Page 12 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)
Chapter Nine
Eleanor Wang
" C ome with me. NOW." Matteo's voice slices through the cabin's hum, a command that brooks no argument.
His eyes are voids of pitch black, the tempestuous sea I'd navigated a thousand times before.
The demon within him has resurfaced, obliterating the calm light blue I used to find solace in.
A shiver careens down my spine—not from fear, but from the twisted anticipation of what's to come.
"Okay," I rasp, pushing off the plush seat and trailing after him like some wayward shadow.
The bedroom is an insult to modesty, decked out in obscene luxury that only these fucking rich cunts can afford. My disdain for this world slips out, a venomous whisper under my breath. "Fucking rich cunts."
"Nice to see you haven’t lost that potty mouth, Princess," Matteo smirks, a brief flicker of amusement lighting up his features before the shadows reclaim them.
His eyes, those windows to his chaotic soul, have softened, if only by a shade.
In this game of darkness and danger, it's as close to relief as I'll get.
We're in his domain now, our silence heavy with unspoken words. He prowls, caged energy in a tailored suit, while I perch on the edge of the bed, bracing for the storm about to break.
"We need to talk, Eleanor. My mind is going a thousand miles an hour, and I can't make it stop. I need answers, and I need them now." His plea comes out strangled like he's fighting demons and losing.
"I'll answer what I can," I offer, though my heart hammers against my ribs, betraying my calm exterior.
"Have you touched any other man since you left me?" His words are cloaked in darkness, his gaze sharpening into razors. The possessive fucker hasn't changed a bit—still laying claim to me as if I'm territory to be marked.
"Matteo, I left you ten years ago. What I have done between now and then isn't your business." The defiance rolls off my tongue, but it does nothing to quell the swirling madness in his eyes.
And then he's doubling over, rummaging through his pocket like a man possessed before bringing a bag to his lips.
Vomit fills the plastic in one violent heave.
The tyrant before me has always had a sickly stomach for certain truths.
He knots the bag swiftly and tosses it into the bin—a fixture somehow immune to the laws of physics during takeoff.
The balance between us teeters on a knife's edge, our shared history a tangled mess of love and loathing, power and surrender. Welcome to our dark waltz, where every step could be a prelude to destruction—or ecstasy .
The air in the room thickens, "You belong to me, Princess. Don't you get that? No one else is allowed to touch what is mine," he growls, his words slicing through the space between us like daggers.
"Like you didn't touch anyone after I left?" My voice comes out a loud whisper, challenging the beast before me. "So don't get up in my face all high and mighty. Take a look in the mirror before coming at me, cunt."
Matteo's glare could cut glass; his jaw clenched so tight I could almost hear his teeth grind. "I didn't touch another single cunt while you were gone," he spits back, each word a bullet.
"Wait… what?" Disbelief paints my features because the man who stands before me, the king of vice, claiming celibacy? That's a hard pill to swallow. But then his arm snapped out, fingers clamping onto my chin with an ownership that sent shivers down my spine.
"I said… I didn’t touch another cunt the whole time you were gone, Princess, not a single one.
" His form hovers over me, crouching like a predator poised to strike.
"Yes, I got blow jobs, but even then, I stuck a condom on top.
I promised you that my cum would belong to you only, and I meant it. Riccis keep their promises."
"Really?" The word falls from my lips, hardly more than a breath.
"Princess. I told you, you belong to me, and I belong to you." His declaration is fierce, an oath etched in the blood of our twisted love story.
My confession comes as a surprise even to me. "I haven't touched anyone since I left. Not even a damn kiss. I’ve been too busy being a mum and staying under the radar." The admission tastes like vulnerability, a flavor I've long forgotten.
Before I can brace myself, Matteo leans in, his mouth meeting mine with a gentleness that belies the chaos within him.
It's a collision of past and present, his lips a searing brand upon mine, reigniting a fire I thought long extinguished.
My heart does more than a pound—it detonates, shrapnel piercing through the armor I've built around it.
In this darkened chamber, aboard a plane soaring above any law but his own, we are no longer just Eleanor and Matteo. We are the eye of the storm—the silent epicenter of passion and power where every rule is rewritten with each stolen breath.
