Chapter 2 : The day after

The morning after should have been peaceful.

No blood.

No enemies.

No violence.

Just Zen.

For the first time in years, Matteo allows himself to forget the world outside his bedroom.

But peace never lasts for men like him.

One phone call is all it takes to drag him back into the darkness.

And when a rival family makes a deadly move against his empire, Matteo is forced to choose between protecting what's his...

And starting a war.

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The first light of dawn began to peek through the heavy blackout curtains—thin golden lines creeping across the floor.

Matteo stirred, just slightly.

A soft grunt escaped him as he nuzzled unconsciously into Zen's hair, his nose brushing against Zen's scalp.

Still asleep, but waking slowly—it was the deep slumber of someone who’d actually rested well for once.

His fingers flexed against Zen's stomach again in a sleepy reflex, before trailing upward to gently stroke the fabric over Zen's ribs.

There were no dreams, and no nightmares tonight.

The early morning light grew brighter, painting stripes across the bedsheet and illuminating Matteo’s sleeping face—so different from his usual cold, composed self.

His long black hair was loose now, soft strands falling everywhere and half-spilled over the pillow without his usual bun.

One eye cracked open first, dark as midnight and still hazy with sleep.

He blinked slowly, finally realizing Zen was still wrapped tightly in his arms.

For a second, he just looked at the curve of Zen's cheek in profile, and something warm flickered behind that hardened mafia boss gaze.

Matteo didn’t move, and he didn’t speak.

He just kept watching Zen sleep—breathing soft, lips slightly parted, so innocent compared to the bloodstained world he ruled.

His thumb brushed a strand of hair from Zen's forehead, the gesture so gentle it was almost reverent.

Then, without warning, he pressed a quiet kiss to Zen's temple, light as a whisper.

It wasn't possessive or demanding like usual, but a rare moment of pure, tender affection from a man who showed love through control.

Matteo’s lips lingered for a heartbeat longer than they should have, then he pulled back to study Zen's face again.

The sun was rising now and painting gold on his skin; he hadn’t slept this late in years since he was usually awake by 5 AM.

But right now, he didn’t care about schedules.

He tucked Zen closer into his chest—his chin resting atop Zen's head—and closed his eyes again.

He wasn't falling asleep fully, just existing here, holding Zen and listening to the world wake up outside.

For once in his life, Matteo wasn't thinking about power or violence.

The world outside the penthouse began to stir with passing cars and birds chirping faintly from a balcony garden he rarely used.

Inside, there was only silence.

He didn’t check his phone on the nightstand, refusing to let any calls or messages pull him away right now.

Instead, he shifted slightly and pressed another kiss to Zen's hairline, then one more on Zen's forehead.

Each touch was soft and patient with no urgency in him today, just quiet contentment as his fingers lazily traced circles along Zen's back.

Matteo wasn't just awake anymore; he was actively choosing Zen over everything else.

The sunlight grew warmer, stretching across the bed and painting golden lines over his sharp cheekbones and the small, faded cut on his nose.

He finally opened both eyes now, fully awake.

But he didn’t move, didn’t reach for a cigarette, and didn't call his men.

Instead, he lifted one hand slowly and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Zen's ear—a gesture so soft it would’ve shocked anyone who knew him.

Then, without thinking too hard about it, he kissed Zen gently on the lips.

Zen shifted in sleep, pushing him away slightly.

The kiss broke instantly.

Matteo didn’t react with anger—no sharp inhale, no scowl—he just paused.

Zen shifted away while still asleep, curling into the pillow instead of leaning into him and letting out an unreadable murmur.

He stared at Zen's turned back for a second.

Then he exhaled a quiet breath through his nose, holding a trace of disappointment because Zen wasn't awake to feel it.

Without forcing anything, he slowly lowered himself back down and wrapped his arm around Zen again, gentler this time.

And he just held on.

Matteo adjusted slightly, spooning Zen from behind with his chest pressed to Zen's back and his arms securely around Zen's waist.

He didn’t try kissing Zen again, and he didn’t nudge Zen awake.

Instead, he buried his face into the curve of Zen's neck and inhaled deeply, catching the scent of sleep mixed with that faint hybrid sweetness.

A low hum vibrated in his chest, almost like a contented purr if humans could make one.

He should've been checking reports.

Reviewing shipments.

Calling his men.

