Page 2 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)
Chapter Two
Matteo Ricci
" F uck!" I growl, gripping her hair and shoving her face down hard; all control surrendered to raw need. "Swallow it." My voice is a command, not a request, echoing in the dimly lit room that reeks of sex and sin.
With that ridiculous name, she's probably plucked from a cheap strip club sign; Candy hums against me, vibrations sending jolts up my spine.
Her eyes water as mascara streaks her cheeks, painting her with the mark of my dominance.
She's skilled and knows precisely how to work me over, her throat relaxing like she's done this a million times before. And she probably has.
"Good girl," I mutter, though I don't care about praising her.
It's just another form of manipulation to keep her eager for the next call, the next wad of cash.
She's nothing but a means to an end — getting off while keeping my mind off the one woman I can't fucking replace, no matter how many Candy's come crawling to my feet.
Pressure mounts like a crescendo, every muscle in my body coiling tighter than the springs in a bear trap. I can feel the imminent release clawing its way up from my depths. "That's it, I'm gonna cum," I grunt through clenched teeth.
My balls draw up, a sure sign the edge is near, and my legs tense like steel cables about to snap.
The world narrows down to this moment, the heat, the friction, the blinding rush of impending ecstasy.
It's raw, unadulterated power coursing through my veins, a fleeting escape from the relentless chaos of running an empire built on blood and shadows.
"Fuck!" The word rips from my guttural throat as I hit the peak, my release tearing through me like a raging storm. My vision blurs, every sense hyper-focused on the pulsating pleasure that shatters my composure.
Candy's head pulls back, and she's a mess of smeared makeup and raw, used lips. She rocks back onto her heels, eyes lifting to meet mine. They're glazed, but there's a spark in them — the kind that knows the game and plays it without asking questions.
Sweat beads on my forehead and my breaths come hard and fast. I tower over her, my heart still hammering in my chest, blood roaring in my ears. Control—that's what this is about. I hold the reins in this room, even if chaos reigns supreme outside these walls.
Her gaze holds steady, not flinching, not wavering. She's seen the darkness in men's souls, tasted their sins, and swallowed them whole. A part of me admires that resilience, even as I wouldn't say I like the necessity of her presence.
"Get out," I command, voice rough like gravel, still catching my breath. It's all just a transaction, flesh for cash, nothing more. But somewhere deep down, a twisted honor stirs within me — one that yearns for Eleanor, the ghost who haunts my every waking moment .
"Money's coming," I add, dismissing Candy with a jerk towards the door. It's not personal, it's business—the Ricci way.
She's fucking hot, no denying that. The type to make a man risk it all for a taste. And she's mine, at least for these minutes that bleed together, hazy and raw.
"Good girl," I murmur, though there's no warmth. It's not affection; it's acknowledgment of services rendered. She doesn't need my praise. We both know her worth is counted in crisp bills, not words. I'll transfer her payment later; she knows it's coming. She always gets what she's owed.
She nods, the motion detached, and rises without a word. That's how it works between us—no small talk, no lingering glances. She's in, she's out, and that suits me fine. The silence echoes with unspoken rules that keep life simple and my mind clutter-free.
I stride into the en suite and peel off the condom with a practiced ease. The latex snaps as it leaves me, a sharp sound in the quiet room. Leaning over the sink, I let cold water wash away the evidence.
The condom swirls in the sink before I knot it tight, a grim ritual performed with precision. No chances were taken, and no trails were left. I toss it in the bin and hear it hit the bottom with a soft thud, like a final note in our sordid symphony.
Hand on the cold marble, I stare into the mirror, barely recognizing the man who looks back. He's a ghost of the past, haunted by memories and promises. A promise to Eleanor. She's the only one who ever got close enough to taste my soul, and I swore she'd be the last.
"Boss," Spike's voice jolts me back to reality, his tone piercing through the thick air like a switchblade .
I turn, fixing him with a glare that has made grown men piss their pants. Spike doesn't flinch; he knows better than to show weakness around me. We've been through too much blood and battles for nerves to get the better of us now.
"Spit it out," I snap, already feeling the itch to move, act, and find the piece of me that's been missing all these years—Eleanor.
Spike holds my gaze, unspoken loyalty in his eyes. "Sorry to interrupt, but you need to hear this."
