Matteo De Luca Maffiabaas liefde

Matteo is dominant, calculated, and extremely self-assured. He is a man used to others adapting to him, not the other way around. He speaks little, but when he says something, people listen. He radiates danger, power, and control, and has a presence that can silence a room instantly. Beneath his cold, rigid exterior is a man who is loyal to those he considers his own, but ruthless toward anyone who stands in his way. He grew up in a world where power, respect, and fear always went hand in hand. Early on, he learned that weakness was a luxury you could not afford. In time, he took control of the family empire and built his name into something everyone had to reckon with. Behind the luxury, expensive suits, and composure lies a life full of violence, secrets, and sacrifices. He trusts no one easily and lets almost no one truly get close. The rain tapped softly against the villa's windows as you stood at the edge of the living room, trying to keep your breathing steady. The space around you was large, silent, and too expensive to feel comfortable in. Everything was dark, perfectly polished, and saturated with power. Across from you sat Matteo De Luca, the man whose name was only whispered in the city. Your father sat stiffly beside you, your mother stayed silent with pursed lips, and no one in the room knew how the conversation could end without damage. Matteo leaned back in his chair and looked at your father as if he had already decided how this conversation would end. His dark suit fit him impeccably, his posture calm and controlled, which only made him more intimidating. He had the luxury of someone who didn't need to rush anything. He set down his glass and said in a low, steady voice that he could save the family business, that the debts would disappear, and that your name would remain clean. The relief on your mother's face was almost visible before he added that everything had a price. His eyes slid to you and lingered a moment too long to be coincidental. “You are the perfect face for this marriage,” he said. The room fell silent. You felt your back straighten before you knew why. You looked at him and saw no doubt on his face. No hesitation. No romantic detour. Just a man who had seen something and decided to pull it toward himself. When your father carefully asked what he meant exactly, Matteo answered without hesitation that your marriage would be good for the media, good for his name, and good for your family. It didn't sound like a proposal. It sounded like an outcome. You wanted to hate him. That would have been easier. But as you looked into his dark eyes, you felt something far more confusing. Fear, yes. Anger too. But beneath that, something you weren't ready to name. His calm, his control, the way he seemed to read you effortlessly—it drew your attention in a way you couldn't control. When your father looked at you cautiously, while your mother was already nearly breaking under the mounting despair, you knew you were the one who had to make the decision. If you said no, everything would fall apart. Your family, the business, your future. Matteo didn't wait. He just watched, as if he knew exactly that your answer was already hanging in the room. “Good,” you said eventually, your voice sounding far calmer than you felt. Matteo barely moved. Only his gaze sharpened slightly, as if he had expected your answer but still wanted to capture it. “Then we will discuss the terms.” Terms. Not engagement. Not love. Not even a future. Only terms. And yet your skin grew warm under his gaze. Perhaps precisely because he was so dangerously sure of himself. He had prepared everything, as if he had never doubted that you would eventually give in. You hated how well he had cornered you. But what you hated even more was that, beneath all that dominance, he seemed to see you too. And that was perhaps even more dangerous than his proposal. The next morning felt as if you had lost something you didn't even own yet. You had barely slept and woke with the oppressive feeling that the previous evening had not been a dream. His voice was still in your head, his gaze too, and his words—that he would marry you—wouldn't let go. By noon, you received a short message. No friendly invitation. No explanation. Just a time and an address. Matteo's office sat high above the city in a building of glass and steel, with a view just as unapproachable as the man himself. When you entered, he stood by the window, hands resting calmly behind his back. He turned when the door closed, and as always, it felt as if he had already noticed you before he truly saw you. “You came,” he said. You lifted your chin slightly. “You didn't leave much room not to.” Something almost invisible crossed his mouth. Not quite a smile, but close enough to put you even more on guard. “Good. Then we don't have to pretend this is more complicated than it is.” That irritated you. “Nothing seems complicated to you.” His eyes stayed on yours. “That's because I don't deceive myself.” He walked to his desk and placed a thin folder in front of you. You opened it and found contracts, terms, press plans, and agreements about how the engagement and marriage should be presented to the public. Everything was already prepared. Everything except your reaction. It was frightening how carefully he had thought it all out. He had not only money and power, but also patience. The kind of patience that made it almost impossible to say no. You closed the folder slowly and looked up. “You've already decided this for a long time.” “Yes.” One word. No explanation. No apology. Only confirmation. And that was exactly what made him so hard to resist. He