Trapped by Seven Mafia Wolves novel Chapter 61

**Lucky Guess**

Aurora’s POV

Matteo sits across from me, a statue of stillness at the table, his presence both imposing and enigmatic.

I steal a glance at him, my gaze drifting away from the untouched food that lies before me, a stark reminder of the unease hanging in the air. He lounges in his chair, his long legs stretched out in a casual display of dominance. One arm rests lazily over the table, as if he were a monarch surveying his kingdom, radiating a sense of bored arrogance. Yet, beneath that smug exterior, I can detect the tension coiling in his jaw, a silent storm brewing just beneath the surface. His thumb taps frantically on his phone, the sound a relentless rhythm that mirrors the growing discomfort enveloping us.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Each strike resonates in the heavy silence, amplifying the unease that wraps around us like a suffocating blanket. His brows furrow, a clear sign of more than just irritation—there’s a simmering frustration bubbling just beneath his calm facade. I feel my own fingers twisting nervously in my lap, a silent plea for the tension to ease. I know I should remain quiet; the weight of silence feels like an unspoken agreement between us. But it’s oppressive, and the urge to break it becomes irresistible.

“Um…”

My voice emerges, barely above a whisper, hesitant and uncertain, as if I’m testing the waters of his mood. “Is something wrong?”

The tapping halts abruptly, and Matteo’s frosty blue eyes snap up to meet mine, sending a shiver racing down my spine. Instinctively, I lean back in my chair, a reflexive response to the intensity of his gaze. He doesn’t answer right away, instead scrutinizing me as if weighing the worth of my concern against the tumult of thoughts swirling in his mind.

Finally, with a dismissive scoff, he runs a hand through his tousled blond hair, muttering something under his breath that I can’t quite catch.

“People are idiots,” he states vaguely, his tone dripping with frustration.

I blink, momentarily taken aback by the abruptness of his words. “Oh.”

He snorts at my feeble reply, returning to his scrolling, but there’s a tension in his posture that stirs something deeper within me. Can I really just let this go? With a hesitant breath, I ask softly, almost as if I’m afraid of the answer, “Is it… like family stuff?”

At that, he freezes, just for a heartbeat. Not in an overtly dramatic way, but there’s a subtle falter in the hand gripping his phone, a silent acknowledgment of the weight of my question.

I know that silence all too well.

Because I have lived in it.

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