Page 17 of Felix (4 Seats #2)

Chapter Seventeen

Felix Greyson

T he next few days were a monotonous blur of work and driving with Aurora always by my side.

We pick up the money and make the deliveries—the routine never changing.

The sun beats down on us as we drive through the city streets, the buildings towering above us like giants.

Car horns and sirens fill the air, creating a chaotic symphony.

On the fourth day, the thunderous growl of the removalist truck broke the morning stillness as it backed into the driveway.

I stood on the porch, arms crossed, while Aurora orchestrated the dance of her belongings from the sidelines.

Her dark eyes are sharp and commanding, and the movers hang on her every instruction.

“Careful with that box,” she snaps, her voice slicing through the air like a whip. The guy adjusts his grip on a cardboard box labelled ‘fragile’ and nods.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he mutters, and I can’t help but smirk.

‘Ma’am’ is a word too soft for Aurora. She’s all fire and steel, not some delicate flower to be addressed with polite distance, but they don’t know that.

They steer clear of me, sensing the undercurrent of danger.

She turns, catches my eye, and gives a slight nod.

It’s an acknowledgement, a silent ‘I’ve got this,’ and I lean back against the wood railing, letting her take control.

The house has been nothing but a cold shell, a place to crash between jobs, but watching her now, directing her life into each room, I feel something twist deep in my chest.

“Stop hovering, Felix. You’re making them nervous,” she says without looking at me, her focus on a bookshelf being manoeuvred through the front door.

“Can’t help it,” I reply, pushing off the railing and walking to where she stands. “It’s what I do best.”

“Hover and brood?” she teases, but there’s no malice in it. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, hidden beneath the curtain of her long, black hair.

“Exactly,” I say, grinning back at her.

The day wears on, and the house fills with the echoes of movement—furniture scraping against wood floors, boxes thudding into place. I watch her, this enigmatic woman who’s turned my existence upside down. She moves with purpose, arranging her space—her sanctuary.

“Put that one in the study,” she directs, pointing to a crate filled with leather-bound journals.

She’s turning the sterile environment into something else entirely—something warm and lived-in. It’s like she’s breathing life into these walls, and despite myself, I feel a surge of something. Pride? Relief? Hell if I know .

“Looks different already,” I comment, my hands tucked into my jeans pockets as I survey the living room.

“Better,” she corrects without missing a beat, placing a stack of books on a shelf. “It looks better.”

“Can’t argue with that,” I concede. Warmth is creeping in, chasing away years of cold detachment.

The sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the floor, and finally, the last mover exits, leaving us in the quiet aftermath. I walk through the rooms, trailing behind Aurora. She pauses now and then, tilting her head and deciding on the placement of a picture frame or the angle of a chair.

“Feels more like a home now,” I say, almost to myself. The words hang in the air, heavy with something like hope.

Aurora glances over her shoulder, her dark eyes meeting mine. There’s a softness there, fleeting and fragile.

The next day has a bite to it, cold enough to remind me of the steel that’s usually pressed against my hip. But today’s recon work for Matteo means no heat—just eyes and ears and the kind of quiet that comes with watching.

“Got to head out.” I grunt, my voice slicing through the silence of our new domesticity. “Matteo has a job.”

Aurora is in the kitchen, surrounded by boxes yet to be unpacked, her hands gripping around a steaming mug like it’s a life preserver.

Her voice remains calm and composed, but her gaze is fixated on the window, unseeing as she watches the world outside.

“I’ll stay here,” she says firmly. “Someone tipped off the press, so I now have to write a press release about my house being broken into, and my publicist wants me to reveal my move to Sydney as well.”

“Sure thing.” My gut twists, knowing leaving her alone is like stepping out onto a tightrope without a net. “Need anything before I go?”

“Could use some peace,” she half-jokes, a wry smile twisting her lips, but a tremor in her laugh tells me more than words ever could.

“Be back later. I’ll be entering through the basement,” I tell her, feeling the weight of every second I’ll be away from her.

“Okay.” She nods nonchalantly, but the flicker in her eyes—it’s quick, like the spark of a match—and I can’t decipher if it’s born from fear or something darker, akin to the thrill of the unknown.

“Lock up after me,” I say, leaving unsaid the ‘be safe’ that hangs between us like a loaded gun.

“Okay,” she replies, putting the mug on the table and turning back to her laptop, fingers dancing over the keyboard as if they might ward off any lingering demons.

I step outside, the door clicking shut behind me, and the world shifts into sharper focus.

Every shadow is an enemy, every sound a potential threat.

I’m on alert, alive with the tension of what I do—what I am.

It’s a dance with danger and has its own rhythm, a staccato beat that matches the pounding of my heart.

Recon first, money pickup second. Then tonight’s hit—an act of vengeance for a woman done wrong. The jobs line up in my mind like dominoes, and I know all it takes is one to fall for the rest to come crashing down.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, pushing away thoughts of Aurora alone in the house. Got to keep my head in the game. Can’t afford distractions now.

