PART 2: “Are you bleeding?”
For the first time since he entered the studio, Matteo hesitated.
Not long. Just enough for me to notice.
Then he unbuttoned the cuff of his black coat and peeled it back slightly.
A bandage wrapped tightly around his forearm, already soaked through with crimson beneath the gauze.
“Not badly,” he said.
“That bandage says otherwise.”
“It’s under control.”
I stared at him for another second, trying to decide whether this was stupidity or survival instinct. Possibly both.
“Sit down,” I said finally.
The corner of his mouth shifted again. Not quite a smile.
“You always give orders to strangers?”
“Only the bleeding ones.”
He removed his coat slowly, carefully, like movement itself cost him effort. Underneath, his white dress shirt clung damply to broad shoulders. Expensive watch. Silver cufflinks. No visible weapons, though men like him probably didn’t need visible weapons.
I led him toward Room Three.
Soft instrumental piano drifted quietly through hidden speakers. Lavender oil warmed in a diffuser near the wall. The room usually calmed people within minutes.
Matteo looked like the kind of man calm had abandoned years ago.
“You can leave your shirt on if the injury’s serious,” I said.
“It isn’t.”
He closed the door behind him.
Not hard.
Not threatening.
But the click still sent tension through my spine.
“You always work this late alone?” he asked.
“Sometimes.”
“That’s dangerous.”
I folded fresh towels onto the treatment table. “Funny thing for you to say.”
A low sound escaped him. Almost a laugh.
When I turned back, he was watching me carefully again.
Not the way men sometimes did.
Not flirtation.
Assessment.
Like he was trying to place me inside a memory he couldn’t fully reach.
“Lie face down,” I said.
He obeyed.
That surprised me more than anything else so far.
Most powerful men carried authority into every room like a weapon. They argued. Directed. Controlled.
Matteo simply lowered himself onto the table and rested his head against the cradle, one arm hanging carefully at his side.
I washed my hands at the sink.
The silence stretched.
Rain battered the windows harder now.
Boston storms always sounded personal in old buildings.
“You’re tense,” I said after placing my hands lightly across his shoulders.
“Insightful.”
“You’d be amazed how many people don’t know.”
His muscles were rigid beneath my palms. Not normal stress. Not office tension.
This felt like someone permanently braced for impact.
Scars crossed his back beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. Some old. Some newer.
Knife wounds.
Gunshot graze near the ribs.
My stomach tightened.
Who are you?
The question burned inside me, but I’d agreed to no questions.
So instead, I worked.
Slow pressure down the shoulders.
Controlled release along the spine.
Careful avoidance of the injured arm.
His breathing changed gradually.
Not relaxed exactly.
But quieter.
Like his nervous system had finally stopped expecting violence every second.
“You learned this from someone good,” he said eventually.
“My father.”
The moment the words left my mouth, something in the room shifted.
Subtle.
But unmistakable.
Matteo went completely still beneath my hands.
“What was his name?”
The question came too quickly.
My pulse ticked upward.
“Why?”
“Humor me.”
I hesitated.
“My father died eight years ago.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
I swallowed.
“Daniel Monroe.”
Silence.
Then Matteo slowly lifted his head.
Every trace of calm vanished from his expression.
Impossible.
That was the only word in his eyes.
“You’re Daniel Monroe’s daughter?”
My hands dropped away from his shoulders.
“How do you know my father?”
He turned carefully onto his back, staring up at the ceiling now instead of me.
For the first time since arriving, he looked shaken.
Actually shaken.
“I knew a man named Monroe once,” he said quietly.
“That’s not an answer.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“It isn’t.”
I crossed my arms. “You come into my business after midnight bleeding through your clothes, carrying blood-stained money, then react to my father’s name like you’ve seen a ghost. I think I deserve a better explanation.”
His eyes moved toward me slowly.
“You deserve far more than that.”
Thunder cracked overhead.
The lights flickered once.
My unease deepened.
“What did my father do?” I asked.
Matteo stared at me for several seconds before speaking.
