Chapter Three~Matteo
4397 Words
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8 months ago
The house always goes quiet when my father drinks. Not loud. Not messy. Not the kind of chaos people expect when men like him lose control.
No—this is worse. This is silence that means something.
It starts with the first pour.
I don't even have to see it to know it's happened. I hear the glass before anything else; the low, solid sound of it being set down on the table. Then the bottle. Then the slow, measured splash of whiskey filling the space between.
If it's early, there's ice. If it's not, there isn't.
Tonight... there wasn't.
By the second glass, the house adjusts.
Staff move quieter. Doors don't slam. Conversations die halfway through sentences like no one wants to be the one who lets their voice carry too far.
By the third, everything settles into something heavy.
Like the air itself knows better than to move too fast.
I stand just outside the dining room, leaning my shoulder against the wall, watching him without making it obvious.
My father doesn't look drunk. That's the thing about him. He never does.
Cillian Featherstone sits at the head of the table like he always does—back straight, shoulders squared, one hand resting beside the glass like it belongs there. Like it's always belonged there.
If someone walked in right now, they'd think nothing of it. They wouldn't see the difference.
But I do.
I always do.
Because it's not his posture that changes. It's his eyes. They lose something. Not focus. Not awareness.
Sharpness. Hope.
Like whatever edge he carries around all day, the thing that makes men twice his size hesitate before speaking, just... dulls.
And in its place... There's something else.
Something I don't recognize. Something I've never been allowed to understand.
"...Matteo." My name cuts through the quiet, low and even.
I straighten without thinking. He doesn't look at me when he says it. He never does when he's like this.
His attention stays on the glass in front of him, thumb dragging slowly along the rim like he's tracing something invisible.
"The bottle's empty." I glance at it out of habit, even though I already know. Of course it is.
I push myself off the wall and step into the room, my shoes barely making a sound against the floor.
"Office?" I ask.
A small nod. That's all I get. That's all I ever need.
I take the glass from the table without another word and turn toward the hallway, the weight of it sitting heavier in my hand than it should.
Behind me, no one speaks. They never do when it comes to this. Because everyone in this house knows what's behind that door.
And more importantly—
What isn't supposed to be touched.
The hallway feels longer tonight. Or maybe I'm just more aware of it.
The lights are dim, casting soft shadows along the walls that stretch and shift as I pass. Every step echoes just enough to remind me I'm alone.
I've walked this path a thousand times. Past the study.
Past the sitting room no one uses. Down to the last door on the left. His office.
I stop in front of it for a second longer than I should. Not because I'm scared. Not exactly. But because there's always been something about this room that feels... different.
Like stepping inside means stepping into something I don't fully understand.
My hand lifts before I can overthink it, fingers wrapping around the handle. It turns easily and I step inside.
The smell hits me first. Whiskey. Old paper.
Something stale—like the air hasn't fully moved in hours. Maybe longer.
I step inside and close the door behind me, the soft click echoing louder than it should in the quiet.
The desk lamp is still on. It always is.
A low, golden light spilling across the surface of the desk, catching on scattered papers, half-empty glasses, and the edges of folders that look like they haven't been properly stacked in years.
I move toward the cabinet first.
That's the task.
That's why I'm here.
I know exactly where the bottle is. Second shelf, toward the back. He never changes it.
I pull it out, feeling the weight of it in my hand, and for a second, that's all this is.
Just another night. Just another refill.
I turn back toward the desk—
And stop.
Because I've seen his office before. Of course I have. But I've never really looked at it.
Not like this. Not when no one else is here.
Not when nothing is being hidden.
The desk isn't just cluttered. It's... lived in. Not in the comfortable way.
In the obsessive way.
There are files everywhere. Some stacked. Some spread open. Some pushed aside like they were abandoned halfway through being read. Coffee stains ring the edges of papers. Darker stains—whiskey, probably—blur ink in places where someone didn't bother to be careful anymore.
Maps are pinned to the wall behind the desk, marked and re-marked so many times the ink has started bleeding into itself. Name after name has been circled and marked out more than a handful of times. Lines connect things that don't seem like they should be connected at all.
