Page 27 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)

Chapter Twenty

Eleanor Wang

I slide the deadbolt into place, a metallic click whispering false promises of safety.

It's laughable, really—how I've come to triple-check the locks on doors that are already wrapped in a suffocating embrace of security.

My fingers trace the cold steel, a shiver snaking up my spine.

The city of Sydney, once a playground of sun-soaked memories, now feels like a concrete trap set by ghosts from a life I wish I could forget.

"Everything alright, Princess?" Matteo's voice cuts through the silence, a low rumble carrying the weight of his world—a world I'm now tethered to.

I turn, forcing a smile. "Perfect," I lie, my voice steady but my heart a goddamn traitor, thundering against my ribcage.

He doesn't need to know that the sight of his guards patrolling like silent sentinels does nothing but scream danger at me in deafening volumes.

I can almost taste the tension in the air, thick and bitter as burnt coffee .

"Good." His eyes linger, an unspoken question, but he lets it go for now.

It's been just over a week since Toni Venchetti vanished into whatever hole Matteo's men crawl into when shit's about to hit the fan. Since then, Matteo's shadow looms larger, his presence a constant reminder that we're perched on the edge of something dark and inevitable.

"Enzo hasn't been around," I point out casually, watching as Matteo's jaw clenches, a tell so subtle only someone who's stared into the abyss with him would notice.

"He's busy," Matteo replies, his tone clipped. "No more surprise visits."

I nod, the upcoming four-seat gathering a ticking time bomb. Every three months, they shuffle cities, hosting a game of Russian roulette disguised as a board meeting. This time, Sydney is the stage, and I'm the unwilling audience to go to a show for which I never bought tickets.

"Thankfully," I say dryly, leaning back against the door. I don't have to see outside to know that the guards are there, their sharp eyes scanning for threats invisible to me but all too real to them.

Matteo steps closer, his hand brushing mine, sending a jolt up my arm. "You're safe here, Eleanor. With me." His voice is velvet wrapped around steel, comforting yet chilling.

"Safe," I echo, tasting the irony. Safe in a gilded cage is still caged.

Since spilling my guts to him, since admitting the fear that gnaws at my insides, the guard detail has doubled.

Because that's what Matteo does—he controls, protects, and possesses.

And I, whether I like it or not, am his to protect.

"London was different," I admit, remembering the deceptive peace of locked doors without the looming threat of retribution lurking in the shadows. "I didn't feel the walls closing in."

Matteo's gaze hardens, the darkness behind his eyes swirling like storm clouds ready to burst. "London wasn't home. This is where you belong, Eleanor, with me."

And I can't argue with that because, despite the dread that clings to me like a second skin, there's no place I'd rather be than here, caught in the eye of the storm that is Matteo Ricci. Here, every heartbeat is a drumbeat of power and control, where love and madness dance a razor's edge waltz.

"Home," I whisper, and I let myself believe it for a moment. But even as the word lingers between us, I feel it—the calm before the storm—and somewhere beneath the layers of muscle and menace, Matteo feels it, too.

The door slams shut with a thunderous clap that sends a shiver down my spine. Niko's scowl could sour milk as he trudges out of the study, his new teacher standing in the doorway like an iron pillar.

"Language, Niko," she snaps, her voice a whip crack echoing in the high-ceilinged hallway. "And remember your assignment."

I stifle a smirk from where I lean against the wall, hidden by shadows. Mrs. De Luca is a formidable force. Her steely gaze and ruler-straight posture belong to an era of rigid discipline—the kind that forges leaders or breaks spirits.

"Stupid old hag," Niko mutters under his breath—too low for her to hear, but not for me .

"Respect," I snap, stepping into the light. His head whips up, eyes wide, caught.

Niko's lips purse, rebellion simmering in his dark eyes. It's like staring at a younger Matteo. But this kid doesn't know half of what his father had to endure.

"Whatever," he spits out, stomping away, his footsteps pounding like a drumbeat of adolescent fury.

"Don’t be too tough on him," I tell Mrs. De Luca, who nods, her face an unreadable mask.

"Only a little," she assures before disappearing back into the room, her determination as palpable as the tension that lingers in her wake.

Turning away, I can't help but feel a twinge of guilt pierce my chest—like a splinter working its way under my skin. This isn't the life I ever wanted for Niko, but Matteo's world doesn't care about wants. It's about survival, power, control.

