expect that.

“Then why am I still here?” I demand.

“Because belief isn’t proof,” he replies. “And the boss doesn’t move on belief.”

“Your boss sounds exhausting.”

Matteo actually laughs. “That’s one word for him.”

He sits on the edge of the opposite wall, keeping distance, but staying close enough to look like he’s here to watch me. Or protect me. I’m not sure which.

“Why were you even at that party?” he asks.

“Because my friend dragged me there,” I say. “He said I needed ‘fun.’ I thought that meant bad music, not murder attempts.”

“And the Ukrainians?”

“I danced with the girl for, like, two minutes. She seemed cool. That’s all.”

Matteo nods slowly, absorbing everything.

He studies me again, eyes narrowed slightly. “Most people cry when they wake up here.”

“Well,” I say, lifting my chin, “I’m not most people.”

“No,” he agrees quietly. “You’re not.”

Something shifts in the air when he says it—curiosity, respect, maybe something else. It makes my skin tighten, but not in a bad way.

He stands.

“They want to question you again soon,” he says.

“My favorite activity,” I deadpan.

“I’ll be there,” Matteo replies. “So they don’t get stupid.”

Something warm flickers in my chest, but I smother it immediately.

“I don’t need protection,” I mutter.

“Maybe not,” he says as he reaches the door. “But you’re getting it anyway.”

He steps out.

The lock clicks behind him.

And for the first time since this nightmare started…

I’m not as terrified as I was before.

But I’m nowhere near safe.