Page 22 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)
Chapter Eighteen
Eleanor Wang
I wake to the cold emptiness of the bed and a sticky mess between my thighs. Shit. I didn't wash up last night, lost in the haze of Matteo's arms. The bastard should've stayed. Waking up alone is a cruelty I don't deserve.
The water hits me in the shower, but it's not enough. My romance novels never got this right—the next day's residue. Cum doesn't just rinse off; it turns into a stubborn paste. I scrub with soap until it stings, cursing under my breath. If I get thrush or a UTI from this, someone's gonna pay.
Dressed and half-dry, I glance at the clock. It's nearly 10 fucking am. This isn't me. I'm the girl who battles with the snooze button, not the one who sleeps through alarms. And where the hell is Niko? He's usually on my case by now.
Racing downstairs, I stop short. There's Matteo at the kitchen table, sipping his coffee like he owns time itself.
Niko and Angel huddle over some tech crap, whispering conspiracies into their screens.
And Spike—of all things—is perched by the window nursing a teacup with a saucer.
Real proper-like. I almost laugh. The world's gone mad, and outside, the sky agrees, heavy with clouds ready to burst.
"Morning," I mutter, still grappling with the disarray before me. Matteo glances up, a predator’s smile playing on his lips. Everything about him screams danger, from his inked skin to those tailored clothes that cling to him like sin.
"Sleep well, Princess?" he asks, voice smooth as the silk sheets I've just left.
"Would've been better with the company," I shoot back, eyeing the space beside him. Control. Power. It's all part of this twisted game we play.
He smirks, the king of his concrete jungle, while I stand here, trying to remember if I'm more pissed about the unwashed stickiness or his absence. Maybe both. But then again, this is our dance—one step forward, two steps back into the darkness we call love.
My voice rasps with confusion. "Um, what's going on here? I thought you would have been at work," I say, my gaze fixed on Matteo.
He doesn't miss a beat, his eyes locking onto mine with that manic intensity that both thrills and terrifies.
"Princess, every time I leave the house from now on, you will be with me.
I'm not leaving here anymore without you by my side.
" His declaration slams into me like a freight train.
"If that means I have to wait every morning till you wake up, then so be it. "
I frown, my mind racing to understand his sudden shift. "I’m confused; why do I have to come?" The question hangs between us, thick as the tension .
Matteo leans back in his chair, a king surveying his empire, and his voice is absolute, brooking no argument.
"After last night, I realised if I had kept you with me at all times, none of this would have happened, so I’m not leaving you alone from now on.
" His words are simple, but they cut through the air, sharp as a blade.
"Christ," I mutter under my breath. "Well, I think that might be a little bit impractical, and I don’t think it is something that can be established for a long period of time, but hey, I do need to get out of the house before I get cabin fever, so fuck it, why not?
" It's half-hearted, the defiance diluted by the reality of his presence, the inevitability of his will.
A chuckle escapes me, edged with self-deprecation. "Lemme me go get changed; I can’t be seen wearing sweats and a t-shirt," I say, trying to inject some levity into the charged atmosphere.
Matteo's laughter is a rich, dark sound that fills the room. "Of course, you can’t. I cannot imagine you in anything less than a power suit out of the house." It's a challenge wrapped in a compliment, and I rise to it effortlessly.
"Matteo, you think you’re whipped now? Just wait till you see me in the power suit," I shoot back, a grin tugging at my lips despite the insanity of it all. There's a dance here, one of danger and desire, and we both know the steps by heart.
His smile widens, and there's pride in his eyes—pride and something fiercer. He sees me not just as a lover but as an equal adversary in this game of shadows and power plays. And, God help me; it turns me on more than it should .
Muscles protesting, I contort into the power suit—a second skin that screams business and bullshit in equal measure. The mirror reflects a woman ready to wage war in boardrooms or back alleys. A quick smear of lipstick and a dash of mascara, and I'm as armed as I'll ever be.
New heels are traitorous bastards, their pinch promising an afternoon of agony. I’ll need Band-Aids before I can play Matteo's twisted game of mob queen and consort. My reflection gives a nod—let’s do this, it says, even if it means hobbling on blades disguised as stilettos.
I stride back into the kitchen, every step a declaration of my reluctant readiness, but the sight before me is a fucking curveball. Matteo, Mr. Dark-and-Dangerous himself, is down on one knee. His inked hand cradles an open box, its contents glinting with a promise as binding as handcuffs.
