Page 13 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)
Chapter Ten
Matteo Ricci
"Fuck me," I mutter under my breath as the heat slaps my face with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. England's drab skies ain’t got nothin' on this blaze.
I swivel and catch Eleanor basking in the sun’s embrace, face tilted skyward, soaking it all in like it's salvation.
“You look beautiful like that,” I tell her, voice barely above gravelly whisper.
She shuts her eyes tighter for a heartbeat, then brings her gaze down, worry gnawing on her bottom lip.
She quickly shifts her attention to Niko, guiding him down the steps to the runway with a tenderness that could crack the hardest of hearts.
"Come on, Darling, I’m sure Matteo has a car ready for us," she tosses over her shoulder, breezing past me without a second glance.
Eleanor's playing the 'ignore Matteo game,' thinking it'll rile me up. But I don't bite—my place's forty minutes out, and distance means jackshit when you're already under my skin. And yeah, the ride's sorted, not by my hand but Angel's. He knows his shit, knows what I need before I do.
"Let's roll out," I say to myself, tailing after the woman with more fire than this sun-scorched land.
The silk of her pajamas flutters as Eleanor strides toward the black sedan that's purring just for us.
I shuffle behind, my gaze snagging on how the fabric clings and billows with each step she takes—like it's taunting me.
Niko's shadow in miniature form mimics her every move silently, his small hand dwarfed in hers.
"Got all the shit loaded?" Angel grunts at Spike as they heave our bags into the trunk. The car's a hulking beast, spacious enough to fit the family we hardly are.
"Every last piece," Spike confirms, slamming the trunk shut with a satisfying thud.
Cars are just metal coffins on wheels to me, but this one’s built like a fortress. As long as it outruns bullets and gets me where I need to go, I couldn't care about what's under the hood.
We're locked into an hour of snail-paced traffic. I lean back, the leather seat creaking under my weight. At the same time, cars crawl around us like ants under a magnifying glass—every one of them scurrying nowhere fast.
"I did not miss this traffic," Eleanor mutters, her eyes tracking the chaos beyond the tinted window. She's always had a sharp tongue for things that piss her off.
"Only gotten worse since you left," Spike pipes up from the front, tapping impatient fingers on the steering wheel.
"Half the roads in the city are fucked now," Angel chimes in, his lips twisting into a grimace. "Miss one turn-off, and you're circling the globe to get back."
Eleanor's head pivots, her eyes cutting through the rearview mirror. "Still holed up in Potts Point?"
"Sold the folks' place," I reply, watching her reaction. "Now we're set up in Double Bay. Thought of you when I bought it."
Her eyebrows arch like I've just laid the red carpet beneath her feet. I lean closer, heat radiating between us, and let my breath brush her ear. "Not one cunt has ever stepped foot inside our house."
Her look is worth a thousand words—sharp, intense. It's a stare that could cut through steel or hearts, doesn't matter which. And right then, I know she's eating up every word.
The car swerves, tires biting hard into the turn onto our street.
I watch her face, the way it lights up as the house comes into view—a spark of recognition that blazes in those sharp eyes.
That's the one, I recall her saying years ago, a dream wrapped in brick and mortar, pointing at this mansion as we drove by.
"That's it, that's the one. We can retire and live out our lives in that house right there! "
She doesn't realize I remember every fucking word she says, treat them like gospel. The past echoes loud in my skull as if it was yesterday, not a lifetime ago when I was just a brute doing pick-ups, her beside me dreaming out loud.
"Nice, isn't it?" I prod, craving to see that flash of desire on her face.
"Matteo, you didn't..." Her voice trails off, disbelief mixing with that fierce independence I've always hungered for.
"Did and done," I say, a smirk tugging at my lips. When I showed up with a briefcase full of dirty bills, the owner's face is etched in my mind—greedy eyes bulging as I offered triple what his pile of stones was worth. He couldn't sign it over fast enough.
"Jesus, Matteo." She shakes her head, a cascade of black silk, but I see it—the awe, the want. Mine flares in response.
"Only the best for you, Eleanor," I growl low, because it's true. Every cent poured into the restoration, every choice from marble countertops to the iron-wrought gates, it's all for her. A temple built for the queen of my twisted little kingdom.
"Overpriced, I bet," she murmurs, but she's lost in it now, in the grandeur of the facade, the manicured gardens. I've bankrolled a fortune into making this place worthy of her, scrubbed the darkness of my world away with luxury, trying to create something untainted.
"Fuck the cost," I say. Because what's money compared to the look on her face? Priceless—that's what she is. And I'll burn every bill I have to own that amazement, to control the rise and fall of her chest as she takes it all in .
"Welcome home, Eleanor." The words feel like a vow, one I'm determined to keep, no matter what hell I have to unleash.
The gates groan open, wrought iron masterpieces that cost a bastard's ransom.
Eleanor's face is a picture, her jaw slack as the mansion bares its teeth in welcome.
I drink in that look of hers, pure shock and awe, like she's been hit by a fuckin' lightning bolt.
It's all for her—every brick, every shingle.
"Christ," she whispers, barely audible over the hum of the engine.
Niko's eyes are wide too, glued to the window, his tiny hands pressed against the glass. The kid's quiet, but he's got Eleanor's intelligent eyes; he knows this is something big. Shit. A kid's room. How'd I miss that?
I flick a glance at Angel, who's already smirking at me, that 'I've got your back' look plastered on his face. Without a word, he's telling me he's sorted it. That sly son of a bitch.
"Whatever payment you’re thinking of, Boss, don’t," Angel's voice cuts through my thoughts, cocksure as ever. He's not one to mince words or kiss arse.
"Whatever you want, Angel, just say it." My reply comes out gruff, the weight of what he's managed in the last few days heavy on my conscience.
He chuckles, a sound that's more threat than mirth. "Won’t be saying it in the car, Boss, but thanks, I’ll just charge it to the card." He's out before I can argue, slamming the door with a finality that echoes my own resolve.
Fucker’s definitely calling Candy. I can see it play out in my head, him lounging back, phone in hand, smug smile as he racks up my bill. Let him have his fun. That part of my life—Candy, the distractions—it's done. Eleanor's here now, and she's all I need.
"Let's get inside," I mutter, more to myself than anyone else, the king ready to show off his castle, the queen about to take her throne.
"Come on you lot, let's go inside and I'll give you the tour," I bark out as my boots hit the sun-baked concrete.
Eleanor unfolds from the car, a graceful origami figure coming to life, with Niko shadowing her every move.
Her eyes are still glued to the mansion; jaw slacks with awe or shock, she can't tell which.
I close in on her, reach up and gently hoist her chin skyward, shutting that gape.
"Close that mouth, Princess, before I fill it with something else.
" It's crude, but it wipes the daze right off her face.
Her cheeks flare crimson, a silent spitfire of emotions that she tries to smother by casting her gaze to the ground.
"Jesus, Matteo..." she murmurs under her breath, her words laced with that sharp edge, always ready to cut through bullshit.
A low chuckle rumbles in my chest. "Come on, you two, let's go inside." The command is simple, short, leaving no room for debate. It's how things are done in my world—direct, uncompromising. Power isn't just held, it's displayed, used, asserted every damn second.
We stride towards the front door, the three of us—a makeshift family carted straight from the depths of chaos into luxury bought with blood money and a stubborn heart.
The door swings open, the cool interior of the house swallowing the oppressive heat outside, promising secrets tucked away in its shadows.
This is more than a house; it's a fortress, a sanctuary, and maybe, just maybe, a home now that Eleanor is in it.