I can tell it's serious, something more than the usual street squabbles or police bribes. My heart hammers against my chest, an echo of the old drum of war, readying for whatever hell is about to break loose.
"Talk," I demand, my voice edged with steel.
"Mr Morelli is here." Spike's words cut through the haze, and a tight tension wrapped around my spine.
"Fuck." Morelli's timing is as impeccable as it is suspect, slithering into my domain with his serpentine grace.
"Let him stew for a minute," I growl, pacing the room. The shadows cling to me, an extension of the darkness deep in my soul. I don't trust Morelli; I don't trust anyone who isn't bound to me by blood or loyalty. And even then, trust is a blade that can turn in your hand without warning.
"Boss, he—" Spike starts, but I shoot him a glare that could freeze hell over.
"Did I stutter?" I snap, and he shuts his mouth with an audible click. He knows better than to question me when I'm riding the razor's edge. "Give me a second to get my head straight. "
I stride toward the massive desk, every step planned and precise. Control. That's what I need now. The image of Eleanor, fierce and undeniably mine, flares in my mind. Her face anchors me when everything else wants to drag me into chaos.
"Alright," I say after a moment, the word a bullet shot from my lips. "Bring the rat-faced bastard in."
Spike, or Domino as his birth certificate claims, pivots on the balls of his feet, a fluid motion that belies the lethal precision I know he carries in his slender frame.
He's nothing like the muscle-bound goons you'd expect to flank a man in my position—boss of Sydney's underbelly.
But then, appearances are for the fuckin' sheep, and my right-hand man is a wolf in hipster clothing.
His hair, more suited for a beach bum than a butcher, is knotted up top, and those ice-blue eyes have seen more crimson than a goddamn vintner. The guy's got a collection of knives that would make Jack the Ripper blush; each blade baptized in the blood of those who crossed us.
As Spike saunters out the door, I lean back in my leather chair, every inch of me coiled tight, ready to spring.
A lesser man might find humor in our nicknames, drawn from some vampire slayer show.
Eleanor saw right through us, though—saw the demons we wrestle with, the darkness that clings to our souls.
She named us, and the names stuck like blood under fingernails.
She was always like that—sharp, seeing things others missed.
A laugh in the dark, an ember of defiance.
Her absence now scrapes at me, a constant itch under my skin.
And as much as I want to find her, part of me fears what I' ll do when I do.
What it'll mean for my empire, for the fragile peace I've carved out in this cesspit of a city.
The door clicks open, and Spike reappears, trailing the scent of treachery that always seems to hang around Morelli like cheap cologne. It's time to dance with the devil again and play the game of smiles and lies. But I'm ready. Always fucking ready.
"Matteo, it’s a pleasure.” Enzo Morelli's voice oozes into the room like oil spilling over pristine marble, tainting everything it touches.
I don't rise from my chair or give him satisfaction. "Pleasure as always, Enzo." The words taste like acid on my tongue. His presence alone is enough to send a shiver of disgust down my spine, raising the fine hairs on my neck in silent revolt.
He steps into the room—a fucking peacock, all flashy suit and smug grin. He thinks he owns the place, or worse, that he can play me. Not in this lifetime.
"Have a seat," I say, though it's not an offer. It's a command, my tone brooking no argument. Control—it's the game we play, and I'll be damned if I let him think he has even an ounce of it here.
Spike hovers in the doorway, a silent sentinel. His slight frame belies the cold killer beneath, a deceptive calm before the storm. I give him a curt nod, and he vanishes, leaving me with the serpent that is Enzo Morelli.
I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under my weight, and steeple my fingers, eyes locked on Enzo. The room's thick with tension, like the calm before a storm that’s sure to wreck everything in its path .
"What can I do for you today?" My voice is steady, cold as steel sliding into flesh.
Enzo takes his sweet time settling into the chair opposite me, the shit-eating grin never leaving his face. He knows he's got something, something that'll rattle my cage.
"I wanted to inform you that Eleanor has been sighted." His words slither across the desk, a poisonous offering meant to unnerve.
Fuck. My heart hammers against my ribs, but I keep my face a mask of indifference. It's not the first time Enzo's come around peddling hope like a street corner dealer. And every damn time, it's nothing but smoke—no fire.