COLD TRAP

Chapter 80 

MATTEO 

I wake to nothing but emptiness. The room is lit by the blaring sunlight peeking through the blinds, my wife’s side of the bed empty and cold, almost looking as though no one slept there the night before. 

My brows form into a crease as I pat her side of the bed, somehow hoping that my eyes are deceiving me. But she’s not there. 

I rise from the bed, sitting upright to reach for my phone. Twelve noon. The fuck? I have never slept in this long. And to think I slept through the night and into the midday…that too without noticing when my wife got up and left. 

Fuck me. 

So much for wanting to exclusively take care of her while she recovers. 

I throw the sheets off my legs and slide down the bed, groaning and cussing underneath my breath as I walk to the washroom. “Mirabella?” I call out her name. There’s no answer. 

‘She must’ve snuck out to make breakfast. You know how stubborn she can be. My subconscious reasons with me. 

With a shrug of my shoulders, I decide to freshen up before going down to reprimand her for being so wearisome most of the time. 

My time in the bathroom is spent quickly. And due to my eagerness to meet my wife and live through another beautiful, peaceful day with her, I hurriedly put on a shirt and matching two–piece shorts. 

It’s not until getting downstairs and finding my kids sitting alone with bags of snacks in their hands that panic floods my mind. 

“Where’s your mother?” The question falls from my lips as I approach them with gentle steps. 

“Uh…were you not the one with her last night?” Mariano remarks. “She hasn’t come down today.” 

“What?” I ask, my mind racing alarmingly. “You haven’t seen your mother today?” 

Mariana shakes her head. 

Panic. My blood rushes up to my head, pounding with so much aggression that I almost lose my footing while running out of the house. 

I try calling her phone again and again, but it keeps sending me to voicemail. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

When my soldiers find me frantically running across the compound to the holding cell, they run behind me. “Mirabella! Tesoro!” I yell her name as I rush up to her father’s holding cell. 

“Where the fuck is my wife, Marcelo?” I breathe, my voice harsh. He watches me silently, his eyes narrowed, yet shining with pride and immense joy. “Where is my wife?” 

He tsks, leaning forward, his stare condescending. “Has the great Matteo Messina Denaro suddenly become a careless man?” 

Those are the words that snap my sanity completely. My fist rams into the man’s face, veering his head backwards, blood oozing from his mouth 

and nose. 

He doesn’t get the chance to think through the pain when I charge for him again, this time pushing him down and settling on top of him. “Where is my wife, you bastard!” My grunts fill the room, echoing through the halls. Marcelo’s bones make disturbing noises, his skin rupturing. He doesn’t speak. I don’t stop hitting him. I don’t stop until Alessio runs into the cell and pulls me off of the unmoving man. 

“Breathe, Matteo…” Alessio whispers, both hands firmly grabbing my shoulders. My hands slide into my hair, my fingers digging into my scalp, a painful noise resounding in the depths of my throat. 

My breathing is frantic, sharp gasps. “M–Mirabella. . .she’s gone. I woke up and she wasn’t there.” I shake my head, not believing that what we fear the most might’ve happened. “Find her. Send out every man you can find and get my wife back home to me. Burn the whole world to the ground if you have to, but Mirabella must be home before the end of the day. 

Alessio nods, “yes, boss. Now, you should calm yourself and trust your people to handle this situation in a short time.” 

“One more thing,” I say, “make sure the old cunt stays breathing. I don’t know my wife’s intentions with him.” 

“Of course.” 

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And I wait. Impatient, fearful, uncertain, I wait. I wait because more than soldiers and made men, these are my brothers, my family, and they’ve promised to return with answers. I trust them enough to take care of this. Text © by N0ve/lDrama.Org.

It doesn’t take an hour before Dean is gallantly walking into my home, a relaxed expression on his features. His eyes move between my children who are standing on both sides of me, clutching onto me. 

Dean nods assuringly at me, a small smile tugging the corners of his lips. And at that moment, my parted lips elicit a shaky breath. A calming breath. 

He steps close and leans into my face, his mouth to my ear. “She was seen at your hangar during the early hours of the day. Milan, your wife is currently in Milan. Call that boyfriend of hers for confirmation.” 

I don’t break my stare when I reach for my phone and dial that fucker who’s always trying to steal my wife’s attention. 

The line doesn’t ring over three times when it is answered. I don’t wait for the person on the line to speak before I roar, my voice threatening. “Where the fuck is my wife?!” 

The thickness of my voice scares my kids, so much so Dean has to signal their nanny to take them away. 

“How am I supposed to know that information?” The fucker asks, his tone sarcastic. 

A grunt, thick, erupts from deep within my throat, my teeth grinding when I seethe. “I swear to god, Alexandre Gambino, if you do not tell me where you’ve taken my wife this fucking minute, I will fuck you up in ways you never thought possible.” 

Silence follows. 

And then heavy breaths follow. 

One thought in that boy’s mind? How the fuck do I know his real name? 

And he’s more stupid than I thought him to be, because I am Matteo Denaro, Don of Denaro crime family, and Godfather of Italy. 

Wouldn’t it be stupid to wonder how a person of my status is able to dig up even the most hidden of information? 

And unfortunately for the boy, his real name is just the tip of the iceberg of everything I know of him. 

“Matteo,” Ares says, his voice holding warning. 

A growl ricochets from my throat. “First, I am not some friend of yours which makes you unworthy of addressing me by my name. Second, we are not of the same class both in society and in the world of crime, you could never sit at tables I have sat. And the fact that you have a friendship with my wife doesn’t allow you the right to speak to me casually. Third, I will ask this question one more time, but if I find the answer unsatisfying, your mother together with that rose garden of hers will be nothing but dust. Where the fuck is my wife?!” 

More silence follow. 

A sharp gasp–I hear it, soft and almost hushed; but I hear it. And I can recognize that gasp any time any day. 

The voice I’ve craved the whole day, although raging with anger, graces my ears. And for the first time since my eyes opened today, I am finally able to breathe. To actually breathe. 

My voice reprimands me. “You do not get to speak to my best friend that way, Matteo. How many times have I—” 

I cut her off. “Fucks sake, Mirabella…oh,” I groan, my breath shaky. For a moment, I remain silent, wheeling myself into calmness. Forcing my voice back to normal. “God, I’m so happy you’re safe. I was so fucking worried. I was at a point of tears. You’re coming home, yes?” 

A second of silence passes. She replies. “I’m coming home, Matteo.” 

“Okay,” I breathe. “Tell Ares that I apologize for my rude tongue. And please make him understand that I’m a mad man without you by my side. See you soon, love.” 

The call beeps to an end. Dean and I share a look, both of us heaving out calming breaths simultaneously. 

“You’re so fucking whipped, man.” He says, making jest of me. 

I shrug my shoulders, my head bobbing in agreement. “You don’t know half of it.” 

“It’s a good thing she’s worth it though,” he comments, his lighter flickering on the char at the bottom of his cigar stick. Puffing out a haze of smoke, he breathes, “I was afraid of what the outcome might be if we had returned without any proper news of her whereabouts. Happy we succeeded. See you later, boss.” 

We share a nod and he turns around, making his way out of the manor. 

“Dean?” I call out to him and he turns around to face me. “Good job. Tell the boys I appreciate it. And tell them never to address me as ‘bout 

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