Chapter 8 - The Rules of Mateo Bianchi
Darkness made every sound enormous.
Josephine heard water dripping.
Shoes scraping concrete.
Someone breathing too quickly.
Maybe her.
Mateo’s hand found hers for one second.
Not pulling.
Guiding.
He placed her behind a structural column.
Then let go.
A flashlight beam cut through the tunnel.
Voices.
Domenico’s men.
Mateo whispered something to Luca.
Josephine couldn’t hear.
Then Luca disappeared into darkness.
Five minutes later, alarms exploded above them.
Red emergency lights flickered.
Sprinklers began spraying through the warehouse.
Domenico shouted.
Mateo grabbed Josephine’s hand.
“Now.”
They ran.
Not toward the blocked tunnel entrance.
Toward an old utility ladder Josephine had noticed on the plans.
Architecture saved them again.
They emerged through a street access hatch two blocks away.
Cold rain hit Josephine’s face.
Mateo’s vehicles arrived seconds later.
Nobody spoke until they were moving.
Josephine looked at him.
“You knew there was another exit?”
“No.”
“You trusted me?”
“You designed the map.”
“I designed it twelve years after that tunnel was built.”
“But you read buildings better than I read people.”
She laughed breathlessly.
“That might be the nicest insult anyone has given me.”
“It wasn’t an insult.”
Mateo checked Luca.
“Everyone?”
“All accounted for.”
“No injuries?”
“Minor.”
Mateo nodded.
That was when Josephine understood something.
He had chosen retreat.
Chicago stories portrayed Mateo Bianchi as a man who answered disrespect with destruction.
But when faced with Domenico, he evacuated.
Protected his people.
Protected evidence.
Protected her.
“You could have gone after him.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because that would have been stupid.”
“Nathaniel said you were dangerous.”
“I am.”
“Domenico thinks you’re weak.”
“People confuse restraint with weakness when they’ve built their identity around intimidation.”
Josephine stared.
Nathaniel used to say nearly the opposite.
If someone fears losing you, Jo, you never have to worry about them leaving.
She had mistaken control for strength for years.
Mateo seemed to define strength as the ability not to use power unnecessarily.
“Rules,” she said.
“What?”
“You have rules.”
“Everyone does.”
“No. Nathaniel had preferences. They changed whenever convenient.”
Mateo understood.
“What are yours?”
He looked through the windshield.
“Don’t harm children.”
Josephine waited.
“Don’t involve families in business disputes.”
“Domenico broke that.”
“Yes.”
“Others?”
“Don’t punish someone for another person’s debt.”
That one mattered.
“Which is why you never came after me for Nathaniel’s money.”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
“Never make promises you can’t keep.”
Josephine looked at his hands.
“And relationships?”
Mateo turned toward her.
“That question again?”
She almost smiled.
“I’m gathering data.”
“For architecture?”
“For risk management.”
He leaned back.
“I don’t control people I care about.”
“That’s convenient.”
“It’s also true.”
“Never?”
“I said I don’t. I didn’t say I’ve never failed.”
“What happens when you’re jealous?”
“I become unpleasant privately.”
Josephine laughed.
“And publicly?”
“I remember adults aren’t property.”
The answer hit deeper than expected.
She looked away.
“What about lying?”
“I lie for business.”
“That’s comforting.”
“I try not to lie to people I want close.”
“Try?”
“Anyone promising never to lie is probably lying.”
She smiled despite herself.
The SUV stopped beneath a private garage.
Not Josephine’s building.
“Where are we?”
“My house.”
She looked at him.
“I’m not staying at your house.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Rule violation.”
“Security recommendation.”
“Sounds suspiciously like an order.”
Mateo sighed.
“You may stay anywhere you want.”
“Good.”
“Provided it is somewhere Domenico does not know.”
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
“Annoying.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
Mateo’s residence occupied the top floors of a converted industrial building overlooking the river.
Josephine expected gold.
Marble.
Something theatrical.
Instead, she found exposed brick, dark steel, warm wood, enormous windows, books everywhere.
A piano sat near the far wall.
“You play?”
“My mother did.”
“Do you?”
“Badly.”
Josephine walked toward a scale model displayed on a table.
A housing development.
Courtyard.
Trees.
Childcare space.
She recognized the concept.
Her breath caught.
“This is Harbor House.”
Mateo stopped.
Josephine turned.
“You built a model?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
“I had someone convert your drawings.”
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
“Why?”
Mateo didn’t answer quickly enough.
“Mateo.”
“I considered building it.”
Josephine stared.
“Without telling me?”
“You had closed Miller Studio.”
“The design is mine.”
“Yes.”
“I could sue you.”
“I haven’t built anything.”
“Good.”
He raised both hands slightly.
“I wanted to know what it would cost.”
“Why?”
His expression softened.
“Because it should exist.”
Josephine turned toward the model.
Tiny apartments.
Tiny gardens.
Tiny windows filled with imaginary sunlight.