Angel and Spike are hunched over a mess of papers and screens in the adjacent room, their faces grim as gravestones. They're hunting ghosts, digging through a decade of dirt and secrets while I drown in invoices and ledgers.

"Anything?" I ask, crossing the threshold into their territory of technology and whispers.

"Shadows, mostly," Spike grumbles, scratching at his chin. "But shadows can bleed if you stab them right."

"Keep stabbing," I say, voice flat, thumbing through a stack of papers, the edges biting into my skin. Hard evidence is a bastard to find, slippery as an eel, and twice as ugly when you finally get a grip on it.

"Never stop," Angel replies, his fingers flying across the keyboard, a maestro playing a symphony of search and seize.

"Good." I nod, my heart thudding in my chest. Every keystroke, every page turned, is another step deeper into the abyss, the dark heart of the Ricci legacy.

If only we could rewrite the past, unspill the blood, unbreak the broken. But this life isn't about what-ifs or regrets. It's about facing the storm, teeth bared, fists clenched.

This is my life, forged in shadow and silence. And I'll be damned if I let it take me without a fight.

As I rifle through the tattered documents, the scent of ink and old leather wraps around me like a shroud.

Matteo's world, this empire of shadows, is drowning in paper—a decade's worth of secrets piled high on every surface.

The dim light from the desk lamp casts long, sinister shadows across the room, making the numbers and words dance like specters on the walls.

"Fuckin' hell," I mutter under my breath, the papers crinkling in my fist. Every file I open spills forth more evidence of chaos, a testament to Matteo's disdain for bureaucracy. Receipts, invoices, contracts—a tangled web that even the most skilled spider would struggle to navigate.

A tax audit looms on the horizon like a bloody guillotine, ready to sever us from any semblance of safety we've clawed together. My fingers work with fervor, sorting through the years, trying to bring order to the anarchy Matteo left in his wake.

I don't hear him approach, but his presence alters the room's atmosphere. "Hungry, Princess?" Matteo's voice slices through the silence, rough and edged with amusement.

My gaze snaps up to meet his, and there he stands, all dark charm and lethal grace, leaning against the door frame.

A smirk plays on his lips, one that doesn't quite reach the storm brewing in his eyes.

He's set up his command center in the kitchen, where he can keep an eye on everything while pretending he's not suffocating in the clutter of his own making.

"Yes, actually I am. Please tell me it's late enough that I can have pasta from Fratellis?" My voice is hopeful, desperate for a taste of normalcy.

"Sorry, Princess, it's only 3 p.m.; it doesn’t open for another two hours. Do you want to hold on until then, or do you want me to cook something for you?" The offer hangs in the air, laced with an intimacy that sends shivers down my spine.

"Cook? For me?" I blink, thrown off by the domesticity in his tone. It’s so at odds with the man who commands with iron fists and a heart encased in ice; I know he can cook, but that was before he was the Don.

"If you keep frowning at me, you’re gonna end up with wrinkles," he counters, a devilish grin on his lips.

I scoff, even as heat rises to my cheeks. "Matteo, they created Botox for a reason, you know." My eyes dip back to the disarray of documents splayed across the floor, the tangible proof of our lives entangled in ink and blood.

"Didn’t think you were into that stuff, Princess," he chuckles. The sound is dark and rich, like aged whiskey.

"Please," I shoot back, raising my eyebrows in mock surprise. "If you think there isn’t Botox in my face and filler in my lips, Matteo, then maybe you don’t remember how I looked before." I let the challenge hang between us, a thin thread waiting to be cut.

"Come to think of it, I’m due for more..." I murmur under my breath, mentally slapping a reminder in my brain to hunt down a cosmetic fix in this godforsaken city.

Matteo shakes his head at me, a bemused smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. He's like a cat playing with a mouse—amused by my domestic demands. “Anyway, Princess, as I said, do you want to wait, or do you want me to cook?”

You can cook, but I want pasta, please, something super rich and full of goodness," I tell him, offering a tentative smile that feels out of place in our twisted world.

"Got it," he says, all business now as he pivots on his heel, heading for the kitchen. The way he moves—fluid, certain—it’s like watching a predator claim its territory. And right now, that domain includes saucepans and spaghetti. Christ, I could get used to this.

"Can you feed Niko, please?" I yell after he retreats, my voice bouncing down the marble corridor.

"I fed him two hours ago, Princess. His room's packed with enough snacks to survive a siege," he calls over his shoulder, not missing a beat.