He jerks away so fast, it's like we're magnets with the same poles.
"That's enough for now, Princess," Matteo rasps, his voice gravelly and raw from what he'd hurled out of his guts.
"I just vomited; I don’t want to turn you off just yet.
" He stands, towering over me even as his silhouette retreats through the door, leaving me in a swirl of arousal and confusion.
A heatwave crashes through my body, the kind that scorches everything in its path.
I'm practically soaked with need, damn it.
Can't believe one peck, one goddamn peck leaves me like this.
I push off the bed, legs wobbly, and shuffle back into the cabin, feeling the telltale dampness against my thighs.
"How far away are we?" I toss the question into the stale air of the plane, trying to anchor myself to something mundane, something normal .
"We have been in the air for five hours, Buffy," Angel quips from across the aisle. The sarcasm drips from his words like venom.
I whip around and flash him my middle finger. "For fuck's sake—how am I back here again?"
"Leave her alone, Angel." Matteo's voice is a low growl, protective but threaded with steel.
Angel snorts, not missing a beat. "Oh, great, we’re back to 'Princess' being the favorite again."
Matteo locks eyes with him, his shoulders lifting in a careless shrug. "She never stopped."
"Great to see you still bicker like the old ladies at bingo on Thursdays," I mutter, collapsing back into my seat.
"Oh, Princess, you have no idea," Spike chimes in, his voice carrying from his dark corner at the back. I’d assumed he was knocked out, but the man's always got one eye open, forever playing the part of the silent watcher.
"Shhh, dickheads, the kid is sleeping," Matteo hisses with a volume that's anything but hushed.
My gaze flickers to the slumbering form of my son, oblivious to the chaos around him.
Little angel doesn't know he's caught in a den of wolves, or maybe he does, and doesn't care.
I lean back, closing my eyes, trying to will away the turbulence inside me.
But with every breath, I feel Matteo's phantom kiss lingering on my lips, branding me, claiming me like I never left his side.
I slump into the leather seat, my heart still a wild thing in my chest. "The kid has a name, and Niko can sleep through a tornado, so don't stress," I snap, but my voice's a hint of pride .
Matteo stands over us, his presence engulfing the space. "He gets that from you," he says, a rare warmth softening the edges of his voice. His gaze lingers on the boy, a smile playing on his lips.
"Well, he didn't get his looks from me, so he had to get something," I mutter, not quite ready to let Matteo see the full extent of my affection.
"He does look like me." He sounds pleased, the bastard.
My eyes narrow as I scrutinize Niko's peaceful face. "He is you. Walks, talks, and acts just like you. The DNA was strong." It's not admiration in my tone—it's an accusation.
"You say it like it's a bad thing." Matteo cocks his head, eyes probing.
"Because it is." My words are like bullets. "I spent ten years making sure he was different, and it didn’t work."
Matteo's frown carves deep lines into his face. "Why would you not want him to be like me?" His question slices through the tension between us.
"Because I don’t ever want my son to be a killer, let alone a four-seat holder, Mafia leader.
" My glare could set the plane ablaze. "I might return to Sydney with you, but you will not be inducting my son into your world.
I ran to escape that shit, and the last thing I want is for you to ruin that. "
Matteo studies me, his expression unreadable. Then, a twisted smirk twists his lips. "No sugar coating with you now, is there?"
"Never have and never will, Matteo, you just don’t like the truth." The words slice out of me, sharp as a shiv.
He leans back, that smirk curling up like smoke from a gun barrel. "You'd be surprised what I like coming out of your mouth, Eleanor." His voice is dark chocolate laced with razor blades.
I roll my eyes so hard they could knock out a hitman at ten paces. Curling protectively around Niko, I feel his small breaths against my chest—a rhythm in the madness. “Goodnight, Matteo,” I whisper, the fight draining out of me for now, replaced by the pull of sleep's dark embrace.
The cabin dims to shadows and murmurs, but the darkness is no stranger—I wear it like a second skin. I edge into sleep's clutches, my last thought a silent vow: over my dead body will he claim my son.