"I told you I was going to marry you, Princess. So, I think it’s about time to adorn that ring," he smirks, his voice threaded with a possessive lilt that both irks and ignites me.
"Shit!" The word slips out like a bullet from a silenced gun. My facade cracks, surprise etched across my face. "Alright, give it here." My fingers curl in a ‘give me, give me’ gesture, impatience overruling romance.
His grin splits wider, all shark-like charm and lethal intent. He snatches up my hand. "Hay, at least let me do the honors, Princess," he chides, his laugh a low rumble that resonates through the charged air between us.
The ring—an unyielding band of cool metal—slips onto my finger with an ease that feels like destiny. Or a trap. "Let me guess—you magically knew the right size to buy?" I arch an eyebrow, more in challenge than curiosity .
Matteo taps his nose, still wearing that self-satisfied smirk. "Nope. I put a string around your finger while you were sleeping." It's invasive, intimate, so fucking Matteo.
"It was my idea," Niko chimes in without glancing away from his tech toys. "Matteo was wondering how to get it right, so I googled. And Google always has the answer."
"Right, well, okay then." I shift my gaze to the floor, suddenly yearning for normalcy in this madhouse. "Did someone make me a coffee while I was gone? I think today is a coffee day!"
"Nope, we’ll grab one on the way," Matteo announces, already plotting the route. "And some food, you’re too skinny." His concern is genuine, but it grates like gravel in my gut.
"Mum doesn't eat breakfast, Pa. If you feed her before you give her coffee, you might as well sign your death certificate," Niko mutters, his words an echo of my thoughts.
"Pa? What's this 'Pa' business?" Matteo frowns, the word souring in his mouth.
"You're making me feel like an old man."
Niko shrugs, attention still half on his screens. "You are old, but I’m playing around with names till one feels right."
"Well, 'Pa' doesn’t feel right; try another!" Matteo laughs, but there's a flicker of something else there—pride or maybe fear—at the thought of time slipping by, even for a man who deals in death.
Every exchange, a power play, every word loaded. And me? I'm caught in the crossfire, wearing a ring that's as much a shackle as a symbol of love. Welcome to the family, Eleanor. Welcome to the fucking mafia .
"Come on, Princess, let's go," Matteo beckons with a flourish of his arm, the heavy gold watch on his wrist glinting ominously in the dim light.
"Okay, okay, let's go," I grumbled, pushing past the weight of luxury that clings to the air. I go to Niko, who's lost in a sea of screens. I plant a kiss on top of his head, leaving a lipstick mark like a brand. "Love you, Niko, give Angel hell for me."
"Wash your hair today, too; it smells," I wrinkle my nose at him, playful but serious.
"I washed it yesterday," he shoots back, voice flat.
"Then rewash it. You did it wrong," I retort without missing a beat, sauntering towards Matteo, who holds the front door open like the gatekeeper to our twisted kingdom.
"Drive-through or cafe coffee?" Matteo's question cuts through the morning haze. He looks every bit the mafia kingpin—dark suit, darker eyes, and an aura of danger that wraps around him like a second skin.
"Starbucks. They've got Pumpkin Spice Lattes now, and they're bloody addictive," I reply, feeling the pull of that sweet caffeine already.
"Ask, and you shall receive," he quips, and I can't help but smirk at the eagerness in his tone. He opens the car door for me, and the gesture ignites a familiar heat within me.
"Keep this shit up, and I'll end up sucking your dick to say thank you," I whisper, half-threat, half-promise. His laugh is a low rumble as I slide into the leather seat, legs crossed, ready to conquer the world—or at least endure another day.
Matteo rounds the car with a predator's grace, slipping behind the wheel. Then Spike appears out of nowhere, sliding into the backseat with the silence of a ghost. Where the fuck does that ninja come from?
"Spike?" I call out, twisting to face him. "Wanna teach me how to be stealthy like you?"
"Nope," he replies, voice dripping sarcasm, the 'p' popping sharply.
"Why not?" I frown, feigning offence.
"Matteo was the one who taught me. So, he can teach you," Spike says, nodding at the man in question.
"Wait, what? Really?" I twist in my seat, giving Matteo a skeptical glance. The idea that he's the maestro of stealth is laughable. "I feel like Spike is much stealthier than you, but..." I trail off, catching the glint of amusement in Matteo's dark eyes.
He chuckles, a deep sound that vibrates through the car. "Well, thanks, Princess. Is this your way of saying I need to update my skills?" His laughter softens the edges of the threat he always seems to carry with him.