230
Matteo’s POV
The phone buzzed again for the umpteenth time. Emilia’s name lightened up the screen like an accusation. I stared at it for a long moment before pressing decline and setting it face-down on the table. The hum of the rejected call lingered in the air, and for a second, I felt guilty. But then the ache in my chest returned, and guilt turned to frustration.
She had promised that she’d speak to Gianna, and but she didn’t follow up on it. And if she had, Gianna would be talking to me right now, but she wasn’t. So, no. I wasn’t ready to talk to her. Not now.
Instead, I leaned back in my chair and let out a long, tired sigh. Another letter I was writing to Gianna sat open on my laptop, the words I’d poured out staring back at me. I’d rewritten it three times now, and each time, it was like I was getting closer to the truth of how I really felt about her, about this whole thing happening, but none of it felt like it was enough.
How do you put into words what someone means to you when they’ve become the center of your world?
I reached for my coffee which was cold now and took a bitter sip. Gianna hadn’t responded to my last message or the letter, and it had been days since I’d heard her voice. The silence between us was unbearable, and I hated it. I hated that I couldn’t Reach her.
The truth was, I still blamed Emilia for all of this. I couldn’t stop blaming her even if I wanted to.
She’d undermined Gianna, dismissed her without even giving her a chance. The woman I loved-who made me laugh, who challenged me, who made me feel like I was worth something-was humiliated because Emilia couldn’t get over her own biases.
The phone buzzed again. A text this time. From Emilia, of course.
Matteo, please call me back. We need to talk.
I shoved the phone aside.
She wasn’t the one I wanted to speak to. In fact, I didn’t want to talk to anyone that wasn’t Gianna. And if Emilia couldn’t fix what she had broken then it’d be better if she left me the hell alone.
I laid on my bed and stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours yet my mind still remained on one thing. Every time I tried to focus on work or on something else, my mind drifted back to Gianna. I wondered what she was doing. If she was still upset. If she missed me at all.
I couldn’t stop picturing her face the last time we spoke. The hurt in her eyes as she walked out the door, thinking she wasn’t enough.
She was everything.
And now, I didn’t know how to make her believe that.
I sighed, my heart thundering in my chest as I got up from the bed. I began pacing the apartment, feeling a bundle of restless energy bubble up. I grabbed my jacket and decided to head out for a walk, hoping the fresh air would clear my head. But halfway down the street, I stopped at a small stationary store and went inside.
There was something about writing things down that felt more permanent, more meaningful than a text or call.
I bought a simple notebook and a new pen, then walked to the park and found a quiet bench. Flipping to the first page, I began to write.
Gianna,
I know you’ve been hurt before, and I know I didn’t help by letting my sister’s actions affect us. But you have to know-you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
The pen hovered over the page. I scratched out the word “best” and replaced it with “most important.”
Half an hour later, I had almost filled out the book, each page spilling out with everything I felt about her. How much I missed her laugh, her voice, the way she could make a room feel alive just by walking into it.
When I finished, I tore out the pages, folded them carefully, and placed them in my pocket.
I wasn’t sure when I’d give them to her or if I’d even get the chance, but having them with me made me feel like I was doing something. Like I wasn’t completely powerless in this mess.
And I did feel much better just by doing this, writing these notes about her. I ran my hands through my hair and got up, talking the notebook and the pen with me. I headed home.
The moment I stepped into the house, my phone buzzed again. I fished it out of my pocket, ready to tell Emilia to leave me the hell alone, but this time it wasn’t her, it was Allesio. I scowled.
I wasn’t best pals with Alaric or any of his men, I rarely ever spoke to them. But seeing him call me…I just hope it wasn’t that anything had happened to Emilia.
“Yeah?” I answered, slumping onto the couch.
“You sound like shit,” he said. “Everything okay?”
“Define ‘okay,'” I muttered. As much as I hated to admit it, it felt good to talk to someone today, even though the person in question is someone I hated.
He snorted. “Still no word from your girl?”
“Nope.”
A pause. “You know, this thing with Emilia… Maybe it’s time to patch that up. She’s your sister, Matteo. She’s not going anywhere.”
I ran a hand through my hair, feeling my chest tightening up. “Emilia’s the reason Gianna left in the first place.”
“That might be true,” he said carefully, “but shutting her out won’t fix things with Gianna.”
“Thanks for the wisdom, Dr. Phil,” I snapped.
“Hey, I’m just saying.” His tone softened, something I never thought Mafia bastards were capable of. “You’re stubborn as hell, but so is Emilia. Maybe if you two sat down and actually talked…”
I ended the call before he could finish, throwing my phone to the other side of the couch.
The truth was, I knew he was right. Emilia wasn’t going to stop calling or texting until I gave her the confrontation she was clearly looking for. And deep down, I knew I’d have to face her sooner or later.
But not tonight.
Tonight, all I wanted was for Gianna to call. To text. To give me something-anything-that told me she hadn’t given up on us.
I stared at the phone, hoping it will light up with her name. When it didn’t, I grabbed the notebook and started writing again.
Because if she wasn’t ready to talk, I’d keep writing until I ran out of pages.
And then I’d write some more.