For three years, Nathaniel had convinced her Harbor House was childish.
Mateo Bianchi had spent his own money turning it into a model.
Her throat tightened.
“You could have contacted me.”
“You were grieving.”
“For a man who wasn’t dead.”
“I didn’t know that yet.”
“You knew he hurt me?”
Mateo looked at her.
“I knew your studio collapsed in ways that didn’t make sense.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He paused.
“I read interviews.”
“What interviews?”
“Old ones.”
“From when?”
“Before Nathaniel.”
Josephine’s heart beat harder.
“In those interviews you talked about architecture like it was something alive.”
She looked away.
“Later interviews were different.”
“How?”
“You apologized before giving opinions.”
Josephine froze.
Mateo continued quietly.
“People learn that behavior somewhere.”
She could not speak.
Nathaniel never hit her.
That sentence had become the defense she used even against herself.
But Mateo had seen the aftermath in archived interviews.
“You investigated me very thoroughly.”
“Yes.”
“That should feel creepy.”
“Does it?”
“A little.”
“Fair.”
She turned back to the model.
“Why Harbor House?”
Mateo stood beside her.
“Because my mother would have liked it.”
That was the moment Josephine became afraid of something entirely different.
Not Nathaniel.
Not Domenico.
Not the money.
Mateo.
Or rather, how safe she was beginning to feel around a man everyone else feared.
She stepped away.
“I’m tired.”
“Guest room is upstairs.”
“Lock?”
“Inside only.”
She looked at him.
“You thought of that.”
“Yes.”
Josephine slept for four hours.
At 3:14 a.m., her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She answered without thinking.
“Hello?”
Nathaniel.
“Comfortable?”
Josephine sat up.
“How do you know where I am?”
“I know Mateo.”
Her blood ran cold.
“Are you watching the house?”
“No.”
“Then how?”
“Because I knew exactly where he’d take you.”
Josephine looked toward the door.
Nathaniel continued.
“You always wanted someone to rescue you, Jo.”
“That’s funny. I remember rescuing you from your own personality for seven years.”
Silence.
Then his voice hardened.
“He doesn’t love you.”
Josephine almost laughed.
“Nobody said he did.”
“He wants the drive.”
“So do you.”
“I want you.”
The words once would have mattered.
Now they sounded like a threat.
“You had me.”
Nathaniel breathed.
“We can fix this.”
“No.”
“You haven’t heard what I’m offering.”
“I don’t care.”
“Nine hundred thousand dollars. New identities. Europe. We start over.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you.”
Josephine closed her eyes.
“No, Nathaniel.”
“I do.”
“You love being forgiven.”
He went silent.
“You love coming home after hurting me and finding dinner still warm.”
“Jo—”
“You love knowing I’ll question myself before I question you.”
“Stop.”
“You love that I closed my company because you asked.”
“I was protecting you.”
“You were erasing me.”
His breathing changed.
For the first time in their marriage, Josephine heard Nathaniel lose control because she would not carry his version of events.
Then his voice became cold.
“If you don’t come to me tomorrow, I’ll release documents proving you helped steal the money.”
“Fake documents.”
“Prove it.”
Josephine’s stomach tightened.
“Nathaniel.”
“And there’s something else.”
“What?”
“Mateo hasn’t told you who paid for Harbor House.”
She frowned.
“What are you talking about?”
“The model.”
Josephine went still.
Nathaniel laughed softly.
“Yes, Jo. I know about it.”
“How?”
“Ask him.”
The line disconnected.
Josephine stared toward the door.
A shadow moved beneath it.
She opened it.
Mateo stood in the hallway.
Barefoot.
Shirt sleeves rolled.
He looked exhausted.
“You heard?”
“No.”
“It was Nathaniel.”
Mateo nodded.
Josephine studied him.
“Who paid for the Harbor House model?”
Silence.
Her heart sank.
“Mateo.”
He exhaled.
“Your husband.”
Josephine stared.
“What?”
“Not intentionally.”
“Explain.”
“The funds used to build the model came from money we recovered from one of Nathaniel’s accounts.”
Her chest tightened.
“You used stolen money connected to my company?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it seemed appropriate that the first thing his money rebuilt was something he destroyed.”
Josephine didn’t know whether to be furious or moved.
She settled for both.
“You should have told me.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t get to make symbolic decisions with my life.”
“No.”
“Stop agreeing.”
Mateo almost smiled.
“I’m trying not to control you.”
“That is extremely irritating.”
“I’m learning.”
She stared at him.
Then laughed.
A real laugh.
The first in days.
Mateo smiled too.
And somewhere across the city, Nathaniel Miller sat in a dark hotel room watching a recording from a hidden camera outside Mateo’s building.
When he saw Josephine laughing with another man, something in his expression changed.
For the first time, Nathaniel no longer looked like a man trying to recover stolen property.
May you like
He looked like a husband realizing his wife had finally stopped belonging to him.
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