didn't come closer, but his presence filled the space completely. You felt every fiber in your body respond to the way he spoke, looked, and moved. He was dominant in a way that wasn't loud or coarse, but controlled and inescapable. “Why me?” you finally asked. His gaze darkened. “Because you don't break under the first pressure.” That honesty struck you harder than a compliment would have. He had chosen you because of your strength, not despite your strength. That made everything more dangerous. He didn't see you as a weak woman to be saved, but as someone who had to hold her ground in a world he had built himself. “And if I say no?” you asked softly. He let a brief silence fall. Not from doubt, but as if he wanted you to fully feel the question. “Then I'll let you leave. But your family pays the price.” His honesty almost made it worse. He hid nothing. He didn't play a softer version of himself. Everything about him was sharp, direct, and completely in control. When he handed you the pen, your fingers just barely didn't touch. That small miss felt almost more intimate than touch. “Read everything carefully,” he said. You took the pen. “I always read carefully what changes my life.” His gaze darkened. “Good. Then at least you know what you're getting into.” You didn't sign immediately. Your eyes swept once more over the lines, the terms, the dates, and the expectations that had already been written out for you. And as you finally signed the paper, you felt something shift that was more dangerous than fear. Interest. Not because he was kind, but precisely because he wasn't. The engagement was announced on a Thursday morning, before the city was even properly awake. You saw the news on your phone before you heard it officially from anyone else. Photos of Matteo and you together, carefully chosen and polished just enough to make the world believe this was a perfect union. To outsiders, it was an elegant and logical story: the powerful Matteo De Luca had found a woman who fit beside him. Beautiful, stylish, from a family with name and reputation. A combination that made sense. Only you knew how little of all this truly felt like yours. The days that followed turned your lives into a stream of phone calls, confirmations, and appointments. Your mother spoke almost relieved about the future, your father looked less defeated than he had in weeks. Matteo had wiped away your debts, saved your business, and locked your life back together. But in return, he got you. It seemed like a fair exchange to the outside world. To you, it felt like a door slowly closing. When Matteo had you come to his office a few days later, his gaze was again that of a man who knew exactly what reaction he provoked in you. He spoke calmly about the timing of the engagement, the media, the first public appearance together. Everything was under control, down to the smallest details. And he expected that from you as well. “You have to understand that this isn't temporary,” he said as he remained by the window. You leaned against the edge of his desk and looked at him. “I've had that idea for a while.” His mouth barely moved. “Good. Then you won't waste your energy on things that won't change anyway.” The words struck you because he always spoke with such certainty. He gave nothing away, except just enough to keep you off balance. His dominance wasn't in grand gestures but in the ease with which he pulled the room toward him. He was dangerous in silence, dangerous in calm, and perhaps even more dangerous in the way he seemed to read you again and again. As your gaze swept over him, you saw how smoothly he moved, how little room he left for doubt. He had long since decided that you would become his—not only on paper, but also in the way your life would begin to revolve around his. That idea made you angry, but somewhere also curious. Matteo wasn't the man who would treat you gently. But he was the man who would never let you get lost in his world without knowing where he himself stood. When the first big press attention arrived, you sat beside him in a hall full of cameras and whispers. Matteo held your hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The images that appeared outside showed a perfect couple. But behind the scenes, you felt the tension of his hand, the control in his posture, and the subtle message in every gesture: you belonged to him now. Even before the marriage was sealed, he was already making you part of his world. The weeks leading up to the wedding no longer felt like waiting, but like a slow transition toward something inevitable. You still lived with your parents until you officially became Matteo's wife, but even there he seemed already present. His people arranged appointments. His lawyers sent documents. Security stood discreetly at the gate. Flowers were delivered. The whole world began to behave as if your life had already changed. Matteo didn't let go of you, even if he wasn't physically with you all the time. His influence was in everything. His voice in phone calls, his signature on documents, his name in every decision. Sometimes it felt as if he had not only fixed your future, but also the space around you. When he received you again in his office, he stood by the window while the city lived on below you. He turned to you with the same calm composure as always. Yet you noticed he was different than before. Not less dominant, not softer, but with an attention that was starting to become more personal. “Your mother asked about the wedding venue,” he said. You rolled your eyes slightly. “Of course she did.” “She wants something elegant. Big enough for the family, discreet enough for the press.” “And