Chapter 133: Matteo

The heavy wooden doors closed behind them, cutting off the low hum of the ballroom in a single, silent instant.

Don Moretti didn’t linger in the grand corridor.

The old man paused only long enough to offer Aaron a quiet nod, his bright, aging eyes lingering on the Russian for a fraction of a second before he gestured toward a side passage.

"Give me three minutes," the Don rasped, turning his heavy carved cane toward a set of private quarters down the hall. "My daughters insisted I take my heart medicine before the room locks. If I don’t, Sofia will come upstairs and drag me out by my ear."

Aaron offered a faint, dry tilt of his chin. "Take your time, old man."

The Don shuffled away, flanked by two towering, broad-shouldered Italian bodyguards who moved like shadows behind him.

Aaron turned back toward the secluded hallway that led to the private meeting space at the end of the wing. It was cooler here, the air smelling faintly of polished stone, old paper, and beeswax candles.

The noise of the main castle was completely gone, muffled by feet of thick medieval masonry.

He reached into his coat pocket, his fingers briefly brushing the edge of his signet ring as he walked toward the heavy arched entrance where two armed guards stood at rigid attention.

Before Aaron reached the threshold, a rapid set of heavy, confident footsteps echoed down the stone corridor behind him.

"Kazarov!"

The voice was loud, smooth, and laced with a thick, cultured Italian accent.

Aaron stopped, turning his head as the footsteps closed the distance.

The man approaching him was dressed to absolute perfection. He wore a midnight-blue three-piece suit cut from heavy Italian wool, tailored so sharply it made his broad shoulders and narrow waist look built for armor rather than fabric.

His dark hair was combed back, a few casual strands falling near his temple, framing a face that was strikingly handsome sharp jawline, smooth olive skin, and intelligent, dark brown eyes that practically glinted under the dim wall sconces.

He looked like the kind of man who moved through high-society galas and bloody back-alley negotiations with the exact same level of effortless, lethal charm.

Matteo Moretti. Thirty-five years old, the only son and youngest child of Don Vito, and the undisputed heir to one of the most powerful criminal dynasties in Southern Europe.

He wasn’t as physically massive as Aaron, nor did he possess the cold, crushing stillness that made people clear a path whenever Aaron entered a room.

But Matteo didn’t need to imitate Aaron. He carried his own weight, an old-money authority backed by hundreds of loyal men, vast shipping networks, and a family name that had controlled trade routes since the turn of the century.

A rare, faint smirk touched the corner of Aaron’s mouth as Matteo slowed his pace, stopping a few feet away.

"I thought I heard wrong when the guards said you crossed the border," Matteo said, a genuine, warm grin breaking across his handsome face.

He stepped up, extending a hand before pulling Aaron into a brief, heavy clasp of arms... A firm, familiar greeting between two men who had known each other through years of blood, business, and shared territory. "You actually came to this circus."

"I happened to be in Italy," Aaron replied, his voice a low, dry rumble. He let go of Matteo’s arm, his posture relaxing by a fraction, a subtle shift he rarely showed around other men. "I figured I should make an appearance before your father starts telling people I died."

Matteo let out a rich, booming laugh, tossing his head back slightly.

"My friend, you have no idea. He has been praying to every saint in Sicily that you’d show up for at least one of his birthdays before he goes into the ground. Every year it’s the same thing: ’Aaron is too busy in Moscow. Aaron doesn’t like my wine. Aaron thinks I’m an old fool.’" Matteo shook his head, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement. "You saved me from six months of hearing about it."

"He’s old," Aaron noted calmly. "But looks healthy enough to outlive us both."

"Don’t say that out loud," Matteo muttered, though his smirk betrayed him. "I’ve been waiting for my promotion for fifteen years. If he lives to a hundred, I’ll be an old man before I even sit in the big chair." He gestured down the hall, adjusting the heavy gold cufflinks at his wrists. "How are you, brother?"

"Surviving," Aaron said smoothly. His eyes swept over Matteo, noting the slight shadow of exhaustion beneath the Italian’s dark eyes despite his immaculate suit. "Where’s Klara? I expected her to be dragging you around the ballroom."

