The Mafia’s Only Collateral

CHAPTER 17 The Face I Tried To Forget

The room is soft and warm, lamplight spilling gentle over the desk by the window, shadows stretching long and quiet across the floor. I sink down into the deep armchair, sketchbook open flat before me, charcoal stick smooth and familiar between my fingers — my refuge, my language, the one place I’ve always been completely free.

I start slow, lines easy and loose — first the curve of a shoulder, then the shape of a hand, something soft and safe, something about the life growing steady inside me… but my fingers slow. My breath catches. And without asking, without warning, my mind drifts back — sharp, sudden, vivid as if it happened only yesterday.

That night. The dark. The silence that turned dangerous. The hands that weren’t gentle, that weren’t wanted, that took everything I had left to give without asking, without caring — the night my whole world shifted, the night I was left broken, bleeding, and carrying a secret I hid deep inside for three long, lonely months.

I try to push it away. Try to pull my focus back to the light, to the future, to the scan photo tucked safe in my drawer. But the memory rises up anyway — clear, cold, unshakable — his face, his build, the way he moved, the voice that snarled cruel words I still hear in quiet moments. My hand moves on its own now, fast, rough, lines sharp and jagged, heavy pressure tearing slightly into the paper — I don’t guide it anymore. Memory does.

I draw him. Every detail my mind locked away and refused to name: the height, the broad, heavy frame, the scar slicing thick through his left eyebrow, the hard set of his jaw, the cold, mean glint in his eyes — every feature burned into my brain the way fire burns into wood. I don’t want to remember. I hate remembering. But I draw every line exactly as I saw it — because I need to know. I need to have it down. I need to look at him, face him, put a shape to the nightmare so he stops being just a ghost haunting every corner of my head.

My chest feels tight, breath coming shallow and fast, hands trembling faintly over the page. I press my palm hard over my stomach, grounding myself — I survived. I kept you safe. We are here. We are alive. — but the tears come anyway, hot and silent, slipping down my cheeks, blurring the edges of the drawing. I don’t wipe them away. I just keep going, finishing the last harsh stroke, stepping back from the image I’ve created — clear, complete, unmistakable.

I sit frozen, staring at him — the man who hurt me, the man who gave me this baby through violence, the shadow I’ve carried alone for months. And suddenly the door opens — not loud, not bursting through like Declan usually does — soft, careful, slow.

I jump, slamming the sketchbook shut instantly, clutching it tight against my chest, heart hammering wild, eyes wide and defensive — ready to fight, ready to lie, ready to hide this part of me too.

But it’s only Mateo.

He stands in the doorway, huge and quiet, filling the frame — no noise, no rush, no demand — just his usual steady, solid presence. He’d taken his post outside my room hours ago, silent and watchful as always, and must’ve heard the shift in my breathing, the way I’d gone still and tense and quiet for too long. His gaze lands on me first — sees the tears I haven’t wiped away, the way I hold the book like a shield, the fear still sharp in my eyes — and his whole expression softens, deepens, fills with that quiet, knowing care he always shows.

He steps inside slow, careful — never crowding, never pushing — and closes the door gentle behind him, locking it once, firm and clear, so only we are here. He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t reach for the book. Doesn’t try to pull it from my hands. He just stands there, waiting — patient, calm, safe — letting me decide what to say, what to show, what to keep hidden.

My throat feels thick, voice shaking when I finally speak, quiet and raw and honest — words I’ve never said out loud to anyone.

“I… I drew him.” I whisper, fingers tightening around the cover. “The man who… who did it. Who hurt me. Who gave me this baby. I didn’t mean to. I was just sitting here… and my mind went back. Every detail came back sharp and clear. So I drew him. Every line. Every mark. I know exactly what he looks like.”

Mateo’s eyes darken — harden, flash with cold, dangerous rage — but he doesn’t move, doesn’t let it spill over into anger toward me. He just nods slow, serious, understanding — he knows what that night was. He knows what I went through. He knows I’ve carried it alone.

Slowly, trembling only a little, I open the sketchbook and turn it around, holding it out toward him — showing him the face I’ve never shown anyone else.

Mateo steps closer, looks down at the drawing — studies every line, every scar, every feature — and goes perfectly still. His breath catches. His jaw clenches so hard the muscle jumps sharp under his skin. He stares at the image for a long, heavy moment… then lifts his head and looks straight at me — eyes burning with recognition, with fury, with a terrible, clear truth he can’t hide.

He lifts one hand — slow, deliberate — and taps once, firm and heavy, over the face in the drawing. Then he points to himself, then makes a sharp, cutting motion across his throat — silent, absolute, deadly clear.

I know him. And he will never touch you again. He will never hurt you again. I promise you that.

My heart stops — then races faster than before. “You… you know who he is?” I breathe, eyes wide, shock sweeping through me — after all this time, all this hiding, all this fear… he knows.

Mateo nods once — sharp, sure, grim — then gestures to the chair, then to himself, leaning his broad shoulder against the wall beside me, close but safe, ready to listen, ready to carry it with me. He reaches out slow, careful, and touches the page gently — right over the scarred eyebrow — then looks back at me, steady and serious, and taps his temple.

He is known. He is watched. He is already marked.

He sees every part of me right now — the pain, the fear, the strength, the way I still hold myself together even when I’m shaking inside — and his expression softens again, warm and loyal and fierce all at once. He lifts his hand, presses it firm and heavy over his heart, then points straight at me — clear and unmistakeable: You are mine to guard. You are mine to protect. Every part of you — even the broken, hurt parts.

Then he does something he’s never done before — he reaches out, big scarred hand gentle and slow, and brushes a tear from my cheek with his thumb — soft, careful, reverent — no claim, no demand, just pure, quiet care. He tilts his head toward the sketchbook, then to me, and gives me a short, firm nod — You don’t have to hide this anymore. You don’t have to carry it alone. Not now. Not ever.

I lean back in the chair, breathing out slow and shaky, clutching the book still — but not hiding it anymore. Not from him. For the first time since that night… I’ve put a face to the horror. And now… someone else knows. Someone powerful. Someone dangerous. Someone who will not rest until this man is gone from my life forever.

Mateo stays right there — silent, steady, my shadow, my shield — watching over me, guarding the secret I’ve finally let out, guarding me, and the little life growing safe inside me. And I know — deep down, sure and strong — that the nightmare is still there… but I am no longer walking through it alone.