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Aela, I cannot wait to see you guys! We're flat out with work right now though; I’m Matteo’s PA now. Matteo is even worse with his paperwork than Patrick was. Can you imagine? I'll check a date with Matteo and let you know. Love and miss you both,

Eleanor xox0

"Shit," I hiss. My heart thumps—a caged bird desperate for the sky—as I hit 'send.' The echo of my pulse drowns out the quiet of the office. I drag a hand through my hair, tugging at the ends as if I could pull the stress straight out of my skull.

"Matteo won't like this," I whisper to the empty room. His world's one where control isn't just desired, it's bloody well demanded. And visitors? They're variables he can't fucking stand.

I owe them—Aela, Patrick—my life. For ten years, they were my shield against the chaos. But Matteo... He's not just chaos; he's the goddamn storm that swallows it whole.

"Blow job first, then ask," I decide, a sardonic laugh bubbling up. It's twisted, this dance we do—pleasure and power wrapped tight in silken sheets. He's always softer, pliant almost, when lust clouds his judgment.

"Food for thought," I scoff, rising from the chair. My legs are stiff, coiled tension begging for release. Maybe after I've worked Matteo over, he'll say yes. Maybe he'll understand why they need to see me, why they can't just take my word that I'm alive and kicking.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Matteo Ricci

"Eleanor, dinner ready!" I bellow up the stairs, the clink of cutlery against porcelain a symphony to my ears. It's the one thing that's pure in this twisted life—a home-cooked meal for my makeshift family. Angel and Spike have stuck to me like shadows, long before Eleanor and Niko walked back into my chaos. They aren't just fixtures—they're fucking necessities.

The house hums with the warmth of loyalty and the scent of bubbling sauce. I'm obsessive, compulsive—my need for them is non-negotiable. Without their daily presence, I'd unravel faster than a bullet tears through flesh.

"Niko, can you set the table please?" My voice carries from the kitchen where I'm king of the castle.

"Already done, Pappy." The pride in his voice grates on me—wrong title again.

"Nope, try again!" I chuckle, shaking my head as I stir the pot. Kid's got a way of testing names like he's trying onshoes. But deep down, I crave that simple three-letter word—Dad. It's foreign, yet it's all I fucking want.

Dad. That label hangs in the air, unfamiliar and enticing. It's not just about the word; it's about being her man, putting another baby in Eleanor's belly. The thought alone gets me hard—wrapped around her, protecting what's mine.

"Need help?” Eleanor's voice slices through my longing, standing there, all queenly in the doorway.

"Princess, I don't need help cooking, only cleaning up after," I shoot back, the corners of my mouth betraying a smirk. She's got this habit of vanishing when it's time to scrub the sins off the plates.

"Poof!" And she's gone, laughter trailing behind her like a ghost.

"Come and grab your plates Fuck Faces! I might cook it, but I don't bus tables too!" I call out, doling out portions of lasagna like I'm dealing cards—a hand everyone wants in on.

"Coming!" The chorus echoes through the house, each voice a testament to this twisted domestic bliss we've carved out in the dark heart of Australia's underworld.

The phone's ring slices through the domestic hum, a harbinger of chaos. Spike's on it like a hawk, his eyes narrowing as he listens to the other end. He turns to me, nodding once—our signal. It's go-time.

"Princess!" My voice booms up the staircase, a commanding echo in the cavernous house. "We gotta go out."

"Really?" Eleanor's voice drifts down, laced with annoyance. "I was just about to have a eat."

"Sorry! And wear something black please," I call back, mywords chasing her disappearing footsteps. Silence hangs, a noose of uncertainty. Is she tired of this life? Of me?

I hear her before I see her; those heavy steps betraying her non ninja-like descent. She lands with a flourish, missing the last two steps—a shadow dancer in her element.

"Hiya," she quips, hands darting through the air in fake martial arts chops. That laugh escapes me—it's involuntary, watching her juggle innocence and lethality.

"Come on, Master Splinter, let's go." I can't keep the amusement from my voice, but there's an edge to it, steel beneath velvet.

"Splinter?!" Mock shock paints her delicate features. "It's Michelangelo!" She twirls, hands mimicking the deadly dance of nun chucks.

"Really?" I laugh, grinning despite the urgency.

"We're lean, we're mean and we're green," she declares, hand pressed to her chest in mock solemnity. Bloody hell, she's a riot.