Blood on the Floor

The back alley stank of piss, gunpowder, and cheap vodka. Somewhere behind the neon buzz of the club, muffled gunshots cracked like firecrackers. Matteo adjusted his gloves, stepping over the limp body of some unfortunate dealer who had tried to run with De Luca money. Business as usual.

But tonight, fate wasn’t interested in letting him keep control.

“Rough night, De Luca?”

That voice again. Cocky, familiar, grating.

Matteo turned slowly, gray eyes narrowing. There, leaning against a graffiti-stained wall as though the alley was a catwalk, stood Rafael Romano. His shirt collar was loose, his jacket slung carelessly over his shoulder, and in his hand he dangled a switchblade like it was a toy.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Romano?” Matteo’s voice dropped, colder than the steel tucked under his suit jacket.

Rafael grinned, teeth flashing in the dim light. “Maybe I just enjoy watching you work. You do have a certain… brutality about you. Like an artist with a paintbrush, only your canvas screams.”

Matteo’s jaw ticked. He hated the way Rafael spoke—like every word was designed to crawl under his skin.

“You shouldn’t be here. This is De Luca territory.”

“Please,” Rafael scoffed, stepping closer. “Territory lines are bullshit. A street here, a bar there—it’s all just smoke and pissing contests. And you…” He tilted his head, those sharp amber eyes catching the glow of the alley light. “You piss bigger than anyone, don’t you?”

Matteo had him against the wall before he realized he’d moved. One gloved hand gripped Rafael’s throat, pressing him back, while the other pinned his wrist, the switchblade clattering to the ground.

Rafael’s breath hitched—not in fear, but something else. Something that made Matteo’s pulse spike.

“You’ve got a death wish,” Matteo growled, voice rumbling low. “One day, someone’s going to carve that smart mouth off your face.”

Instead of flinching, Rafael leaned in, lips brushing Matteo’s ear, voice a whisper meant to provoke. “Maybe I want it to be you.”

Matteo froze. His grip tightened unconsciously, thumb brushing the line of Rafael’s jaw. Too close. Too dangerous.

For a split second, he saw it—Rafael’s lips parting, the heat of his breath mingling with his own. The thought of crushing that smirk with his mouth hit him harder than any bullet ever had.

He shoved him back abruptly, disgusted at himself, at the fire crawling low in his stomach.

Rafael laughed, low and dark, rubbing his throat where Matteo’s hand had been. “You felt it too, didn’t you?”

Matteo didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He just turned, fists clenched, storming out of the alley like he could outrun the pulse hammering through him.

Behind him, Rafael called out, voice echoing in the dark.

“You can’t run from it forever, De Luca! One day you’ll break!”

Matteo didn’t look back. But the words clung to him like blood he couldn’t wash off.

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