It's not organized. Not really. It's something else. Something frantic, disguised as control.
I don't remember deciding to move closer. But suddenly I'm there. Standing at the edge of the desk. Looking down at everything my father has spent years trying to piece together.
I should get the new bottle to him. I should just grab the bottle and leave. I should pretend I never saw any of this.
I don't.
Instead, I set the bottle down.
And get comfortable.
The chair is still warm. That's the first thing I notice. Like he was just here. Like I'm stepping into something I wasn't meant to interrupt.
For a second, I hesitate. My hand hovers over the nearest file. This isn't mine. None of this is mine.
But then again—Neither was she.
And that never stopped any of this from shaping my entire life. My fingers close around the edge of the folder before I can stop myself. I pull it closer.
Open it.
And just like that— Everything starts to change.
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At first, it doesn't make sense.
It's too much.
Too many reports. Too many names. Too many dates that don't line up the way they should. My father and his capos weren't sloppy. They were thorough.
Relentless.
Every lead followed. Every possibility documented. Every connection chased until it broke apart into nothing.
I flip through page after page, my eyes moving faster than I can fully process.
Locations. Known associates. Rival families. Suspected movements. All of it built around one thing.
Her.
Elisabetta.
I don't remember the first time I heard her name. It's always just... been there. Like something woven into the foundation of the house itself.
A story told without ever being fully spoken.
A presence felt without ever being seen.
I was born into her absence.
Into the space she left behind. Every year, the same date. The same silence. The same look in my mother's eyes that no one ever dared to interrupt. The same shift in my father that turned him colder for days after.
We never celebrated. We remembered. We honored.
Even though I never knew her.
Even though I never met her.
She's always been there.
In everything.
And now—
I'm holding the pieces of what happened to her in my hands. Or at least... what they thought happened.
I keep reading. Keep flipping.
Keep trying to make sense of something that clearly never made sense to them.
Because if it had— none of this would still be here.
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Hours could have passed. Or minutes.
I don't know.
At some point, the noise in my head starts to quiet. Not completely. But enough. Enough for something to shift.
Enough for me to stop seeing what's there—
And start noticing what isn't.
They were looking too high. That's the first thought that lands clearly.
Too big. Too complicated. Everything points to power plays. To rival families. To calculated moves meant to weaken my father, to send a message, to gain leverage.
Every theory circles back to the same place.
Someone took her.
Someone important.
Someone with a reason.
But the more I look—the less it fits.
There are gaps. Small ones. Easy to miss if you're not looking for them.
But once I see them—I can't unsee them.
Timelines that don't align. Reports that contradict each other in subtle ways. Leads that were dropped too quickly. Not because they were wrong—but because they didn't match the narrative everyone had already decided on.
My fingers tighten on the edge of the paper in front of me. They weren't looking for a missing child. They were looking for a move.
For a strategy.
For an enemy that made sense.
But what if—that wasn't what this was?
I lean back slightly, my eyes scanning the desk again, slower this time.
Different.
I start over. Not from the top. From the edges. From the things they dismissed. The things that didn't matter. The things that didn't fit. And that's when I find it.
It's barely anything.
A single page. Folded once.
Half buried under a stack of reports that look like they've been read a hundred times over.
I almost miss it. Almost.
Something about it feels... out of place. Too simple.
Too plain compared to everything else.
I pull it free, unfolding it carefully, my eyes moving over the lines.
And then... I stop breathing.
It's not a report. Not really. It's a note. Short. Incomplete. Easy to overlook.
Exactly the kind of thing you'd set aside to come back to later—and never do.
"Unregistered intake. Female infant. No follow-up."
No name. No confirmation. No connection. Just a location.
An orphanage.
My pulse starts to pick up, slow at first, then faster.
No. It's nothing. It could be anything.
It could be—My eyes drop to the date.
And everything in me goes still. Because it lines up. Not perfectly. But close enough. Close enough to matter.
Close enough that it shouldn't have been ignored.
I swallow, my grip tightening on the paper.
Why wasn't this followed?
Why wasn't this— Because it didn't fit.
Because it wasn't clean.