Matteo’s grin softened into something a little more dry, a long sigh escaping his nose as he rubbed the back of his neck. "We had a... situation upstairs."

Aaron raised an eyebrow. "A situation?"

"She decided twenty minutes before we left our estate that she hated her dress," Matteo said, leaning his shoulder against the stone wall with a dramatic roll of his eyes.

"Which meant I had to wait in the car while her seamstress rushed over to alter the silk. Then she told me I was breathing too loudly while she was stressed. So she sent me down here first to ’think about my behavior.’"

Aaron let out a low, gravelly chuckle. "And you let her?"

"Let her?" Matteo scoffed, shaking his head.

"Aaron, I value my life. That woman has more temper than my four sisters combined. If I argue with her when she’s changing her dress, I sleep on the couch for a month. Besides..."

He leaned in slightly, a wicked, knowing smirk touching his lips as he lowered his voice.

"...when we finally got to the castle, she locked us in the private study down the hall for twenty minutes just to make sure I wasn’t mad at her anymore. That’s why I’m late."

Aaron didn’t need a diagram. The slight disarray in Matteo’s dark hair suddenly made complete sense.

"You’re pathetic," Aaron murmured, zero judgment in his tone... only the dry understanding of a man who knew exactly what it was like to be entirely consumed by a woman.

"I am a happily married man," Matteo corrected him proudly, straightening his lapels.

"There is a difference. But speaking of women..." Matteo’s dark eyes sharpened, turning intensely curious as he looked Aaron up and down.

"...the whisper network in the ballroom is already burning down. They’re saying you brought Lance Kingston’s daughter."

Aaron’s gaze remained steady, his expression unreadable, though his jaw set slightly. "She’s with your sisters and the girls downstairs."

Matteo raised his eyebrows, a low whistle passing his lips.

"Holy shit. It’s true then." He shook his head, looking at Aaron with a mix of genuine awe and slight disbelief.

"Kazarov... the cold, untouchable Russian beast gets dragged into the tabloid mud over an American heiress. The cheating scandal, the dramatic divorce, the ex-husband, the New York press... I read the reports coming out of Manhattan six weeks ago. I thought my intelligence guys were lying to me."

"They weren’t lying," Aaron said coldly, his voice dropping an octave. "And it wasn’t a scandal. It was a mess that I cleaned up."

Matteo chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. "Look, I’m not judging. The Kingston girl... I remember her father talking about her years ago. Beautiful girl. Tragic story with what happened to her eyes and her family. But I never expected you to step into the middle of a domestic war."

Matteo paused, his tone shifting into something more genuine, warmer. "I’d like to meet her properly before you leave."

"You will," Aaron said. "When things quiet down."

Matteo nodded slowly, leaning closer. "So... when is the engagement party? My mother is already planning what gift to send to Moscow."

"There isn’t going to be an engagement party," Aaron replied flatly.

Matteo blinked, looking genuinely surprised. "No party? You’re skipping straight to the wedding?"

"Yes."

"That’s a rather large step to skip, isn’t it?" Matteo asked, a slight frown touching his dark brows. "Even for you."

"The delay is unnecessary," Aaron said, his voice absolute, leaving no room for argument. "If it were entirely up to me, the ring would already be on her finger and she’d be living in my house full-time. But..."

He paused, his gaze drifting toward the stone stairs leading down to the reception room. "...she’s been through enough noise this year. I’m not going to throw a three-ring circus at her just to satisfy high society."

Matteo studied Aaron’s profile for a long second, taking in the rare, subtle softness in the bigger man’s posture when he spoke about her. "You’re being remarkably careful with her," Matteo observed softly. "Is she really that fragile?"

Aaron turned his head, his cold blue eyes locking onto Matteo’s with a weight so sudden and crushing that even the seasoned Italian mafia heir felt a slight prickle of instinctual alarm at the back of his neck.

"You can decide how fragile she is when you talk to her," Aaron said softly. "Just remember whose hand she’s holding."