CHAPTER 9 —
1644 Words
Amara dreams of doors.
Not the ones in the house — not the heavy oak ones with locks that click too softly — but doors that appear out of nowhere, opening into rooms she doesn’t recognise. Every time she steps through one, it closes behind her. Every time she turns around, there’s another door waiting.
She wakes with a sharp inhale, heart racing, sheets twisted around her legs.
For a moment, she forgets where she is.
Then the silence reminds her.
Not peaceful silence. The kind that listens back.
She sits up slowly, curls falling into her face, and swings her legs over the edge of the bed. Dawn hasn’t fully broken yet. The sky outside the tall windows is a muted blue-grey, the world caught between night and morning.
She hasn’t slept properly in days.
Her body feels heavy. Her thoughts heavier.
She pads to the window and presses her palm lightly against the cool glass. Somewhere in this city, people are waking up to normal lives. Coffee. Traffic. Annoying alarms. Mundane problems.
Here, the air feels thicker.
She’s still standing there when she hears movement outside her room.
Footsteps. Familiar.
She doesn’t know how she knows it’s him until the knock comes.
Not loud.
Not commanding.
Just deliberate.
“Amara.”
Her name sounds different this early. Less guarded. Rougher around the edges.
She hesitates, then opens the door.
Matteo stands in the corridor, dressed in black again, jacket slung over one shoulder. His hair is damp, like he’s just washed his face or run water through it to wake himself up. The faint bruise along his jaw is darker this morning, standing out against his olive skin.
Her gaze flicks to it instinctively.
“You should put ice on that,” she says.
A corner of his mouth twitches. “Good morning to you too.”
She steps aside, letting him in without thinking. The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds far too final.
The room feels smaller with him in it.
Not because of his size — though he fills space effortlessly — but because of the way his presence seems to rearrange the air.
“I wanted to check on you,” he says.
She folds her arms loosely. “Because I’m a liability?”
His eyes meet hers. “Because you were shaken last night.”
She doesn’t deny it.
“Did anyone get hurt?” she asks.
He considers lying.
Doesn’t.
“Yes,” he says.
Her stomach tightens. “Badly?”
“No,” he replies. “Not badly.”
She exhales slowly, relief slipping through her before she can stop it. She hates that she cares. Hates that she’s already emotionally entangled in consequences she didn’t choose.
“You shouldn’t worry about things you can’t control,” he adds.
She laughs quietly. “You’re really bad at understanding how people work.”
“People,” he says, “are unpredictable.”
“So are you,” she shoots back.
That gets his attention.
He studies her for a long moment, eyes sharp but not unkind. There’s something different in his posture today. Less rigid. Like the armour is still there, but cracked in places.
“You slept?” he asks.
“Not much.”
A beat.
“Neither did I.”
The admission hangs between them.
She gestures toward the chair by the window. “You can sit. You look like you’re about to fall over.”
He raises a brow. “Is that concern I hear?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she says, but there’s no bite in it.
He sits anyway, stretching his long legs out slightly, hands resting on his thighs. Up close, she notices things she hasn’t before. The faint lines at the corners of his eyes. The way his hands bear small scars, old and new, like he’s been in too many fights to count.
She sits on the edge of the bed, facing him.
“Why are you really here?” she asks.
Matteo’s gaze drops briefly, then returns to her face.
“Because Luca thinks you’re a weakness,” he says.
Her chest tightens. “And you don’t?”
“I think you’re a variable,” he replies. “One I didn’t account for.”
She scoffs. “That’s not reassuring.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it’s honest.”
She studies him, searching for something. Fear. Manipulation. Cruelty.
What she finds instead unsettles her more.
Restraint.
“You could’ve tied me up,” she says quietly. “Locked me in a room. Treated me like an object. Plenty of men like you would have.”
Something dark flickers across his expression.
“I’m not like them,” he says.
“How do you know?” she asks. “How do I?”
He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, eyes level with hers.
“Because if I were,” he says, “you wouldn’t be asking questions. You’d be too afraid to speak.”