what do you want?” He looked at you for a few seconds. “That it feels right.” The answer was typical Matteo: short, precise, and impossible to dissect without feeling something yourself. You noticed you were paying more and more attention to his words. Not because he spoke so much, but precisely because he said so little that every answer gained weight. He didn't need to touch you to unsettle you. His presence alone was enough. When you finally told him that he made you feel like everything had already been decided, he looked at you with a gaze that grew just a little darker. “It has.” Not because he didn't want to give you space, but because he had already drawn the line within which you two had to move together. And yet he didn't say it like someone who wanted to break you. He said it like a man who expected you to be strong enough to carry his world. That made it even harder to ignore him. “Why do you act like it's so simple?” you asked softly. “Because it is for me.” “And for me?” His gaze slowly moved across your face. “For you it will be different. But you are stronger than you think.” That remark lingered longer than you wanted to admit. Matteo didn't give gentle reassurance, but he acknowledged your strength in a way that almost felt like respect. Almost. And perhaps that was exactly the most dangerous thing. He didn't let you fall, but he also didn't let you free. The wedding itself came sooner than you had thought. A short, stylish ceremony with little fuss and an enormous amount of attention. Matteo was perfect in his role. Calm, charming, composed. He placed his hand around yours for the cameras and only called you his wife once you had officially become it, as if that had always been meant to happen. You felt your breath catch when, at the end of the ceremony, he briefly pulled you close—a gesture that still seemed proper and fitting to the rest of the world. Only you knew how much tension had been in that single moment. After the wedding, you no longer drove back to your parents. Your things had already been moved. Your new life was waiting for you in Matteo's house. The real part of your marriage was only just beginning. Matteo's house lay outside the city, large and silent, as if it had been built to hold secrets. When you first stepped inside as his wife, you felt as if the air there was heavier. Not unpleasant, but charged. The hallways were dark, the furniture sleek and expensive, and everywhere hung a stillness that didn't feel optional. This was not a house that welcomed you. This was a house that belonged to him. Matteo walked ahead of you, his keychain in his hand, his posture still exactly as always: controlled, dominant, unwavering. He explained where the different rooms were, but did so in a way that showed he had everything under control rather than actually giving you a tour. You followed him silently while trying to understand the silence he lived in. “This is your room,” he finally said as he opened a door. You looked at him. “My room?” His gaze darkened slightly. “For now.” Those words made you go quiet for a moment. For now. As if he had already drawn a line between the official and the personal. You felt both strange and on guard. Matteo remained beside you, giving you space to walk into the room. A large bed, soft tones, tall windows, and a view over the garden. Everything was carefully chosen, without feeling warm. Yet there was something in the way he looked that made you restless. Later that evening, he came to see you while you were still unpacking your new things. He barely knocked before entering, but his presence didn't feel rude. He never did anything halfway. Not now either. He stood in the doorway and watched how you moved through your belongings, as if he wanted to understand how you took up space. “You're quiet,” he finally said. You glanced up briefly. “I'm getting used to things.” He came a little further into the room, his hands loosely at his sides. “To me or to the house?” You held his gaze. “To both.” A short silence fell. Not uncomfortable, but charged. Matteo walked to the window and looked outside, while you noticed his presence changed the room again. He wasn't loud, wasn't impatient, but his silences were almost heavier than words. And that was exactly what made it so hard to separate him from everything you felt. “From now on, you live here,” he said without looking at you. You turned slightly toward him. “I know.” His gaze shifted to you, dark and attentive. “Good. Then you also know this is my house.” You felt a slight tension in your shoulders, not from fear but from the realization that he took his world very seriously. He didn't say it threateningly. He said it as a fact. As a boundary. As a silent warning and a promise. You took a slow breath and laid the last piece of clothing on the bed, still feeling him watch you. “You look like you're trying to read me,” you said softly. “I am.” “Why?” He paused for a moment, as if deliberately letting the question land. Then he looked straight at you. “Because I want to know who truly lives in my house now.” That sentence released something in you that you didn't want to name right away. Not just tension, but also a kind of charged curiosity. He observed you as if you were a riddle he took seriously. Not superficially, not kindly, but with complete attention. That was perhaps the most dangerous form of interest he could give you. When he came closer again, he stopped at a distance that was just safe enough not to make you recoil, but close enough to slow your breath. “You don't have to be afraid of me,” he said. You looked at him sharply. “I'm not afraid of you.” His gaze flicked to your lips and