The Hitman's Secret

Ch. 22: Bloodlust

MATTEO

A cacophony of cheers and jeers greeted Matteo as soon as the announcer called his name.

He kept his head down and stalked into the cage, the eyes of every soul in the room burning into his back. Freshly mopped blood soaked through the padded canvas flooring, scars left over from the previous fights.

Matteo hadn't watched the two events prior to the title fight. He'd stayed in the locker room, alone. Focused. Silently hating himself for what he was about to do, but knowing that he would do it again for Valentina.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a glob of spit land inches from his feet, courtesy one of Bastian's loyal followers, no doubt.

It was no secret that the crowd favored Bastian. In the years since Matteo rose as Leonardo's hitman, the younger soldier had earned quite a following amongst those who frequent the underground fighting rings. It helped, too, that Bastian hadn't lost a fight in that time.

But he knew that, as much as the men and the women in the audience wanted to see Bastian win, they wanted to see Matteo lose even more. Wanted to see him– the infamous Romano hitman– fall to the likes of a simple soldier. Proof that he could be beaten. Proof that he'd grown soft.

Perhaps he had. Perhaps the principessa had well and truly ruined him.

The announcer called for a drumroll before introducing Bastian, and Matteo dared a look into the crowd. Dozens of ugly faces pushed in, each one eager for the best view of the action. They pounded on the cage, shouting at him to win or lose, depending on their wager.

It reminded him of why he left the underground fighting in the first place. The fight ring reduced men to the likes of animals in a cage. Sent to beat on one another until physically unable to continue. Sometimes to the death. Dehumanization at its finest.

Matteo forced himself to look beyond the crazed crowd at the edge of the cage. His gaze swept the dim corners of the garment factory-turned-fight club, and, as if drawn to her by some divine force, he found her.

The world around him went quiet. Valentina stood by the betting tables, dressed in a form-fitting black gown. Even in the darkness, he knew she looked like a damned angel. No, a succubus, crafted by Lucifer himself to specifically drive Matteo to madness. The perfect poison.

She met his gaze, and it damn near stole the breath from his lungs. From this distance, he couldn't read what emotions, if any, swirled in their depths.

That was one of the first things that drew him to Valentina. How her eyes served as a window to her every thought and feeling. How he could read her– see her– beyond the mask she wore for the outside world.

He couldn't rip his eyes away from her, not even as the announcer made his final calls.

His mind tortured him by replaying their last conversation. When he'd opened the heavy mansion doors, exhausted and ready to sleep, and had his world turned upside down by the young woman that greeted him.

Guilt, sharper than any knife in his arsenal, wreaked havoc on him as he remembered the way her eyes glossed with tears. Her choked admission that she wished she could take back the last few weeks of their relationship, and the salty rivers that spilled down her cheeks when he, against every fiber in his body, told her that he could never love her.

He thought he was protecting her. Protecting himself from the danger of loving anyone in their twisted world, not to mention the impropriety of their relationship.

More than anything, he didn't think himself capable of loving another. Beyond the natural, innate love between mother and son, he'd never loved anyone, and, after everything he'd done and the blood staining his hands, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to learn. And Val deserved more than that.