Because it didn't point to power or strategy or anything that made sense in their world.
It pointed to something else. Something smaller. Something easier to lose.
My chair scrapes softly as I push back from the desk, standing too fast.
No.
No, that's not...
I turn, scanning the rest of the files like they might suddenly rearrange themselves into something clearer.
Something easier to accept. But they don't.
Because now that I've seen it—
Everything else looks different. They were searching for someone taken. Someone kept. Someone important.
They weren't looking for someone who had been...
Lost.
My stomach drops.
Because if I'm right—
If this is right—
Then they didn't miss her because they weren't trying hard enough. They missed her because they were looking in the wrong world entirely.
And by the time they realized—
My gaze drops back to the paper in my hand.
"...adopted."
The word isn't written there. But it doesn't need to be.
Because there's no follow-up.
No continued record.
No transfer.
No nothing.
Which means—she didn't stay. She didn't disappear inside the system.
She was taken out of it.
Erased.
No name.
No file.
No trace.
Just... gone.
A hollow laugh almost escapes me, but I bite it back before it can.
All these years.
All this time.
They were chasing enemies.
While she—
My grip tightens until the paper crumples slightly in my hand.
No.
I force myself to breathe.
To think.
This doesn't mean it's her. It doesn't prove anything.
It's just— a possibility. A thread. One they missed.
One I almost missed. But it's not enough.
It's not—
No.
It is.
Just not here.
Not in these files.
Not in this room.
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I don't remember leaving the office. I know I did. I must have.
Because the next thing I'm aware of, I'm standing in the hallway again, the door closed behind me, the sound of it clicking into place echoing louder than it should.
The bottle is still in my hand. Unopened.
For a second, I just stand there, staring at it like I don't understand what it is or how it got there.
Right. Father's drink. That's why I went in.
That's why—
My jaw tightens.
I turn and walk back toward the dining room, my steps slower now, more controlled. The house hasn't changed. It's still quiet. Still careful. Still holding its breath.
When I step back inside the dining room, no one looks at me right away. They never do. Not until I move.
Not until I place the glass down in front of him and reach for the bottle to pour.
Only then do I feel it—
My father's attention shifting.
Not fully. Not sharply. But enough.
Enough that I know he's aware of me in a way he wasn't before.
The amber liquid fills the glass in a slow, steady stream.
It sounds louder than it should. Everything does right now. I set the bottle down.
Step back.
Wait.
He doesn't pick up the glass immediately.
His fingers rest beside it, unmoving, like he's forgotten it's there.
Or maybe—Like he's forgotten why he wanted it in the first place.
I reach forward to dispose of it for him.
"...Leave it," he mutters after a second, voice rougher now. Not drunk. Not quite.
But closer.
I don't argue.
I nod once, even though he's not really looking at me, and step away from the table.
No one stops me. No one asks where I'm going. They never do. Because as long as I'm in the house—
I'm accounted for. I'm safe. I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
And for the first time in my life—
That feels like a problem.
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I don't go to my room.
I walk straight past the front hall, past the staff who pretend not to notice, past the doors that have always stayed open for me without question—
And I leave. The night air hits harder than I expect.
Cool. Sharp. Real.
It cuts through everything still sitting heavy in my chest, grounding me in a way the house never does.
For a second, I just stand there on the steps, staring out into the dark like I'm seeing it for the first time.
Then I move. No plan. No destination.
Just...walk.
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The bar isn't new. I've been here before. Not often.
Not enough for it to mean anything. Which is exactly why I chose it.
It's loud enough to disappear in. Dim enough not to be recognized. Close enough that no one questions it if I'm seen.
The door swings open, and the noise hits me immediately—voices layered over each other, glasses clinking, low music threading through it all like a pulse.
Normal. It feels... normal.
I step inside, letting the door fall shut behind me, and for a moment, I just exist in it.
No expectations. No silence pressing in from every direction. No ghosts sitting at the table with me.
Just noise.
I move toward the bar, sliding onto a stool near the end, far enough from the center that no one pays too much attention.
The bartender doesn't ask questions.
He just sets a glass in front of me, waits.
"Whiskey. Top shelf." I say.
