Bound to the Cold Don

The Aftermath & The First Test

Hours passed like centuries inside the dark steel box.

The panic room had no clock, no windows, and almost no sound. The air smelled faintly of clean filters and metallic paint. I sat on the cold floor, my knees pulled tightly against my chest, staring at the dark seal of the door.

Every tiny vibration in the floorboards made my heart jump into my throat. Was he alive? Had Luca Volkov’s men taken the house? If someone opened that door, would it be Matteo... or a killer with a silver dragon tattooed on his neck?

Suddenly, a loud metallic CLICK echoed through the heavy frame.

I scrambled backward against the wall, picking up a heavy steel flashlight from an emergency supply shelf nearby, holding it like a club.

The heavy door slid open with a hydraulic hiss. Warm, orange light flooded the dark space, blinding me for a second.

A towering silhouette stood in the doorway. He was leaning heavily against the doorframe, his white shirt completely ruined with blood, soot, and plaster dust. But his gray eyes were bright, calm, and unmistakably alive.

"You can put the flashlight down, little bird," Matteo rasped, his voice rough and exhausted.

The relief hit me so fast my knees buckled. I dropped the flashlight onto the floor, rushing forward before my brain could process what I was doing. I grabbed his uninjured shoulder, looking over his pale face and blood-soaked chest.

"You're alive," I breathed, my voice cracking. "You're actually alive."

"It takes more than a few mercenaries to clear my house, Elena," he said, a tired, faint smirk touching his lips.

Behind him, the hallway was a war zone. Smoke hung in the air, and two guards were busy sweeping up broken glass and plaster debris. Marco stood nearby, wrapping a clean white bandage around his own forearm, giving me a quiet nod of respect as I stepped out into the corridor.

"How many did we lose?" Matteo asked Marco, turning his attention straight back to business despite looking like he was about to collapse.

"Two guards injured, none dead," Marco reported cleanly. "Volkov’s team retreated when our backup arrived from the docks. We captured one of their drivers alive. He’s in the basement holding cell."

"Good," Matteo said, his voice turning cold as ice. "I’ll speak with him after I clean up."

"You're not speaking to anyone," I interjected, stepping directly into his line of sight, placing a firm hand on his uninjured chest. "Look at yourself! You’ve been running around shooting people with a freshly reopened surgical wound. If I don't re-stitch your side right now, you'll be dead from infection or blood loss before sunrise."

Marco opened his mouth to object, but Matteo raised a single hand, stopping his bodyguard in his tracks.

Matteo looked down at my hand on his chest, then up into my eyes. The coldness in his gaze melted into something deep and unreadable.

"She’s right, Marco," Matteo murmured. "Prepare the medical suite in the east wing. And have someone bring clean clothes for my wife."

Wife. The word hung in the air, heavy and strange.

An hour later, the estate’s private medical suite was quiet.

Matteo sat on the edge of an examination table, stripped to the waist while I worked. The room was sterile, equipped with high-end hospital gear that rivaled Chicago General. I had local anesthetic, clean suture kits, and fresh bandages ready.

I leaned in close, carefully cleaning the torn edges of his wound with antiseptic. Matteo didn't flinch once as I worked. He just sat still, his massive frame radiating heat, his eyes tracking my every movement.

"You don't shake when you work," he observed softly, his breath brushing against my hair. "Even after everything that happened tonight."

"In the ER, if your hands shake, people die," I said, keeping my focus on putting a clean, tight suture through his skin. "I learned to lock my fear in a box a long time ago."

"A useful skill in my world," he murmured. "Most women in your position would have screamed, cried, or begged to leave."

"I did ask you to let me leave," I reminded him, pulling the thread tight and tying a surgeon's knot. "You refused."

"Because leaving means dying," Matteo said, his voice dropping an octave. "And whether you believe it or not, Elena, I didn't save your life at the hospital just to let Volkov throw you in the river."

I paused for a fraction of a second, looking up from his wound. His face was only inches from mine. Up close, I could see the golden flecks in his gray eyes, the sharp angle of his cheekbones, and the faint scar running along his jawline. For a moment, the terrifying Don of Chicago just looked like a man—a dangerous, complex man who had risked his life to cover mine during a gunfight.

"There," I said softly, breaking the eye contact and taping a clean gauze pad over his side. "Finished. No heavy lifting, no gunfights, and no running for at least forty-eight hours."

Matteo leaned back slightly, a dark, amused smile touching his lips. "I don't take orders well, little bird."

"You do when it comes to your health," I said, stepping back to wash my hands at the sink. "Otherwise, I won't be around to fix you next time."

Before he could answer, the door to the medical suite opened, and Marco walked in, carrying a tablet and a sleek black velvet box.

"Boss," Marco said, setting the velvet box on the tray table. "The press is already running headlines about the disturbance at the estate. Volkov leaked a story saying you were fatally wounded in an internal syndicate coup."

Matteo’s expression instantly hardened. "He wants my allies to panic and switch sides."

"Exactly," Marco nodded. "Which means we can't wait. The annual Syndicate Gala is tomorrow night at the Drake Hotel. If you don't show up standing on your own two feet with your new bride, the other families will assume Volkov is in control."

Matteo looked at the velvet box on the tray, then turned his gaze to me.

"Tomorrow night is your first test, Elena," Matteo said quietly. "You will walk into a room full of murderers, politicians, and rival bosses on my arm. You will wear my family's jewels, smile for the cameras, and make everyone in that room believe you love me."

I looked at the black velvet box, my chest tightening. "And if I make a mistake?"

Matteo stood up from the examination table, stepping closer until he towered over me, his shadow wrapping around me completely.

"Then Volkov wins," Matteo whispered, reaching out to gently touch the ruby ring on my finger. "And neither of us survives the week."