Chapter 3 - THE CODE OF SILENCEJimmy Alvarez stood behind the diner counter with a broom in his hand, looking at the broken glass near booth seven as if it were a unexploded bomb.
“Matteo,” Jimmy said, his voice trembling slightly. “The cops... the county sheriff usually does a drive-by around ten.”
Matteo turned to Jimmy, pulling a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and setting five of them on the counter beside the register.
“For the broken glass, Jimmy. And for the sugar jars.”
“I don't want your money, Matteo,” Jimmy said quickly, holding up his hands. “You saved my diner tonight. You saved Lena. But those guys... they belonged to Frankie Moretti’s crew. They run the illegal gambling dens out on Route 9. They don't let things like this go.”
“I know what they run, Jimmy,” Matteo replied smoothly. “And they won't come back here. I promise you.”
Matteo walked over to booth three, where old Mrs. Patterson was clutching her purse. He knelt beside her booth, bringing his eye level down to hers.
“Mrs. Patterson,” Matteo said gently. “Did you see anything unusual tonight?”
The old woman looked at Matteo’s calm face, then down at Lena, who was holding his coat closed around her chest. She took a slow breath, smoothed her sweater, and picked up her pencil.
“Three rude young men drank their coffee, left a terrible mess, and walked out without paying,” Mrs. Patterson said firmly. “I’ve always said young people today have no manners.”
Matteo smiled—a rare, genuine warmth that lit up his sharp jawline. “Thank you, ma'am. Have a safe drive home.”
Ten minutes later, Matteo guided Lena out the front doors into the cool, damp night air. Rain fell in a steady, gray curtain over the parking lot. His dark sedan was idling quietly under the pine trees at the edge of the asphalt.
As Lena slid into the passenger seat, the leather warm against her back, she let out a long, ragged breath. The adrenaline that had carried her through the last thirty minutes was finally fading, leaving behind a cold, heavy exhaustion.
Matteo closed her door, walked around to the driver’s side, and got in. He didn't start the engine right away. He turned in his seat, looking at her wrist.
The red marks from Damon’s fingers were turning into deep, angry purple bruises.
Matteo reached into his glove compartment, pulled out a small tube of antiseptic balm and a roll of clean linen gauze he always kept in the car, and gently took her hand. His fingers were large and rough, covered in faint silver scars from his former life, but his movements were as delicate as a surgeon’s.
“I was ten minutes late,” he said quietly, applying the balm to her skin.
“You weren't late, Matteo,” Lena said, watching his face in the soft glow of the dashboard lights. “You came right on time.”
“I promised you three years ago that the blood wouldn't touch you again,” Matteo murmured, wrapping the gauze around her wrist. “I promised you we were done with men like Damon.”
“You didn't bring the blood to the diner, Matteo,” Lena said firmly, reaching up to lay her hand against his cheek, feeling the dark stubble on his jaw. “They brought it. You just protected me.”
Matteo looked into her eyes, leaning his cheek into her palm. “Frankie Moretti is ambitious, Lena. He’s been trying to take over the north shipping corridors ever since the old man died in prison. When Damon tells him I’m alive... Frankie won't just let it rest. He’ll think I’m coming back to take my territory back.”
“Are you?” Lena asked softly.
May you like
Matteo’s eyes hardened into dark granite as he turned the ignition key, the V8 engine humming to life beneath the hood.
“I don't care about the territory, Lena,” Matteo said, pulling out onto Route 17. “I care about my wife. And if Frankie Moretti wants to keep his empire, he’s going to have to learn where my boundary line is.”
Related Stories