He pours it without a word. I don't drink it right away.
I just stare at it.
Amber. Same as before. Same as always.
My reflection distorts in the surface, breaking apart with the slightest movement.
I almost laugh. Instead, I pick it up and take a slow sip.
It burns. Good. I need that.
Something real. Something that doesn't feel like it's slipping out from under me the more I try to hold onto it.
Because my head—
My head won't stop.
The files. The note. The date. The orphanage.
It all keeps looping, rearranging, trying to settle into something that makes sense.
Something I can either accept...
Or dismiss.
But it won't. Because it fits too well.
Not perfectly. But enough.
Enough that I can't ignore it.
And then—
Over the noise. Over the music. Over everything—
I hear it.
"...I'm telling you, it's real."
I don't look up. Not yet.
It's just another conversation.
Another voice.
Another—
"There's no way," someone responds in Italian, laughing. "The Falcone's? Come on."
That makes me pause. Just slightly. Remembering the name from one of the very few on the list of people my Father trusts.
Falcone.
Old name.
Old money.
Old rules.
I take another sip, slower this time, my focus sharpening without looking like it has.
"They don't do that," the second voice continues. "They barely initiate anyone new in, lest it's family, let alone—what? Promote a woman?"
"She didn't just get promoted," the first one shoots back. "She was initiated, she's ranked now."
There's something in his tone.
Not mocking. Not dismissive.
Respect. Reluctant. But real.
That's what makes me turn.
Just enough.
Not obvious. Just a glance over my shoulder.
Two of my cousins, on my Mom's side, very distant.
I recognize them immediately, even if I don't know them well.
Same blood. Same posture.
Same way of carrying themselves like the room belongs to them even when it doesn't.
They haven't noticed me.
Good.
I turn back to my drink, my attention locked in now whether I want it to be or not.
"Still doesn't make sense," the second one says. "Falcone's old school. Always has been. Tradition, hierarchy, all that bullshit."
"Yeah," the first one agrees. "That's why it's a big deal."
A pause.
Then—
"They say she's ruthless."
My fingers tighten slightly around the glass.
"Of course she is," the second one mutters. "She'd have to be."
"No," the first one says, quieter now. "I mean... really ruthless."
There's a shift in the air behind me. Subtle. But there.
Like the conversation has crossed from casual into something else.
Something worth paying attention to.
"She came out of nowhere," he continues. "No real background. No solid history anyone can trace."
My pulse slows. Not speeds up. Slows.
Like my body is trying to steady itself before something hits.
"That's not possible," the second one says. "Everyone has a history."
"Not her, not one anyone can find," the first replies.
Silence stretches between them for a second.
Then—
"They say Falcone trusts her more than half his own blood."
That's when something cold settles in my chest.
Because men like that—
They don't trust easily.
They don't promote without reason.
And they definitely don't hand power to someone without knowing exactly who they are.
Unless—
My grip tightens again.
No.
Stop.
It's nothing. It's a mere coincidence.
It's—
"And get this," the first one adds, voice dropping just enough that I have to focus to catch it.
"They say she's a mirror image."
A beat.
"To who?" the second asks.
I don't breathe.
"Featherstone."
Everything in me goes still. Not outwardly. Not in any way anyone else can see.
But inside—
Inside, something shifts.
Hard. Sharp. Irreversible.
"That's bullshit," the second one says immediately. "We'd know."
"That's what I thought," the first replies. "But I heard it from someone who heard it from—"
"I don't care who they heard it from," the second cuts in. "There's no way we've got some long-lost cousin running around as a Falcone capo and no one's said anything."
A pause.
Then, quieter—
"...Unless no one knows."
Silence.
Not just between them.
In me.
Because suddenly—
Everything is lining up in a way it shouldn't.
No records. No identity. No past anyone can trace.
A woman who rose through a system that doesn't allow for that.
A connection to my family that no one can confirm—
Or deny.
My jaw tightens.
No. It's too much.
It's too—
Girls like that don't just appear.
The thought hits hard. Clear. Final.
Because they don't. Not in this world.
Not without something or someone powerful behind them.
Or—
Without coming from nothing.
