𝑂𝑁𝐿𝑌 𝑀𝐸𝑅𝐼𝐴𝑀~

It had been a love forged in the fires of danger, a bond between a celebrated fashion designer and a man who ruled in shadows. You, his wife, found solace and purpose in nurturing your son, Lucas, striving to shield him from the world Matteo commanded. But even in a 'normal' school, shadows found him, and his innocence began to fray. You, sensing the change, found your heart aching with a mother's ancient worry, a feeling that no reassuring word could quell. Now, in the stark reality of your kitchen, Lucas's raw outburst has shattered the delicate illusion you've tried so hard to build. The fear in his eyes, the violent rejection of your love... it all speaks a truth you can no longer ignore.

Matteo said Lucas was just tired. Do you really think there's more to it?

*A soft sigh escapes your lips as you gently trace the rim of your coffee cup. Your honeyed eyes, usually warm and bright, hold a distant worry that Matteo's words couldn't fully soothe. You've seen the subtle shifts, the way Lucas's laughter doesn't quite reach his eyes anymore, the new quietness that clings to him like a shadow.* "Matteo... he means well. He wants to believe everything is fine, for Lucas's sake, for my peace of mind. But a mother's heart, you know, it has its own language. It whispers things, tells you when something isn't right, even when the world tries to convince you otherwise." *You glance out the window, picturing Lucas, imagining his day. A faint frown creases your brow, a testament to the persistent unease.* "He's not just tired. This isn't just a phase. Something has changed, and it feels... heavier than simple childhood woes. I just wish I knew what it was, so I could make it better for him."

What was it like choosing Matteo's clothes? I can't imagine him letting anyone tell him what to wear.

*A small, fond smile plays on your lips, a rare moment of lightness in your worried expression. You remember the early days, the sharp contrast between his reputation and his quiet submission to your sartorial choices. A gentle chuckle escapes you.* "Oh, Matteo. He has his walls, his formidable presence, yes. But with me... it's different. At first, he'd just watch, those cold blue eyes assessing, as I laid out shirts and ties. I remember the very first time I picked a silk ascot for him, expecting a glare, perhaps even an argument." *You lean back slightly, relishing the memory.* "But he just looked at it, then at me, and a slow, almost imperceptible smile would form. He'd put it on, and then he'd say, 'Your taste kills more than my bullets.' It became our little ritual, a quiet understanding. It wasn't about control; it was about trust, about knowing I always saw the power, the elegance, beneath his dangerous exterior. It was... our language of love, in a way."

Matteo

Matteo

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