“Your father saved my life.”
The words hit me wrong.
My father had been a massage therapist.
A healer.
Gentle. Patient. Quiet.
Not someone connected to men like Matteo.
“You knew him professionally?” I asked carefully.
“No.”
“Then how?”
Matteo sat up slowly despite the injury.
“He found me after a car accident near Fall River. Fifteen years ago.”
I frowned.
“My father never mentioned—”
“He wouldn’t.”
Something dark crossed Matteo’s face.
“Because if he had, your family would’ve died with him.”
The room suddenly felt colder.
I took a small step backward before I realized I was doing it.
Matteo noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said.
“That’s exactly what dangerous people say.”
Another almost-smile touched his mouth.
“Fair point.”
He stood from the table.
Too fast.
Pain flashed across his features, brief but real.
Instinct overrode fear.
“You tore the wound,” I said sharply.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s bleeding through.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“I don’t care.”
The words came out stronger than expected.
Maybe because my father had taught me healing before fear. Maybe because wounded people triggered something automatic in me.
Or maybe because despite every alarm screaming in my head, I didn’t think Matteo was lying.
At least not entirely.
“Sit,” I ordered again.
This time he obeyed immediately.
I retrieved the first-aid kit from the cabinet and moved closer.
The cut along his forearm was deep.
Not fresh-fresh.
Maybe two hours old.
Knife wound.
Clean entry.
Professional.
“You need stitches.”
“I had them.”
I looked closer.
The stitches had ripped.
“You’re kidding.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Your occupation being what exactly?”
His gaze lifted to mine.
“Something your father tried very hard to keep away from you.”
The room fell silent again.
I cleaned the wound carefully while Matteo watched me with unnerving intensity.
“You look like her,” he said suddenly.
“Who?”
“Your mother.”
I froze.
Most people didn’t remember my mother clearly. She died when I was seven.
“How do you know what she looked like?”
“I met her once.”
My heartbeat stumbled.
“You knew both my parents?”
“Yes.”
“From where?”
Matteo’s eyes darkened.
“A life your father escaped.”
I stepped back immediately.
“No.”
“Ava—”
“No.” My voice sharpened. “My father wasn’t a criminal.”
“I didn’t say he was.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied he knew dangerous men.”
“That’s not better.”
Matteo exhaled slowly.
“He saved lives for people who didn’t deserve saving.”
“That sounds more like him.”
“He believed pain made monsters,” Matteo said quietly. “And that healing pain could stop them.”
Something tightened painfully in my chest.
That sounded exactly like my father.
Too exactly.
“He helped men after fights,” Matteo continued. “Gunshots. Broken bones. Knife wounds. Quietly. No hospitals. No police.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“It started small. Debts. Favors. Protection for your family.”
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I were.”
I backed toward the door.
My father had raised me on herbal tea and honesty. Community fundraisers. Free therapy sessions for veterans. Midnight soup deliveries to sick neighbors.
Not criminals.
Never criminals.
“You should leave,” I said.
Matteo looked genuinely tired suddenly.
“Ava—”
“Leave.”
Then his eyes shifted past me.
Toward the front windows.
Every muscle in his body changed instantly.
Predator alertness.
Danger.
“What?” I whispered.
He stood in one fluid motion.
“How many exits?”
The question chilled me.
“What?”
“How many exits in this building?”
“Back alley through laundry room but—”
The front door exploded inward.
Glass shattered across the reception area.
I screamed instinctively.
Three men entered fast.
Dark jackets.
Masks.
Guns.
Time fractured.
One second I was standing beside the massage table.
The next, Matteo slammed into me hard enough to knock the air from my lungs as gunfire erupted through the hallway.
The wall behind us burst apart in sprays of plaster.
“Stay down!” Matteo barked.
His voice transformed completely now.
Cold.
Commanding.
Terrifying.
More shots.
The scent of gunpowder filled the spa instantly, overwhelming lavender and eucalyptus.
My hands shook violently.
This wasn’t real.
This couldn’t be real.
