Page 15 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)

Angel appears then, descending the steps like some harbinger of unseen fates. “Hey, Niko, stay down here with me, and we'll go through some ideas of what you will need and want down here, yeah?” His voice is smooth, practiced—too practiced.

Niko’s gaze flickers at me, seeking permission within this den of wolves. "Is that okay, Mum?"

"Sure, Darling, just come and find me when you’re done." The words are ash on my tongue, but I force them out, meeting Angel's stare with a challenge of my own.

As I watch my son stay behind with Angel, the darkness swells around us, a living entity.

My feet thump against the marble as I follow the echo of Niko's laughter fading into the bowels of this fortress.

Matteo waits at the foot of the grand staircase, his hand extended like some kind of dark prince offering salvation—or damnation.

My heart hammers a warning, but it's too late.

"Come on, Princess. Let me show you our room. "

"Our room?" The words catch in my throat, rough as if I've swallowed glass. His smirk tells me he relishes the control, the way he can still make me squirm.

"Thought you'd be sleeping alone?" His voice is velvet-laced with steel. "Not a chance." I'm in over my head, drowning in memories and what-ifs.

I take his hand because what choice do I have? His grip is firm and possessive as he guides me up the stairs. Each step we ascend tightens the knot in my gut. We're going higher, into the unknown, and I can't help but think of Icarus flying too close to the sun.

At the top, the library sprawls before us, a cathedral of shadows and whispers.

It's everything I ever wanted—intimate yet expansive, a shrine to written words and unspoken promises.

Black paint devours the light, giving the room an thrilling and terrifying edge.

The skylight above is like an eye peering into my very soul.

Matteo watches me, his gaze intense, searching. "Built you a library, Princess," he says, pride flickering across his features. It took ten years of dreams distilled into timber and ink. My vision blurs, tears betraying me once more.

"Thank you," slips from my lips, a whisper lost among the tomes.

His laugh cuts through the silence. "Don't thank me yet." He's enjoying this, watching me unravel thread by precious thread. This man, this enigma, is a wildfire that promises destruction even as it mesmerizes. And I'm standing here, ready to burn.

I follow Matteo, my heart thumping against my ribcage like it's trying to break free. We pass a door on the right—his storage for the tools of his bloody trade, I presume—but he guides me left instead. The door swings open with a soft creak that seems too gentle for what lies beyond.

"Fuck me," I mutter under my breath as we step into the room.

It's drenched in deep red like we're inside the beating heart of some beast. The bed is a fortress, with four massive posts clawing toward the ceiling and dark curtains cascading down.

Carved nightstands flank it like loyal soldiers, dark timber etched with secrets I can't decipher.

To the right, doors beckon—open promises and hidden stories.

One leads to a wardrobe, his gear lined up like soldiers ready for battle, the other side barren and waiting for my belongings.

The other door reveals a bathroom straight from a noir fantasy: a clawfoot tub sits like a throne, an open shower promising no refuge from prying eyes, twin sinks marking territory—one littered with Matteo's arsenal of grooming supplies, the other untouched, patient.

"Matteo… I… I don’t know what to say…" My voice gets lost in the grandeur, a whisper swallowed by shadows.

He steps closer, the air charged with his presence. "You don't need to say anything, Princess," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around me. His body is a familiar danger, a harbor in the storm of my life.

His scent floods my senses—cedar and pine, a forest after rainfall.

It's him, all him, unchanged by time or distance.

That aroma wraps around me, a sensory reminder of nights spent tangled in silk sheets and lust, days cloaked in the illusion of safety.

My walls crumble, tears carving hot paths down my cheeks.

"Shhh, Princess, it's ok, you're home now, where you belong," Matteo breathes into my hair, his voice a warm blade slicing through the chill of the room.

I wrench away from his embrace, my eyes locking onto his—a storm of onyx and intent. "That's the thing, Matteo, I don’t belong here, my son isn’t safe here."

His jaw clenches, that familiar fire of possession igniting in his gaze. "There is nothing I won't do to keep you both safe." His words are granite, unyielding, as if spoken by the goddamn devil himself.

"I know, and that's the issue." My own voice is a hiss, threading between us like barbed wire.

"Come on, I'll grab your bag so you can shower and change. You bloody stink you know," he chuckles, the sound grating against the tense air as he strides out, leaving me with the echo of madness that always trails in his wake.

I'm rooted to the spot for a heartbeat, then two, before the reality of my situation claws at my resolve.

I shed my clothes right there, each piece discarded like a layer of past mistakes, until I'm bare, vulnerable.

I step into the shower without hesitation, turn the knob, and let the icy cascade envelop me.

Fuck, the cold bites, but it’s nothing compared to the dread coiling in my gut. A shiver racks my body, not from the chill, but from the sheer fucked-up realization that Matteo Ricci—mafia boss, lover, madman—has just laid out my gilded cage.

The water sluices over me, a pathetic attempt to wash away the filth of fear and regret. But it's no use; I'm inked with the stain of his world, our world, a tapestry of power plays and violence spun across Melbourne's grimy underbelly.

My thoughts scatter like rats in an alleyway. We will all be dead in a week. The mantra pounds in my skull, a drumbeat heralding doom.

So fucking screwed.