Page 11 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)
Chapter Eight
Matteo Ricci
" A ngel, get all of Eleanor's shit packed and shipped back to Sydney," I command without taking my eyes off her. She's a broken doll; those defiant sparks in her eyes are flickering out. She knows the score—she's lost this round. My son and she are mine, and they're coming home with me today.
I pivot on my heel, catching Spike striding towards the door, a bag stuffed like a corpse in his grip.
Kid's toys, most likely. "Come on then, Princess, let's go," I bark.
Her lips press against the kid's cheek—a mother's kiss steeped in defeat.
"Come on, Honey, follow the big bad wolf.
" Her voice is laced with sarcasm, but the undertone of surrender has me smirking.
Niko toddles toward the door, pushed gently by Eleanor's hand. Angel's right behind us, flicking switches, killing lights. We move like a shadow over her life, ready to swallow her whole. The door clicks shut, a final note to this pitiful chapter .
Outside, Spike's holding the car door open, playing doorman in this fucked-up farce we're staging.
Eleanor slips in after Niko, hoisting him onto her lap instead of mine.
There was a sharp twist in my gut; I had plans for a different setup.
Close, with her body pressed to mine, there was no room to breathe or defy.
"Damn," I mutter under my breath. The game's still on—it's just her move. And mate, she's got no idea how relentless I can be.
"Get comfy, Princess," I sneer as I slide into the seat beside them. "It's a long ride home."
The silence in the car claws at my nerves like a rusty blade. I'm caged in my suit, every thread straining against the tension. Eleanor, an ice sculpture of defiance, sits there with Niko dozing on her lap. She knows this godforsaken quiet eats at me, gnawing away like a rat to a wire.
I catch her eye, that sharp glint of satisfaction. She savors the power she wields with nothing but silence. I grit my teeth. This is a war of wills, and I don't lose—not to the law, not to rivals, and sure as hell not to the woman who's been both my salvation and damnation.
We pull up to the airstrip, and the sight of the sleek private jet waiting feels like a lungful of fresh air. Angel's already there, coordinating like the maestro of chaos he is. I nod at him, and he smirks back, eyes scanning the perimeter like a hawk hunting prey.
"Come on, Darling," Eleanor coos, nudging Niko awake with a soft voice that doesn't reach her eyes. "Let’s get on the Mystery Machine. I hope they have Scooby snacks!" Her quip cuts through the silence, and Spike's chuckle grates on my control. I miss her fire as much as I hate it.
"Very funny, Princess," I growl, but the corner of my mouth twitches despite myself.
We board the plane, and Eleanor makes a beeline for the seat at the far end, as if a few extra feet of plush leather and cabin space could put any accurate distance between us. I watch her buckle in the kid, her movements precise and deliberate. She's playing a game she thinks she can win.
"Nice try," I mutter, stalking down the aisle after her. She looks up, that wild spark in her amber eyes flaring momentarily before she masks it with a smirk.
"Space is a premium these days," she says, all mock innocence and bullshit.
"Keep dreaming, doll," I snap, watching the muscles in her jaw tense. "You're in my world again."
She leans back, feigning relaxation, but the pulse fluttering in her neck betrays her. She's mine—always has been, always will be—and I'll drag her through hell to ensure she never forgets it.
The leather of the jet seat groans under my weight as I settle in, my gaze fixated on Eleanor.
The kid's already strapped in, clueless to the storm brewing around him.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, closing the distance between us.
She's got nowhere to run up here, thirty thousand feet above any semblance of her so-called independence.
I make her marry me the second we land if I have to.
The sigh that slips from Eleanor is laced with defeat and resignation; music to my fucking ears. "You cannot avoid me forever, Eleanor. "
"So it seems," she concedes, a trace of that fiery spirit still burning behind those guarded eyes.
I press on, relentless. "Why don’t you start with why you left?"
She meets my stare, unflinching. "This is not the time or the place for this conversation, Matteo."
"I disagree." I'm a fucking wall, immovable, demanding answers.
"Disagree all you want," she snaps back, the hint of venom in her voice making my blood sing. "I’m not having this conversation with you right now." She snatches the blanket from the neighboring seat, draping it over Niko's legs with a protective ferocity.
"Get some sleep, Honey. Hopefully, Matteo will feed us in the morning." Her words are barbed, aimed straight at my pride.
I roll my eyes but can't help watching them—a mother lioness and her cub, wrapped up in each other.
The sight gnaws at something primal inside me.
I'd almost forgotten how beautiful she was, even when she's spitting fire and defiance.
Age hasn't dimmed her, only sharpened her edges, made her more intoxicating.
But she won't slip through my fingers again. No fucking chance. A wild thought crosses my mind, dark and twisted. Chip her like a goddamn dog, I think silently. Make sure she never strays too far.
"Already on it Boss," Angel murmurs from across the aisle. His voice is quiet, but the implication is as loud as a gunshot .
Can he read my thoughts, or has he just learned to dance to the tune of my madness? Doesn't matter. Either way, he's got my back.
Eleanor's breath evens out, and I watch her chest rise and fall in peaceful rhythm. My heart hammers against my ribs, a reminder that everything I want is within arm's reach, asleep and vulnerable.
She's mine—always has been. And I'll brand her soul with my name if that's what it takes to keep her.
I flick my gaze away from Angel's knowing eyes and back to Eleanor.
She's a picture of defiance even in sleep, curled protectively around Niko.