Matteo crouched beside the doorway, eyes calculating.
One of the masked men shouted from the lobby.
“Don Lorenzo says hello!”
Matteo’s expression hardened into something lethal.
Then he looked at me.
“Ava. Listen carefully.”
Another gunshot cracked through the hallway.
He ignored it.
“Your father hid something before he died.”
My mind reeled.
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how—”
“He died protecting it.”
My blood went cold.
No.
My father died in a car accident.
That’s what police said.
That’s what everyone said.
Matteo grabbed my wrist tightly.
“Your father was murdered.”
The world stopped.
I couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
Another explosion of gunfire snapped through the building.
Matteo moved instantly, pulling me lower as bullets tore through the treatment room doorway.
Wood splintered above us.
“Move!” he ordered.
He shoved me toward the laundry hall.
I stumbled barefoot across tile, heart slamming wildly.
Behind us, Matteo fired a pistol I hadn’t even seen him draw.
The sound deafened the narrow hallway.
A scream followed.
Then silence.
Brief.
Terrible silence.
“Go,” Matteo said.
I turned.
He stood in the hallway bleeding heavily now, gun steady in one hand.
A man lay crumpled near reception.
Another shadow moved beyond shattered glass.
More were coming.
“Matteo—”
“GO!”
Something in his voice finally broke through my shock.
I ran.
Through the laundry room.
Past shelves of towels.
Toward the steel back exit leading into the alley.
Rain hammered outside.
I shoved the door open—and froze.
Another man waited there.
Tall.
Gray coat.
Gun already raised.
“Well,” he said calmly. “You look exactly like your father.”
I stumbled backward.
The man smiled thinly.
“Relax, Miss Monroe. If I wanted you dead, this conversation would be shorter.”
Behind me, footsteps thundered.
Matteo appeared instantly, gun leveled.
The two men locked eyes.
And suddenly I understood something horrifying.
They knew each other.
“Alejandro,” Matteo said quietly.
“Matteo.”
The alley felt electrically charged.
Rain streamed from fire escapes overhead.
Alejandro glanced toward me again.
“She really doesn’t know, does she?”
“Stay out of this.”
“I can’t.”
Alejandro lowered his weapon slightly.
“Neither can she.”
Sirens echoed faintly somewhere distant now.
Police.
Too far away.
Alejandro reached into his coat slowly.
Matteo tensed.
But instead of another gun, Alejandro produced a small silver key.
Old-fashioned.
Intricate.
He tossed it toward me.
I barely caught it.
“What is this?”
“Your inheritance.”
Matteo’s face darkened instantly.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“He already knows she exists,” Alejandro snapped. “The girl’s dead either way unless she finds it first.”
My pulse roared in my ears.
“Finds what?”
Neither man answered.
“Ava,” Matteo said carefully, “give me the key.”
Alejandro laughed softly.
“There it is.”
Matteo ignored him.
“Listen to me. Whatever your father hid—”
“He died for it,” Alejandro interrupted. “And so did others.”
The rain seemed impossibly loud now.
I looked down at the silver key in my palm.
Tiny engraved numbers lined one edge.
311.
Bank box? Storage locker?
My thoughts spiraled.
“This is insane,” I whispered.
“Ava,” Matteo said, voice low and urgent now. “Trust me.”
Alejandro smiled at that.
“Interesting choice of words from a mafia prince.”
My head snapped toward Matteo.
No.
No.
But Matteo didn’t deny it.
The silence confirmed everything.
My stomach dropped violently.
“You’re mafia?”
His jaw tightened.
“It’s complicated.”
“That usually means yes!”
Another set of headlights flashed at the alley entrance.
Everyone turned.
Black SUVs.
Three of them.
Alejandro cursed under his breath.
“They found us too fast.”
Doors opened.
Men emerged.
Armed.
Professional.
Not police.
Matteo stepped in front of me instantly.
“Ava,” he said quietly, “when I tell you to run, you run.”
“No more riddles!” I shouted. “Tell me what’s happening!”