But as I merge onto the bustling streets, heading towards The Cross and its neon-lit promises of sin, I can’t shake the image of her nodding at me, the enigma in her dark eyes. Excitement or fear? Maybe in our twisted world, they’re the same.

The city is a hive of filth and greed—a playground for the likes of me.

I’m a shadow among them, slipping through the crowds with predatory ease.

Recon is done quickly—that Korean gangster won’t know what hit him.

Then it’s on to the strip joints, those dens of iniquity where cash flows like cheap liquor.

I scoop up the week’s earnings, the weight of the bags grounding me in the reality of my trade.

Matteo’s office looms ahead, a monolith of dirty dealings and power plays.

I shoulder through the revolving doors, the lobby’s sterility clashing with the dirtiness of my work.

The lift carries me skyward, and I can almost feel the pressure change, like ascending to some twisted Olympus where gods deal in bullets instead of thunderbolts.

As the doors slide open, three pairs of painted eyes size me up from behind their desk barricade. They’re Matteo’s sirens, luring men to their doom with honeyed words and poisoned smiles.

“Morning, ladies,” I drawl, my grin all teeth. They titter and coo, pressing the buzzer that will announce my presence to the big man himself .

“Mr Greyson,” one purrs, her gaze flicking over me like she’s considering unwrapping me right there. “He’ll see you now.”

Spike’s waiting, his bulk a testament to the violent currency we trade in. We’re two sides of the same bloodstained coin, Spike and me.

“Greyson.” He nods, the corner of his mouth ticking up in what passes for a smile in our line of work.

“Got something fresh for the boss,” I say, patting the bag. “How’s tricks?”

“Same shit, different day.” He shrugs, leading me to the sanctum where the devil conducts his orchestra of vice.

Matteo’s office door swings open to reveal the kingdom he’s built on sin.

He’s there alright, king of the damned, sitting at his desk with his queen of venom, Eleanor, perched beside him.

They’re an image straight out of some fucked-up fairy tale—beauty and the beast, running the underworld side by side.

“Greyson,” Matteo greets, his voice smooth as the blade I carry. “What’ve you got for me?”

“Your daily bread,” I reply.

“Hello, Felix,” Eleanor’s voice slices through the room, cool and detached. She doesn’t even bother looking up from her laptop but keeps tapping away like we’re nothing but blips on her radar.

“Hey, Eleanor,” I reply, dropping the bags of cash onto Matteo’s desk with a thud.

“How have you been?” Matteo asks, eyeing me with that look—like he’s always searching for cracks in my armour.

“Can’t complain.” I chuckle, shrugging off the question .

“Girlfriend keeping you out of trouble?” His smirk is knowing. He’s seen the change in me. Hell, everyone has since Aurora came into the picture.

“Something like that,” I say with a careless grin. Don’t need him prying too deep.

Eleanor finally chimes in, her voice dripping with mock curiosity. “I wanna meet her. A woman who can have you being all nice is worth my time.”

“Nice? Felix?” Matteo laughs a deep rumble that echoes off the walls. “I’m nice to you every day, Eleanor. Does that mean you wanna hang with me more?”

She looks at him, eyes bright with amusement. “Fuck off, Matteo.”

Their banter is a familiar tune that’s played on repeat for as long as I’ve known them. The underworld’s odd couple, and damn if it isn’t true.

I laugh along, feeling the itch to get moving. Time is bleeding out, and there’s work to be done. “Gotta run. Business waits for no one.”

“Sure thing.” Matteo waves me off. “Be careful out there.”

“Always am,” I shoot back, though ‘careful’ isn’t my style. I’m a blunt instrument—precision through chaos.

My mind shifts gears as I step into the lift. The hit tonight—some scumbag who’s had it coming for a decade. Wife-beater, cheater—the kind of filth that needs scrubbing off this earth.

His office building is just a stone’s throw from Matteo’s as I park in the underground car park. I wait, a predator in human skin, as minutes stretch into an eternity. Finally, he appears, keys jangling, oblivious. Poor bastard won’t know what hit him.

Silent steps, a coiled spring—I’m on him before he can even turn. My fist connects with the side of his head, a satisfying crack that sings down my arm. He crumples like a sack of shit, and I drag his unconscious body to my car.

“Nighty-night, asshole,” I mutter, heaving him into the boot.

The drive home is tense, every shadow a potential witness, every light a prying eye. But darkness is my ally, and I slip through it unseen.

The basement greets me with its cold embrace, tools lined up like soldiers ready for war. I haul the body out and secure it to the chair bolted to the concrete floor—the chair that’s heard more confessions than a priest.

“Welcome to hell,” I whisper, rolling up my sleeves. The sight of him bound and helpless stirs something primal in me—a mix of disgust and exhilaration.

“Let’s see if the wife thinks you’re worth 30k,” I muse, cracking my knuckles.