Chapter 37: Phone call 

The phone felt heavier in his palm than it should've, like the weight of the message had sunk into the metal. Elias clenched his hand on the phone for a moment, before the pain reminded him that his palms were scratched just a day before. He loosened his grasp and turned to search for the terrace Victor said his suite had. 

The terrace door was tucked to the left of the sitting area, framed in charcoal glass and lined with soft track lighting at the threshold. Elias opened it with a push.

Cool night air met him like an old friend with secrets.

He stepped out. One foot, then the other. The stone under him was smooth, faintly veined, and still warm from the day's sun. Beyond the railing, the gardens fell away into shadow. No noise, no street, no distant city heartbeat. Just stillness.

A breath left him that he hadn't known he was holding.

Behind him, the door whispered as it slid almost shut.

Adam was still there. Quiet, waiting by the doorway like a polite afterthought.

"Thanks," Elias said. It came out softer than he meant it to, edged with something reluctant but real.

Adam inclined his head, minimal and respectful, and disappeared back inside like smoke.

Elias stayed where he was, the night air cool against his neck.

Then, finally, he tapped the screen. Matteo's name lit up.

It rang twice.

"Elias?" Matteo's voice cracked through the line fast, tinged with desperation. "Thank god, where are you? Are you safe? I thought…"

Elias leaned his forearms against the cold railing, letting the weight of his body press into it as if the stone might steady him. His thumb hovered over the phone's edge, and for a moment he thought about hanging up, about pretending he'd never heard Matteo's voice again.

But the words were already spilling through the line, rapid and frayed.

"Elias, please… just tell me you're safe. I don't care where you are, I just…"

Elias closed his eyes. The wind stirred faintly, brushing against his face, carrying the distant scent of cut grass and roses, luxury's version of the night.

"Do you realize," he said quietly, his voice flat and almost calm, "that this phone is probably under surveillance?"

On the other end, silence. Not the kind that meant Matteo hadn't heard him, but the kind that meant he had, and didn't have a lie ready.

"Yes," Matteo said finally, his voice low now, stripped of the frantic edges. "I know."

"Then why are you insisting?" Elias asked, still staring out into the dark gardens where nothing moved, where everything felt too still to be real.

"You asked Victor for help. Not me." Matteo was hurt, his voice cracking.

"I asked help from one that could help me without putting himself in danger." 

Matteo's breath caught on the other end, the sound was fractured, like he'd been cut mid‑argument and didn't know how to keep bleeding without words.

"That's not fair," he said finally, quieter, rougher, like gravel underfoot. "You think I wouldn't have helped you? You think I wouldn't have burned every bridge…"

"You would've burned yourself," Elias said, still watching the garden lights flicker like distant stars that didn't belong to him. His voice was steady, but the edges of it trembled with something sharper than anger. "And I can't carry that."

Matteo went silent, and for a second Elias thought the line had dropped. Then the faint hiss of breathing came back, ragged, thin.

"You make it sound like Victor's safe," Matteo said, voice cracking fully now, no polish left. "Like you're not already in his hands, and I can't…"

"Matteo," Elias cut him off, his own throat tight, the taste of Victor's kiss still ghosting at the back of his mouth like an accusation. "This isn't about who I trust more. It's about who can do something."

A shudder of breath. Then, raw: "And what happens when he decides you're not useful anymore?"

A brittle silence answered him at first, the kind that carried a pulse, a heartbeat Elias could almost hear over the line.

Matteo's breath came sharp. Then, raw and shaking:

"You think I'd ever hurt you?"

Elias's gaze stayed fixed on the dark beyond the terrace, on the outline of the gardens where the trees stood too still, too deliberate. The wind moved, soft against his cheek, but the weight in his chest didn't lift.

"I think," he said slowly, each word laid down like glass, "that you've lied to me before. And now I have to ask myself why."

"You don't understand…"

"No," Elias cut in, voice tightening, not louder but firmer, a blade in velvet. "Ruo's voicemail said to not trust you. Maybe it was faked, maybe it wasn't. But you're suspicious now." He paused, jaw clenching. "Don't get me wrong, Victor is as suspicious as you. But at least he's honest about what he wants from me."

Matteo didn't answer. Not right away. Elias could hear him breathing unevenly and could almost see the way he'd pinch the bridge of his nose when words failed him.

"You think honesty makes him safer?" Matteo asked finally, quiet, hoarse.

"No," Elias said, and for a moment something like a bitter laugh flickered in his chest, though it never reached his lips. "It makes him predictable."

A harsh inhale on the other end, like Matteo was about to argue, to break, or to confess, Elias couldn't tell which.

But he didn't wait to find out.

He ended the call, the screen going dark in his palm.

The soft sound of the terrace door sliding wider broke the night's hold.

Elias didn't turn to face the intruder; he already knew who he was. The shift in the air was enough, different from the wind, different from the quiet hum of the manor. 

When he finally looked, Victor was there.

Gone was the smoke‑soft robe. Instead, black pants rode low on his hips, the cut precise enough to look effortless. The crisp white shirt he wore was open at the collar, two buttons undone, exposing the clean line of his throat and a glimpse of pale skin beneath the low light. His sleeves were rolled, and the cuffs, Elias noticed with a flicker of disbelief, were fastened with rubies that caught the glow like drops of blood.

Victor looked like a man who belonged here. Who belonged everywhere.

He leaned lightly against the doorframe, idly adjusting the cuff as though it were some afterthought. And when he smiled, it was that same thing he always did, quiet, devastating, amused in a way that made Elias's pulse stumble against his will.

"So serious," Victor said softly, voice threaded with a warmth that didn't feel safe. "Standing out here, whispering to ghosts over the phone."

Elias didn't answer, his soft brown hair rustled by the autumn wind. 

Victor's eyes narrowed just slightly, red catching the terrace lights, sharp as garnets. "You're still thinking I'm suspicious." He didn't phrase it as a question. "That I'm hiding something terrible from you."

Elias's jaw tightened. "Aren't you?"

Victor's smile widened a fraction, dark amusement curling at the edges. "Of course I am," he said lightly, as though confessing to keeping too many bottles of wine in his cellar. "But the difference is, I don't mind you knowing it."

"Are you… Are you jealous?" Elias asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.