Trapped by Seven Mafia Wolves novel Chapter 23

**The Unplaceable End by Austen**
**Chapter 23**

**The Wait**

**Leon’s POV**

I find myself pacing the narrow hallway, a restless creature trapped in a cage of my own making. Back and forth, my footsteps echo against the walls, a rhythmic dance of anxiety that feels all too familiar.

Time stretches out before me, each second dragging like an eternity, taunting me with its sluggishness.

Matteo has been in that room for what feels like an age. Is it too long? Or perhaps not long enough? The uncertainty gnaws at me like a hungry beast.

I can’t decipher the clock’s hands anymore; they blur into a haze of impatience.

With a frustrated sigh, I rub the back of my neck, attempting to dissipate the weight that presses heavily into my spine, a burden I can’t seem to shake off.

My jaw clenches tightly, a reflex I can’t control, and I find myself grinding my teeth, the sound grating against my already frayed nerves.

Why does it feel like I’m suffocating?

She looked lifeless.

No—she wasn’t truly dead.

But she was close. So agonizingly close that the image of her body, slumped sideways like a forgotten doll, haunts me. Her face, pale as a ghost, and her lips tinged with an unsettling blue from the chill that enveloped her.

And the worst part? No one noticed she was gone. Not even me.

The door creaks open, its sound slicing through the silence like a knife.

I jerk my head up, the sudden movement sending a jolt through my neck.

Matteo emerges slowly, his hoodie half-zipped, a phone still clutched in his hand like a lifeline.

He doesn’t meet my gaze, his eyes focused elsewhere, and my heart sinks further.

“Well?” I demand, urgency lacing my voice the moment he steps into the hall.

He falls silent, and that silence weighs heavily between us, a tangible force that presses against my chest.

I stare at him, trying to unravel the mystery of how this little girl, once overlooked by all of us, has found herself in such a dire state, right beneath our roof.

Matteo grunts in irritation, rubbing his temple as if trying to ward off an encroaching headache.

“This is such a pain in the ass,” he mutters, his frustration palpable. “She’s more work than all of us put together.”

He gestures toward the garage door with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Have at it.”

I don’t wait for him to finish his sentence. The moment the words leave his lips, I’m already gone.

I rush through the house, my heart pounding in my chest, each step heavy with dread and determination.

All I can think about is the way her skin appeared—frostbitten and fragile, a delicate porcelain waiting to shatter. I fear that if I touch her wrong, she might crumble into dust, a mere memory lost to the wind.

But it’s okay. Because she’s finally awake.