Chapter 7: Caught in the web

Emilio told himself he wouldn't think about Matteo.

That lasted all of one night.

By the time the morning rush started at the bakery, he was distracted—hands moving automatically as he shaped dough, glazed pastries, and filled orders, but his mind? It was still on the way Matteo had stood too close. The way his voice had curled around that single command.

Go inside, Emilio.

The worst part? He had listened.

What kind of man was Matteo that a single sentence from him made Emilio's stomach twist in something too tangled to name?

He shook the thought away, rolling up his sleeves as he worked behind the counter. Maybe if he kept busy, he could ignore the lingering heat of Matteo's stare, the way his presence had felt more like a promise than a threat.

But as the day stretched on, Emilio noticed something.

The bakery had its usual customers—regulars who came for their morning coffee, the old woman who always ordered extra almond croissants, the young couple who split a cinnamon roll like it was a grand romantic gesture.

But there were new faces, too.

Men in dark suits.

Men who never ordered anything.

They would step inside, linger for just a few minutes, then leave.

At first, Emilio thought nothing of it. Maybe they were just passing by, maybe they were waiting for someone—maybe he was paranoid.

But then, it happened again.

And again.

By the fourth time, he knew it wasn't a coincidence.

And the moment that realization hit?

The bell above the door chimed.

And he walked in.

Matteo.

Emilio's breath caught before he could stop it.

Matteo was dressed as sharply as ever, his dark coat framing his broad shoulders, his eyes locked onto Emilio the moment he stepped inside.

The bakery felt too small with him in it.

Too warm.

Emilio forced himself to exhale, reaching for a towel to wipe his hands. "Twice in one week? I should start charging you rent."

Matteo smirked, sliding his hands into his pockets as he took his time stepping up to the counter. "You wouldn't charge me."

Emilio arched a brow. "Wouldn't I?"

Matteo leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make the hair on the back of Emilio's neck stand up.

"No," he murmured. "You wouldn't."

Emilio's grip on the towel tightened.

He hated that Matteo was right.

"What do you want?" he asked, keeping his voice steady.

Matteo tilted his head, studying him. "That's a dangerous question."

Emilio swallowed. He hadn't meant it like that, but Matteo's tone made it clear that he had other ideas.

"Fine," Emilio sighed, crossing his arms. "What do you want right now?"

Matteo glanced at the display case, as if he was actually considering an order for once. Then, just as Emilio thought he might finally pick something, Matteo's gaze lifted back to him.

"You," he said simply.

Emilio's heart stopped.

Heat curled at the base of his spine, creeping up his neck, but he forced himself to laugh, shaking his head. "That's not on the menu."

Matteo's smirk deepened. "Pity."

The air tightened between them.

It wasn't just flirting. It wasn't just teasing.

It was something heavier, something real, something Emilio didn't know how to fight.

Before he could think of a response, Matteo's hand moved—reaching into his coat pocket, pulling out something small, dark, heavy.

A key.

He placed it on the counter between them.

Emilio blinked. "What's this?"

Matteo met his gaze. "A way to get home safely."

Emilio's stomach twisted. "What the hell does that mean?"

Matteo exhaled, tilting his head slightly. "You've noticed them by now, haven't you?"

Emilio froze.

The men.

The ones who didn't order anything. The ones who came in, watched, and left.

Matteo knew.

Of course he knew.

Emilio's throat felt tight. "Who are they?"

Matteo's expression didn't change. "People who are… interested in you."

Emilio's chest tightened. "And you're what? My personal bodyguard now?"

Matteo chuckled, shaking his head. "No, Emilio."

Then, slowly, he leaned in—just enough that Emilio could feel the warmth of his breath against his skin.

"I'm the reason they haven't touched you yet."

A shiver ripped down Emilio's spine.

This wasn't a warning.

This was a claim.

His fingers curled into his palms, but Matteo just picked up the key again, flipping it in his fingers before pressing it into Emilio's hand.

"Take it," he murmured. "You'll sleep better."

Emilio's heart was pounding. He wanted to throw the key back at him, tell him to stay out of his life, tell him that he didn't need protection from some ghosts in suits.

But he didn't.

Instead, his fingers closed around the cold metal.

Matteo watched him for a long, unreadable moment. Then, just as smoothly as he had come in, he turned and walked away.

The bell above the door chimed again.

And Emilio was left standing there, heart racing, key burning against his palm—knowing, without a doubt, that whatever this was?

It was too late to escape.