Instead...

He was lying here.

Watching Zen sleep.

And somehow that felt more important than anything waiting outside those walls.

His eyes closed once more, not to sleep, but just to exist with Zen in this quiet morning world they rarely shared.

Soon, the phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The peaceful morning shattered.

Reality had found him again.

Matteo’s body tensed instantly as his mafia instincts kicked in before his brain fully processed it.

He recognized the caller ID of Antonio, his right-hand man, who only called at this hour if something urgent happened.

The call rang again, insistent.

Matteo hesitated for a split second, glancing down at Zen, who was still asleep and curled safely against him like a precious thing.

Then, with silent regret, he carefully extracted himself from Zen's side and reached for the phone on the nightstand.

Matteo grabbed the phone and answered immediately, his voice instantly shifting to a lower, rougher tone with no trace of tenderness.

"Speak."

He sat on the edge of the bed, barefoot and shirtless in just his black pajama pants, as Antonio’s tense voice came through.

"Boss… we got a problem at Warehouse 7; a rival group hit our shipment last night and left two men dead."

A heavy beat passed.

Matteo’s jaw clenched.

The moment Antonio said "rival group," Matteo’s entire demeanor hardened into ice.

His fingers curled around the phone tighter.

"Which one?" he asked coldly, his voice sharp enough to cut glass without even shouting.

On the other end, Antonio hesitated just slightly before answering, "The Romano family… they’re moving into our territory."

A dark silence fell over Matteo’s face, a storm brewing behind those black eyes.

The Romanos were ruthless.

Everyone knew that.

But they had touched his shipment.

They had killed his men.

They had stepped into his territory.

And now?

They had crossed a line.

This wasn't a negotiation anymore.

It was a declaration of war.

Matteo stood up silently, the phone still pressed to his ear.

He moved quickly into action mode, grabbing a black dress shirt from the wardrobe and buttoning it with swift precision.

"Tell Enzo to assemble the men," Matteo ordered lowly. "Full squad, armed and at Warehouse 7 in thirty minutes."

There was no panic in his voice, only the calm authority that demanded absolute obedience.

As Antonio confirmed the orders, Matteo glanced back at Zen, who was still fast asleep.

For once...

Matteo didn't want to leave.

Not the penthouse.

Not the warmth of the bed.

Not Zen.

But duty didn't care what he wanted.

Matteo finished dressing in silence, pulling on his black dress pants, polished shoes, and a suit jacket over the unbuttoned shirt.

He walked back to the bed and looked down at Zen's peaceful face buried in the pillow.

For a second, he hesitated.

Then he leaned down and pressed one last soft kiss to Zen's forehead, so light it wouldn't wake Zen up.

Without another sound, he grabbed his holster from the nightstand, tucked the sleek black gun inside, and left the room.

The door clicked shut quietly behind him.

The penthouse fell completely silent again, leaving only the faint hum of the AC and the distant city noise beyond.

Matteo’s footsteps faded down the hallway, followed by the muffled voices of his men gathering outside.

Minutes later, tires screeched below as a black armored SUV pulled up with armed guards waiting at attention.

He slid into the backseat without a word, his face unreadable as stone while the driver glanced in through the rearview mirror.

The car peeled away from the luxurious building, heading directly toward Warehouse 7.

Heading straight toward bloodshed.

The drive was tense, filled with no music and no conversation, just the low growl of the engine as Matteo stared out the window.

Matteo stared out the tinted window.

His jaw tightened.

Something wasn't right.

The Romanos weren't supposed to move yet.

Not after what he'd done to them.

Not after he'd crippled their supply chain.

Which meant one thing.

Someone was helping them.

Or someone had convinced them they could survive a war against him.

Both options ended badly.

Either way, they signed their death warrant by touching his territory.

As the buildings blurred past outside, Matteo adjusted the gun in his holster one final time, ready for war.

The SUV turned sharply onto a dimly lit industrial street lined with grimy, rusted warehouse walls under the morning sun.

Up ahead, Matteo spotted dozens of his men already gathered near Warehouse 7, all clad in black tactical gear while Enzo barked orders.

The moment Matteo’s car stopped, an absolute silence fell over the group.

All eyes turned to him as he stepped out—cool, composed, and dressed like a king about to pass judgment.

Enzo approached him immediately and bowed his head slightly.

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