Her throat tightens.
She hates that he’s right.
There’s a knock at the door before she can respond. A guard’s voice filters through, low and respectful.
“Boss. Car’s ready.”
Matteo straightens, the moment shifting back into something colder.
He stands, adjusting his jacket. The man who sits across from her vanishes, replaced by someone sharper, more dangerous.
“I have to leave,” he says.
She nods. “Where are you going?”
He pauses at the door.
“Somewhere you don’t need to worry about,” he says.
She huffs softly. “You keep saying that.”
“And you keep worrying anyway.”
Their eyes meet.
Something unspoken passes between them. Not a promise. Not a confession.
An understanding.
He opens the door, then stops.
“Amara,” he says without turning.
“Yes?”
“Stay inside today.”
She frowns. “I always do.”
“This time,” he says, “it’s not a suggestion.”
The door closes.
She stands there long after he’s gone, heart pounding for reasons she refuses to name.
The day crawls.
Amara tries to read. Can’t focus. Tries to eat. Barely manages a few bites. Tries to nap. Fails.
Her body hums with restless energy, like she’s waiting for something to happen.
By late afternoon, she gives up and paces the room, bare feet silent against the carpet.
Her phone — still locked away somewhere in this house — feels like a phantom limb. She wonders who would be looking for her by now. Who would worry. Who would assume she’s just gone quiet like she sometimes does.
The thought twists painfully.
She’s so lost in her own head that she doesn’t hear the door open.
“Amara.”
She spins.
Matteo stands in the doorway again.
This time, he looks different.
Not hurt. Not tired.
Angry.
Not explosive anger — worse. Controlled, tightly wound, coiled beneath the surface.
“What happened?” she asks immediately.
He closes the door behind him, jaw clenched.
“Luca crossed a line,” he says.
Her stomach drops. “What kind of line?”
“The kind that makes me rethink how long I let him breathe,” Matteo replies flatly.
She swallows.
“That sounds… serious.”
“It is.”
She steps closer without thinking. “Did he threaten me?”
Matteo’s eyes snap to hers.
“Yes,” he says.
Her chest tightens sharply. “What?”
“He didn’t touch you,” Matteo continues. “Didn’t try to. But he made it clear he sees you as leverage.”
Fear curls cold and sharp in her stomach.
“And you?” she asks quietly. “What did you say?”
Matteo doesn’t hesitate.
“I told him if he comes near you, I’ll end him.”
The words are said calmly. Casually.
Like they’re a fact.
Not a threat.
Her breath catches.
“That’s… extreme,” she manages.
His gaze softens just a fraction when he looks at her.
“So is taking someone from their life and dropping them into a war,” he says. “But here we are.”
She wraps her arms around herself, grounding.
“I don’t want to be the reason you destroy your family,” she says softly.
He scoffs. “My family was broken long before you.”
She studies his face. The weight he carries. The isolation wrapped in authority.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” she says before she can stop herself.
The room goes very still.
Matteo looks at her like she’s said something dangerous.
“Be careful,” he murmurs. “That’s how people get hurt.”
She lifts her chin. “Or how they survive.”
For a long moment, neither of them moves.
Then Matteo exhales, long and slow, as if letting go of something he’s been gripping too tightly.
“You’re braver than you realise,” he says.
She shrugs. “Or just stubborn.”
A ghost of a smile flickers across his lips.
“You should eat,” he says. “I’ll have something brought up.”
“And you?” she asks.
“I’ll be nearby.”
Nearby.
Not gone.
The word settles strangely in her chest.
As he turns to leave, she calls his name.
“Matteo.”
He looks back.
“If I’m a weakness,” she says, voice steady despite the fear humming beneath it, “then I’m your weakness. Not his.”
Something sharp and unreadable crosses his face.
“That,” he says quietly, “is exactly the problem.”
The door closes.
Amara sinks onto the bed, heart racing.
Because she knows now.
The lines aren’t just blurring.
They’re being erased.
And once that happens, there’s no pretending this is just about survival anymore.
- Writer
