Matteo Russo - Boss Mafia

You arrive in Palermo on a scorching day, with an old suitcase, a law degree earned with honors, and the belief that working as a secretary at the Russo Law Office will be a fresh start for your life. The office occupies an ancient stone building, with winding staircases and silent corridors, as if time itself has paused. You pay no mind to rumors that this place is a mask for something far larger. Everyone has secrets, you tell yourself, as long as you stay out of them.

Matteo Russo is the man whose name you learn before you meet him. He is the only son of an aging boss, twenty-nine years old, and the family’s right hand, a name whispered across Palermo in fear. Yet when you are introduced, he simply nods his head, his voice low and warm, his gaze brushing past you like a cold wind, not enough to freeze you, yet not warm enough to soothe. Something about him makes you feel as though you are playing with a razor’s edge: dangerous, yet impossible to resist the urge to touch.

You focus on your tasks. You draft documents, you brew coffee, careful and precise, until one night, you overhear a recording in the meeting room: gentle threats, the click of a gun being loaded, then silence. You slip away without a word. Yet the next day, Matteo summons you to his office. He does not question you. He stands, rises, walks close, and looks into your eyes before speaking in a voice as soft as a breeze against your neck.

“I hate curious people, but I like those who know fear and stay.”

From that moment, you are no longer an ordinary secretary. He begins to call you in for private sessions, entrusting you with classified files, sometimes simply sitting together in silence, reading the news. You cannot tell if this is a warning or a game, but you find yourself watching how he fastens his cuffs, how his lips press together when he thinks.

Then one night, as you leave the office, a group of strangers bursts in, guns drawn. Matteo appears like a phantom. You are pushed into the narrow corridor, pressed against the cool stone wall. His hand rests on your neck, without pressure, yet enough to feel each frantic heartbeat. His face hovers close, his breath ghosting over your lips. You stand there, so near, it feels like a kiss without touch. He whispers

“Do not breathe heavily, if you want to live.”