His Queen,Their War

Chapter Eight

The pencil moved in soft arcs across the page, almost whispering against the paper.

I sat cross-legged on my bed, sketchbook balanced on my thighs, sunlight pouring through the half-drawn curtains and spilling over my hair.

My lines weren’t perfect yet,curves of gowns had slanted too sharp, the bodice refused to come alive no matter how many times I re-sketched it. But the act itself calmed me, gave me a rhythm my days often lacked. Each failed line meant I could try again, shaping fabric on paper the way I wished someone would shape my life to my satisfaction, with intention, with care. I was supposed to let go of this but I can't.

A shadow fell across the page.

“You still at that?”

My hand stilled. I didn’t need to look up to know the voice,who else would have a deep, warm and an annoyingly amused voice if not Matteo.

He leaned against my doorway, his frame blocking half the light, his lips curved in a smirk that I had come to know too well. He didn’t knock, he didn’t ask. He never did. His presence filled the room whether I wanted it or not,sometimes,it made me feel uncomfortable.

I rolled my eyes and bent lower over my sketchbook. “Go away.”

“Fashion sketches?” His chuckle slid into the air, lazy and rich. “Cute. So when do you plan to design aprons and baby blankets? Because let’s face it…” He pushed himself off the doorframe and strolled in, slow and deliberate. “…you’re not going to be anyone’s designer. You’re going to be someone’s wfe.”

I finally looked up, glaring. “That’s all you think a girl can be? Someone’s wife?”

“That’s all most men expect,” he said smoothly, lowering himself to sit at the edge of my bed. “Smile, cook, look pretty on his arm. Simple job description.”

“And you think I’d let anyone tell me what to do?” I shot back, clutching my sketchbook tighter.

His eyes glittered with amusement. “You already let me.”

The retort caught in my throat. “What—?”

He leaned closer, invading my space, one hand sliding over the mattress as he braced himself. His other hand reached out, fingers toying with a strand of my hair, winding it slowly around his finger. “You hear me walk in, and what do you do? You freeze. You roll your eyes, but you don’t push me out. You like it when I bother you.”

“I don’t,” I whispered, though the words lacked conviction.

His smirk deepened. “Then tell me to stop.”

My lips parted. The air between us thickened, charged. I should have said it,should have shoved him back. But the words clung stubbornly to my throat.

He chuckled, low, satisfied, letting the strand slip from his fingers. “That’s what I thought.”

Heat rushed through my cheeks, fury mixing with something far more dangerous. “You’re insufferable, Matteo.”

“And you’re cute when you’re angry.” He stood, stretching lazily, as if her room was his own. “Better practice, sorellina. A husband won’t be as patient with your attitude as I am.”

My breath hitched, caught between anger and confusion. I blinked at the sketchbook in my lap, but my focus was gone, the lines swimming on the page.

He ran his fingers through my hair like it belonged there,the touch startled me again. Warm and deliberate, an invasion disguised as a tease.

“Get ready to play wifey,” he murmured, strands of her hair sliding over his knuckles. “Better practice cooking, not drawing.”

My heart gave an unsteady kick, though I scoffed to cover it. “You’re ridiculous, Matteo.”

He chuckled low in his throat, a sound that made the back of my neck prickle. “Maybe. But I’m right.”

I twisted, swatting his hand away. The smirk never left his face. He straightened, stretching like a cat that had gotten what it wanted, then sauntered toward the door again.

“Be ready to go back to mafia sweetie.”

“Mafia? You want me to marry my ex?”

He didn’t answer,and he left.For a moment, the room seemed quieter after he left, as if something thick and heavy had lifted. I stared at the sketchbook and tried to focus but I couldn’t.

My hair still tingled where his fingers had grazed. Why did he always have to say things like that? And why did part of me,shamefully and secretly wish he hadn’t left so soon? It's just a brother and sister relationship,but the way his stare lngers…

I blinked hard, shutting the thought away. No. Matteo was infuriating. That was all.

But what did he mean by saying, Be ready to go back into the mafia? Is he getting me married to my ex? No…I'm just over thinking. But Marco isn't into the mafia,he's a billionaire. So,what did Matteo mean?

The room became suffocating all of a sudden. I needed air. Maybe a walk. Maybe to lose myself in the city where no one cared about my messy sketches or my brother’s mocking voice. Me sitting here,will only lead to over thinking which I wasn't ready for.

I rose to my feet, closing the sketchbook, and slipped into a soft dress,something easy, light against the warmth of the day. I brushed my hair, tied the sash around my waist, I twirled in front of my mirror,admiring the beautiful reflection that gazed back at me.

I came out of my room,I went through the hallway,and finally went downstairs. The house wasn’t loud, but I heard Matteo’s voice before I saw him.

“No,listen, I told you, I’ll get it. Just… just give me more time.” Matteo’s voice came from the living room, sharp and edged with something I had never heard from him before,desperation. Was he begging?

I froze midway down the stairs, peeking through the railing. He had his phone pressed to his ear, pacing like a caged animal which was so unusual.

The voice on the other end was too harsh to mistake for a friend. Even through the tinny speaker, I caught the bite of anger, the deep rumble of threats. I also caught recognition too,where have I heard that voice?

Matteo stopped pacing, his shoulders taut, his hand tightening around the phone. “Please. I said I’ll handle it.”

Did I just hear *please?*

Whatever the reply was, it made him flinch. Then suddenly, the line went dead.

He stared at the screen a second too long, his jaw tight, before letting out a sharp curse under his breath.

I stood still, my heart hammering. That wasn’t the Matteo I knew,the mocking, arrogant boy who liked to toy with me. This version was brittle, cracked at the edges, holding himself together with sheer force.

He turned, and I quickly stepped off the last stair, pretending I had just arrived.

“I wanna go for a walk,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

For a second, he looked like he might snap at me or say no. Then, just as quickly, his expression shifted back to something casual and careless. He tucked his phone into his pocket and gave me a faint smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Fine. Go,but my men will accompany you.”

I knew there would be a *but*. I nodded, not trusting myself to say more fearing that he might disapprove, and reached for the door. The sunlight spilled in as I opened it, the city waiting just beyond the threshold. I turned and saw two men,dressed in black suits,behind Mattoe,I guess they’re the ones following me.

“Please tell your men not to glue themselves to me.” I said,as I turned back to the door,my back facing him.

“That won't be a problem.”

With one last glance over my shoulder, I caught his gaze watching me, unreadable. I took a deep breath and stepped outside.