Her silk pyjama top sleeve has crept up, revealing ink-stained skin—my design etched into her flesh.
It's a silent claim that runs deeper than words, branding her as mine in a way that can't be erased.
The first tattoo I gave Eleanor was like sealing my vow to her. Watching the needle dance over her skin, the way she bit her lip to keep from moaning—it was more intimate than any fuck I've ever had. Each line, each curve I drew, was a testament to the hold she unknowingly had on me.
I lean against the plush leather of the private jet's seat, my thoughts clawing back to the day our paths first crossed.
She was sitting in the shop, all fire and spirit, the late afternoon sun catching those wild eyes.
Fuck, those eyes. Like molten gold, they seared through me, and I knew—I was utterly fucked.
She was a force, a goddamn siren luring me into uncharted waters. And I dove headfirst, with no life jacket or second thoughts. It was her or nothing; it's always been her.
Eleanor's chest rises and falls steadily, hypnotic under the soft cabin lights. There's an ache in my gut—a raw, gnawing hunger that has nothing to do with food. She's so close yet miles away in her dreams, and it burns me that I can't reach into her mind and see myself there.
"Mine," I mutter under my breath, the word a prayer and a curse. I'll drag her back into my world, kicking and screaming if I have to. She's the queen of my fucked-up kingdom, whether she wears the crown willingly or not.
"Mine," I say again, a growl this time. Because in this life, you take what you want, claim it, brand it, or lose it. And Matteo Ricci doesn't lose. Not ever. Not when it comes to Eleanor Wang.
I snatch the crumpled form from the clutter of the shop counter, the ink barely dry.
Eleanor's handwriting is a scrawl of defiance, each letter a piece of her I'm claiming.
The address on Bridge Rd is etched in my brain, burning hot and urgent.
I have no plan, no second thoughts, just the primal need to have her.
The city swallows me whole as I drive through the concrete jungle of Sydney, but her apartment block stands out like a sore thumb—a relic, old and vulnerable. One fucking door between her and the rest of the world. Not safe, not nearly enough for what she's worth.
Apartment 5. My boots thump up the stairs, echoing the thunder of my heart. 'Wicket'—the nameplate's got some cheek, considering it's Wang I came for. It's a shitty shield, a laughable attempt to hide from the world.
My knuckles rap against the wood, a sharp, commanding sound. Gotta keep it together; don't let the nerves show. Dad always said, "Matteo, don't you puke your guts out when there's work to be done." Ten bodies deep before my stomach got the memo.
The door swings open, and fuck me, there she is. A vision of sass and spirit, with those eyes that fucking haunt me. "Fuck," slips out, crude and raw.
"Matteo?" Her voice does things to me, things that claw at my insides with desperate fingers.
"Hello, Princess," I can't help the smirk that curls my lips; it's all part of the game.
"Umm, what are you doing at my front door?" She's a mix of confusion and fear, a cocktail I'm too eager to drink.
"Came to claim what is mine." The words are a growl, a promise of things to come. She's mine, and it has been since I laid eyes on those amber flames dancing in her gaze.
"Um, ok, I’m a little confused. We only met three hours ago in a tattoo shop. That doesn’t make me yours," she tries to close the door, but hell no, not on my watch.
My foot wedges firm and unyielding against the door. "It's okay, Princess—you’re not mine yet, but you will be." And I mean every goddamn word.
"Okay, you're starting to freak me out now. I would appreciate it if you left before I call the police," she hisses, her delicate hands shoving at my boot. It's a futile gesture; she knows it, I know it.
"Princess, you can try, but they don't usually come running for a Ricci.
" The words drip like acid from my tongue, and I watch the blood drain from her face as realization hits her like a sucker punch.
She knows the reach of my name—feared, respected.
.. or whatever the fuck people feel when they hear it .
"Shit," she breathes out, eyes wide and fixed on mine, a deer caught in the headlights of my unyielding gaze.
"Are you going to let me in, Princess?" There's no question in my voice—only expectation. She falters, then parts the door wider, giving me an entry I'd take with or without her blessing.
She turns, showing me her back—a canvas of smooth skin I intend to mark as mine. "In the future, Eleanor, don't show anyone your back; you don't know what they will do," I warn, darkness lacing my words as the door thuds shut behind us, sealing her fate with mine.
In that dim hallway, I surrendered my heart to her. She stood, all defiance and beauty wrapped in a package made just for me. Fucking perfect. Submissive yet strong enough to keep me on my toes. Mine. All fucking mine.
Possession is second nature to me, handed down with the billion-dollar empire I was born into. Toys were never shared, and neither were women. But Eleanor, she wasn't just another trinket—I'd be damned if I'd ever let another man touch her.
Monogamy, a word alien to a twenty-year-old bloke in Sydney with more money than sense, now clings to me like a second skin.
Eleanor was the only one who felt my touch, tasted my kisses, and bore my ink for two years.
And ten years later? I haven't sunk into any other cunt—haven't wanted to. But has she kept herself just for me?
The thought sends a spiral of rage and jealousy through me, clawing up my throat. I need to know. Now.
I lean forward, my fingers tapping against the softness of her leg, jolting her awake. My voice is a low command, brooking no argument, "Come with me. NOW. "
Her eyes snap open, alert and fiery, meeting mine. There's a storm brewing there, and fuck, do I want to dive into its eye. She knows better than to argue—when I say jump, she'll ask how high. This won't be any different. Not now, not ever.