Page 17 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)

Chapter Thirteen

Eleanor Wang

T he water from the showerhead pelts my skin like a reprimand for forgetting Niko.

I scramble back into the steam, grabbing at the shampoo with slippery fingers—no time for conditioner, just scrub the grime out.

Matteo's silhouette fills the doorway, and then he's there behind me, firing up the other nozzle.

"Rich folks and their fancy showers," I say, eyeing the second stream of water. Fighting over hot water is not my style—I'm the queen of this tiny kingdom, and I don't share my throne. Matteo chuckles, shaking droplets from his dark hair like some kind of playful beast.

"Added it just for you," he says, the corners of his mouth tugging up. "I know you hog the heat."

"Smart man," I reply, stepping out and snatching a towel. Water drips down my tattoos, pooling on the tiled floor as I dry off quickly.

I rifle through my bag, hoping Matteo has done his part. "Hopefully you grabbed my toothbrush and beauty products," I grumble, searching for the essentials that make me feel less feral.

"Drawer, your side," Matteo calls from the mist, pointing to the bathroom vanity. "Toothbrush is there. As for the rest, give Angel a list, and he'll sort it." His tone is all casual-like, but that's Matteo—underneath the nonchalance, he's got the world on a string.

"Is there anything Angel can't get?" I ask, half-joking, half-serious. It's insane, the reach these people have.

"Angel's a tech wizard," Matteo says, stepping out himself, beads of water tracing lines down his inked chest. "He'll get you whatever you need."

"Great," I sigh, thinking of the monstrous list Niko's probably conjured up in his head. "That's not a relief because I can't cover whatever million-dollar dreams he's cooking up."

"Princess," Matteo starts, and I can almost see the invisible crown he places on my head with that word, "I'm a billionaire. Whatever you or Niko need, it's yours."

He offers a bow, like we're players on a stage rather than two people wrapped in a twisted love in the heart of Australia's criminal underbelly. Power and money ripple around him, but I've never been one to be caught in their currents—not without my say.

"Matteo, I'd take your word more seriously if you weren't naked," I quip, my arm sweeping out to highlight the ridiculousness of his bare legs. He's all mafia boss and power upstairs, but he's just a man trying to find his pants down south.

"Pants or no pants," he retorts, fishing for his slacks, "you've got carte blanche with my bankroll." His voice is even, but his eyes are anything but.

"Seriously?" My hand shoots up like a traffic cop, halting any more madness spilling from his mouth. "I don't need your money, Matteo. I've got my own, and I'm not above earning my keep."

His movements halt, the air between us electrifies.

The darkness seeps into his gaze, a storm brewing over still waters.

"Eleanor," he begins, his steps deliberate as he closes the gap, "you left me once.

That gate might as well be a damn fortress wall because you're not leaving without me. Got it?"

"Matteo, listen," I start, my voice steady despite the quake in my gut.

"I get that you're Mr. Big Bad Mafia Man, but you don't own me.

If I want to work, I'll work. If I want to step outside that gate solo, I will.

Sure as hell can't run, but you try clamping down on me? You'll lose me. Permanently."

The words hit him like bullets. His body jolts, taken by a tremor that chills me to the bone. Eyes vacant, a void where the fierce man used to be.

"Shit. SHIT!" Panic claws up my throat as I backpedal, inching toward the door without breaking eye contact. Old survival instincts scream at me—never show your back to the beast.

"Angel! Spike!" I holler, my voice cutting through the thick tension. A shift in the shadows, and Spike is there, silent as death itself.

"Easy, Boss," he murmurs, stepping forward, a barrier between me and whatever abyss Matteo's staring into.

I slip through the door, heart hammering against my ribs, every instinct screaming to bolt.

But I don't run, not this time. I stand my ground, a defiant mouse under the lion's paw, daring fate to make its move.

"Boss," Spike's voice cuts through the heavy air, his presence commanding even in the silent standoff.

"Downstairs, Eleanor. Niko and Angel need you," he says without breaking gaze with Matteo. His eyes are steel traps, a clear signal that I'm to leave, now.

"Fine," I mutter, my heart racing as I back away slowly. The moment Matteo's out of sight, I book it, feet slapping against marble, each step echoing like rapid gunfire down the grand staircase.

Hitting the bottom floor, I skid to a stop. All innocent and focused, Niko sits cross-legged with Angel, hunched over a laptop. "Hey Eleanor, check this out," Angel calls without looking up, immersed in whatever tech wizardry they're conjuring up.

"Angel, upstairs," I say, urgency lacing my voice. "Spike needs an assist."

"Fuck already?" He's on his feet in a flash, concern furrowing his brow. "What set him off?"

"Me wanting a life," I whisper back, guilt gnawing in my gut. "Said I wasn't some puppet he could control."

"Damn, girl," Angel grunts before taking the stairs two at a time, leaving me with the weight of my words.

