Page 109 of Beautiful When He Breaks

“You owe me,” Matteo says, and this time the words land with enough weight that my hand flexes toward the door handle.

“I owe you? For what, exactly? Because I distinctly remember saving your ass from a very boring alumni event by being charming as fuck for two hours.” Ryan doesn’t sound intimidated. If anything, the little brat sounds delighted.

“You ate my food, drank my wine, insulted a donor’s son, and left before I could take you home.”

“First of all,” Ryan says, voice bright with shamelessness, “that donor’s son insulted himself by existing with that haircut. Second, you told me not to behave as if I belonged to you in public, so I left like an independent citizen.”

“You left with my jacket.”

Ryan scoffs, and I can picture his face too clearly, all rolled eyes and sharp mouth. “You’re rich. Buy another.”

“You think this is about the jacket?”

“I think you’re very dramatic for a guy who probably owns twelve identical black suits and one emotion.”

Matteo’s laugh is quiet enough that I barely catch it through the door, but something about it makes my stomach twist. Not because it sounds cruel—it doesn’t. It sounds amused and intimate. Like this is a game they’ve played before, one where Ryan is absolutely participating, maybe even driving everyone involved insane on purpose.

“You know, for an old man, your memory is very selective.”

“I’m thirty-five.”

“My condolences.”

Matteo says something in Italian too low for me to catch, and Ryan laughs.

“Use English if you’re going to scold me,” Ryan tells him. “I only know the fun Italian.”

“The fun Italian,” Matteo repeats, voice flat.

“You know. The kind you say when you’re mad but still trying to sound hot.”

“You test my patience, cariño.”

Ryan makes another scoffing sound. “I said Italian, Papi. But keep talking like that, and I’ll start thinking you missed me.” Ryan’s answer comes too fast, bratty and edged with enough heat that even through the door I understand I may have misread something.

“I did miss you,” Matteo says, and there is no sarcasm in it at all.

My hand drops away from the door.

For one second, I stand there, caught between my body’s panic and my brain finally receiving the new information. This isn’t Ryan being cornered the way I was. This is something else. Something secret, charged, messy, obviously full of bad decisions, but not what my fear told me it was.

Luca leans closer to my ear and murmurs, “Jules, maybe don’t burst into the middle of whatever the hell that is.”

I should listen.

I do not.

Because then Matteo says, “You don’t get to disappear for two weeks, ignore my calls, leave my messages unanswered, and then act surprised when I come to collect what’s mine.”

All the air leaves my body.

Collect what’s mine.

I don’t hear Ryan’s answering laugh the way I should. I don’t hear the lack of fear in it—I hear mine.

My player. My boy. My secret. My rules. Don’t make me angry. Don’t make me remind you who can ruin you faster.

I shove the door open, and it slams harder than I intended against the inside stopper.