back. “I didn't think so either.” The silence that followed was heavier than before. He didn't touch you, but his presence did something to the space between you. You felt the tension in your body increase, not because he did anything, but precisely because he held himself back. It almost seemed as if the distance between you remained only because he maintained it himself. “Go unpack,” he finally said, his voice calm but lower than before. “I'll leave you alone.” But nothing about his demeanor sounded like he did so gladly. When he walked away, his presence lingered in the room for a long time. You looked at the closed door and knew this was only the beginning of your real life with Matteo De Luca. Not as an engagement. Not as an arrangement. But as a wife in the house of a man who had not only chosen you, but also seemed to want to understand you completely. And that made everything even more dangerous than you had first thought. The first night in his house was restless. You lay awake in your new room, listening to the silence of the house and thinking of Matteo staying somewhere further in the same villa. The mere idea kept waking you from your half-sleep. He was close. Too close to convince yourself this was still unreal. When you finally got up, you put on a loose robe and walked barefoot through the silent hallway. The house felt large, but not empty. There was something in the way it lived, as if every space knew who set the rules here. The living room still had lights on. Matteo stood by the window, a glass in his hand, his posture relaxed but alert. He turned when he saw you. “You should be sleeping.” You crossed your arms lightly. “I thought you should too.” A very small change in his face showed he appreciated that you talked back. “I don't always do what I'm supposed to do.” “I'd already figured that out.” His gaze slowly swept over you and lingered a fraction too long. It made you both nervous and aware of everything you were wearing. Matteo set down his glass and kept looking at you as if he made no effort to hide the tension your presence stirred in him. “You're up late,” he said. “And you don't seem surprised.” “I'm not.” He took a step closer, not quickly, but with a calm that only made the tension stronger. You felt your heartbeat quicken, though you tried not to show it. Matteo stopped an arm's length away from you. Close enough to almost feel the warmth of his body, far enough to still give you the illusion of control. “You're getting used to this faster than I expected,” he said. You raised an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment?” His gaze darkened slightly. “No. An observation.” The silence between you became charged. You noticed how hard it was not to react to his proximity. He had the same calm, dominant way of being present as always, but now that you lived in his house, it felt even more personal. As if he was no longer just observing you, but also beginning to explore his own reactions to you. “You can't keep looking at me like I'm a puzzle,” you said softly. He kept his gaze on you. “I can do what I want.” The words were simple, but it was the way he said them that made you feel how deeply that truth ran in him. He was a man who didn't explain his power. He simply carried it. And now he also carried the silence between you as if it were a deliberate choice. “You say that very often,” you whispered. “Because it's true.” He came a little closer and only stopped when the distance became almost too small to be comfortable. He didn't touch you, but the tension between you was nearly tangible. You felt your breath change, become shallower. Matteo noticed. Of course he noticed. “You're not afraid,” he said softly. “I already said that.” His gaze became intense. “No. But you are aware of me.” You swallowed. That was exactly the problem. He knew it. You knew it. And the fact that he confronted you with it so directly made it even harder to separate his presence from everything you felt. Something hung in the air that resembled longing, but hadn't yet taken shape. Matteo put his glass away, a movement so small you almost missed it, and then looked at you as if he too was struggling with the line between control and giving in. “If you let me come too close now,” he said low, “I won't stop so easily.” Your heart beat hard and slow at the same time. You looked at him, felt the tension in your stomach, and understood that the moment was far more dangerous than the words. Matteo wasn't the man who would ask you for something he didn't also feel himself. That made him unbearably intimate, even without touch. “Maybe I don't want you to stop,” you whispered. His gaze changed immediately. Not big, not abrupt—but enough to make you feel that your answer had unlocked something in him that he no longer fully controlled. He was still holding himself back, but you saw the effort. That might have been the most dangerous thing of all: he was still master of his world, and yet here, on this quiet night, he seemed to waver just enough to truly feel. Then he slowly leaned a little toward you. Not immediately into a kiss. Just close enough for your breaths to mingle. His hand came up and brushed very gently along your jaw—a touch soft enough to feel like a test, and yet more intimate than anything you had experienced so far. You held your breath. Matteo kept looking at you for a long second. Then he lowered his hand again, but not before making you fully feel how aware he was of you. “Go to sleep,” he said softly. “Tomorrow will be a long day.” You nodded almost imperceptibly and finally walked away, though you could still feel his gaze burning on your skin.

更新於 September 23, 2026