My heart kicks once. Harder this time.
Because I've seen what "nothing" looks like.
I've seen the place people end up when they're lost.
When they're discarded. When they stop mattering.
And if she—
If that girl—
No.
I close my eyes briefly, forcing myself to breathe. Think.
This isn't proof. It's not even close. It's a rumor. A story.
Something passed between people who don't know anything for sure.
But—
It's more than I had an hour ago. More than anyone in that house has had in years.
And for the first time—
It feels like something real.
I open my eyes. The bar hasn't changed. The noise is still there.
The conversation behind me has already started shifting to something else. It doesn't matter.
Because I've already heard what I needed to.
I finish the rest of the whiskey in one slow swallow and set the glass down. My reflection flickers once more in the empty surface.
Distorted.
Unclear.
Unrecognizable.
Good.
Because that's exactly what I'm about to become.
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I don't go back home right away. I walk. No direction.
No real awareness of where I'm going. Just movement.
Because if I stop—
If I stand still long enough to let everything settle—I might start questioning it. Might start pulling it apart.
Might convince myself it's nothing.
And I can't do that.
Not now.
Not when this is the first thing that's made any sense in years. Even if it shouldn't. Even if it's built on nothing more than a coincidence and a rumor—
It's still more than silence.
More than empty files and dead ends. More than watching my family fall apart over something no one can fix. My steps slow eventually.
Not because I'm tired. Because I've already decided. I just haven't said it out loud yet.
I stop under a streetlight, the dim glow casting long shadows across the pavement.
For a second, I just stand there. Completely alone.
And it hits me—
If I'm wrong...
None of this matters. I walk away. I come back.Nothing changes.
But if I'm right—
My chest tightens.
If I'm right...
Then everything does.
And I can't—
I won't—
Let someone else decide what happens next. Not this time. Not with her.
My hands curl slightly at my sides, the decision settling into me fully now.
Quiet. Solid. Unshakable.
I don't go back inside and tell my father. I don't bring it to the capos. I don't share it with anyone.
Because if I'm wrong—
I look like a fool.
But if I'm right—
I put her in danger.
And that's not a risk I'm willing to take. Not when I don't even know who she is yet.
Not when I don't know if she even knows where she came from.
So instead—
I do the only thing that makes sense.
I disappear.
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By the time I get back to the house, it's late. Later than I've ever come back without notice.
No one stops me. No one questions it. Because they trust me. Because they think they know me. Because they believe I'll always stay exactly where I belong.
They're wrong.
I move through the house quietly, the same way I always have. Up the stairs. Down the hall. Into my room. Nothing looks different. Everything is exactly where I left it.
My life.
Contained in four walls. Predictable. Controlled. Safe.
I stare at it for a long moment.
Then I start moving. Not fast. Not frantic. Precise. Definitively.
I take what I need. Nothing more.
Clothes. Cash. A burner.
Things that don't tie back to me any more than they have to.
I don't leave a note. I don't send a message.
Because this isn't something I explain.
This isn't something I ask permission for.
This is something I just...do.
When I'm done, I pause at the door, my hand resting against the frame. For a second—
Just one—
I think about turning back. About waiting. About telling someone. Anyone.
But then—
I see it. Clear as day.
My mother at the table every year. The silence. The overwhelming grief. The weight of something that never got resolved.
And my father—
Obsessing over a past he could never fix.
I exhale slowly.
No. Not this time.
I step out. Close the door behind me.
And don't look back.
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By the time the sun starts to rise, I'm already gone.
Not just from the house. From everything.
The name. The expectations. The life that was written out for me. All of it.
Gone.
Because if she's out there—
If that girl—
That woman—
If there is even a possibility—
Then I'll find her. I don't care what it takes. I don't care who I have to become to do it.
Because if she's not Elisabetta—
I walk away. I disappear again. No one ever knows.
But if she is—
My jaw tightens, something sharper settling in beneath the calm.
Then I won't stop. Not for my father. Not even for my dear mother. Not for whatever waits at the end of this.
Not if it kills me.
I'll ruin every life in my path to get to her.
Even my own.
- Writer