Niko's dark eyes flick up to mine, a storm brewing in their depths. "What's wrong with Dad?" he asks, his voice small but carrying every bit of the fear I feel.

"Your dad..." I pause; how do I explain the monster lurking beneath the man? "He has these episodes. Goes blank. Sometimes stands there, other times..." I trail off, but I'm not sure how much to reveal.

"Has he hurt you, Mum?" Niko's voice trembles; there it is—the same fear I've danced with for years.

"Never," I say more firmly than I feel. "But he doesn’t know you, Niko. And that scares me."

"Wh-what do I do if he...if I'm there when it happens?"

"Nothing." The word is a command I hope he'll never have to follow. "You stay still like a statue. Don't move, don't even breathe too loud. He reacts to movement."

"Okay," Niko nods, though the terror hasn't left his eyes.

"Let's focus on this, yeah?" I gesture to the laptop, desperate to redirect his thoughts from the violence that shadows our lives.

"Sure," he murmurs, but I can tell that the innocence we both clung to is shattered and lying in pieces at our feet.

"Is Dad a killer?" Niko's voice cuts through the silence, his question hanging heavy in the air.

"Fuck, kid," I exhale sharply. "Yeah, he is. And damn good at it." My words are blunt, no sugarcoating the truth.

"Because he's head of the Mafia?" His eyes are wide, searching for understanding.

"Right," I reply, my throat tightening. "But he's also just a lethal man. Keeps that shit under wraps, only shows it when it's business."

"So, you don't even know how dangerous he is?" Niko’s following up with questions I wish he didn’t have to ask.

"Shit, no." I ruffle his hair, forcing a smile. "And I don't fucking care to. The man I sleep next to, the one who laughs and loves, that's the Matteo I hold onto. "

"Wow, okay." He turns back to the laptop, eager to shift topics. "Check this out!" he beams.

I lean in, peering at the screen. It's lit with schematics and tech-fantasy coming alive. "This is badass," I admit, genuinely impressed.

"Angel taught me to draft rooms and code stuff for the designs!" His pride is infectious.

"Maybe he'll show you more tech tricks," I suggest, grinning. "Doubt you'll be hacking the Pentagon, but who knows?"

"Really?!" He practically vibrates with excitement.

"Easy, tiger," I chuckle, nudging him gently. Then, a sound from above snags my attention. Matteo's on the stairs, quiet as death, listening.

"Hey," I call, my voice steady despite the tension.

"Hey," he echoes, his gaze fixed on his hands, almost ashamed.

"Everything cool now?" I can't help but question.

"Wouldn't hurt you, Eleanor," he murmurs, conviction laced with sorrow.

"Matteo," I start, steeling myself against his broken expression, "it's been ten years. Thought maybe your demons had changed."

"More frequent, that's all," he admits, those hauntingly dark eyes meeting mine.

"Never let them touch you or Niko," he says, each word a vow.

"Okay," I agree, because what else can you do when faced with a man so twisted by love and violence?

The air's thick with tension, like a storm cloud ready to burst. Matteo's gaze flickers over to Niko, and there's something raw in his eyes, something that makes my stomach twist.

"Niko, has your mother explained what happens if I blank out?" His voice is gravelly, rough around the edges.

"Yes, Sir," Niko says, stiff as a board.

"Sir?" Matteo's taken aback, flinching as if he's been slapped.

"Sorry, what did you want me to say?" Niko's fidgeting, looking to me for some kind of lifeline.

There's a long pause, heavy as lead. "You could call me, dad?" Matteo's suggestion hangs in the air, a desperate hope clinging to the words.

"Um, okay..." Niko mumbles, uncertainty laced in his tone.

Matteo's hands are shaking now, betraying the iron-clad control he always parades around. "I don’t mean all the time, but maybe every now and then? I know I’ve only just met you, but I would love to get to know you."

Christ, the vulnerability in his voice could shatter glass. It's like watching a predator turn into prey, and it's fucking unsettling.

"I know your mother ran away to keep you safe. But you're back now and it's my job now to keep you both safe. Please just give me the chance to do that." The words are barely above a whisper, each one sounding like it costs him a piece of his soul.

Niko glances up at me, his eyes searching for an answer. “Okay, Dad, we can try. Can’t we, Mum?”

"Yep, we can try," I reply, my voice steadier than I feel. Inside, I'm a mess of nerves and fear, but for Niko's sake, I force calmness like I'm wearing a goddamn mask.

Matteo lets out a deep breath, the sound heavy with relief. He claps his hands together, the sharp noise echoing around the room like a gunshot. "Okay, let’s see this list you have for your little spot down here and see what we can get done today!"

His words spark something in Niko, and for a moment, the kid lights up like Christmas morning. But my gut knows better. Matteo's layers are darker than the bottom of the ocean, and no matter how much he tries, the shadows never stay hidden for long.