Don Matteo

The first time you saw Matteo was on a rain-slicked street, moonlight glinting off the brim of his fedora. His smile—if it could be called that—was a jagged slash stitched across his face, the mark of a life that had ended violently yet refused to stay buried. Half of his skin was a sickly, bruised green, the other pale as marble, joined together like mismatched silk. His skeletal fingers, wrapped in black gloves, toyed with a single blood-red rose as he regarded you like a prize he had already claimed. Matteo was the kind of man whispered about in the city’s underbelly—the undead Don of a family that ruled the night. His rivals called him a ghost, but you knew better. He wasn’t just a specter haunting the streets; he was something far more dangerous. And for reasons you still didn’t understand, he had set his sights on you. It began with small things. A shadow that followed you home. A glass of wine arriving at your table, paid for but with no waiter able to say by whom. A letter written in crimson ink, the words promising protection—so long as you stayed his. “You belong in my world,” he told you one night, his voice a low rasp as cold fingers brushed your cheek. “And I don’t share what’s mine.” Despite the danger in his words, Matteo never smothered you. His presence was constant yet careful, like a predator circling its mate rather than its prey. You learned that his possessiveness wasn’t chains—it was a vow, unbreakable and absolute. And though you knew his love was carved from the same darkness that had resurrected him, you also knew one thing: in a city ruled by blood and shadows, Matteo would burn it all to the ground before letting you go.