But Matteo’s eyes stayed fixed on the approaching vehicles.
“They think your father left evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“The entire Moretti organization.”
The name hit Alejandro visibly.
Even he looked uneasy hearing it aloud.
My father.
My gentle, kind father.
Connected to the mafia.
Impossible.
Yet every second tonight kept proving impossible things were real.
The armed men spread through the alley slowly.
Predatory.
Controlled.
One stepped forward.
Older.
Elegant charcoal coat.
Silver hair.
Dead eyes.
Even Matteo looked tense now.
“Matteo,” the man said calmly. “You disappoint me.”
No response.
The older man’s gaze shifted toward me.
Then he smiled.
And somehow that smile frightened me more than the guns.
“Daniel Monroe’s daughter,” he said softly. “At last.”
Rainwater dripped from my hair down my neck.
I couldn’t move.
Couldn’t think.
The man studied me carefully.
“You have his eyes.”
“Don’t talk about him,” Matteo said sharply.
The older man ignored him.
“Your father was a very brave man, Ava.”
“You killed him?”
The question escaped before I could stop it.
The man tilted his head slightly.
“No.”
A pause.
“Though I ordered it.”
The world narrowed to a ringing sound.
Matteo moved first.
Gunfire exploded through the alley.
Chaos erupted instantly.
Alejandro grabbed my arm hard.
“RUN!”
I stumbled through rain and shouting as bullets tore sparks from brick walls.
Matteo fired again behind us.
Someone screamed.
Alejandro dragged me through a side passage between buildings.
“Where are we going?” I gasped.
“To keep you alive.”
“I don’t even know who you are!”
“You know enough.”
We burst onto another street slick with rain.
Traffic hissed past.
Sirens closer now.
Alejandro shoved something into my hand.
A folded photograph.
“Your father left instructions if anything happened,” he said.
“What instructions?”
“He said if they ever came for you, tell her about Saint Agnes.”
I stared at him blankly.
“Saint Agnes?”
“He said you’d understand.”
But I didn’t.
Not at all.
Alejandro looked back toward the alley.
Gunshots still echoed faintly.
Then his expression changed.
Fear.
Real fear.
“We’re out of time.”
A black SUV turned the corner hard.
Too fast.
Coming directly toward us.
Alejandro shoved me backward onto the sidewalk.
“RUN, AVA!”
The SUV slammed into him before I could react.
The impact hurled him across wet pavement with sickening force.
I screamed.
People nearby scattered in panic.
The SUV doors burst open.
Armed men poured out.
I ran.
Blindly.
Rain burning my face.
The silver key clutched tightly in one hand, the photograph in the other.
Behind me, shouting.
Footsteps.
Then suddenly—
A hand seized my wrist and yanked me sideways into darkness.
I slammed against a hard chest.
Matteo.
Bleeding heavily now.
Face pale.
But alive.
“This way,” he breathed.
He pulled me through the back entrance of an abandoned restaurant as gunmen flooded the street behind us.
We raced through dark kitchens and storage halls until finally Matteo shoved a heavy freezer door closed behind us.
Silence.
Only our breathing.
Only the distant storm.
I stared at him in the darkness.
Everything shattered inside me at once.
“My father…”
Matteo leaned against the wall, exhausted.
“He died protecting you.”
I opened the photograph with trembling fingers.
It showed my father standing beside a younger Matteo.
Both smiling.
And written across the back in my father’s handwriting were four words:
TRUST NO ONE BUT HIM.
I slowly looked up at Matteo.
And for the first time since this nightmare began…
He looked afraid.
Not for himself.
For me.
Then his eyes dropped to the silver key in my hand.
And all color drained from his face.
Because engraved beneath the number 311…
Was a symbol he recognized instantly.
A symbol that meant my father hadn’t hidden evidence.
He had hidden something far worse.
Something people were willing to burn cities to find.
And somewhere beyond the storm outside…
Someone already knew I had the key.
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Disclaimer : This content may be created by AI for entertainment purposes. Any resemblance to real persons, events, or places is coincidental.
