Page 28 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)

"Thank you!" My voice is louder than necessary, gratitude swelling in my chest. This shared parenting gig? It's a wild ride—one I never saw coming.

"I can feed my son, you know. But you're welcome." His tone is playful, undercut with that steel edge that never entirely leaves him.

Thirty minutes crawl by, the silence in the room thick enough to choke on.

Then, like a siren's call, a scent so damn intoxicating slices through the air.

My nose twitches, betraying me as it leads my senses on a hunt for the source.

"Ohhhhhhhh sweet baby Jesus, what is that smell?

" I groan, my insides twisting with hunger.

The door creaks open, revealing Matteo, dark and looming in the doorway.

He's holding a bowl, the steam curling up like fingers trying to pull me in.

"Tagliatelle al Giardino," he announces, his voice smooth, each syllable wrapped in silk and danger.

It's casual, but nothing about Matteo is ever really casual.

"Gimme, gimme!" I nearly lunge from my seat, desperate hands reaching out like I could snatch the bowl straight from his grasp. But he pauses, eyes dropping to the minefield below.

"Fuck." Matteo's gaze flickers from the floor to me, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, the devil himself amused by my disarray. "I’m not sure how I’m meant to walk this over to you?"

My eyes follow his, seeing the mess for the first time—papers scattered like casualties across the floor. Shit.

"Careful now," I tease, my tone light but my heart hammering against my ribs. "Wouldn't want you to trip into the abyss."

He hesitates, calculating the risk like he would a hit. Then, with the grace of a predator, he steps forward, each movement precise and deliberate. The dangerous dance of the mafia boss navigating the littered floor.

"Should've known this was your kind of ballet," I quip, jabbing a finger at his careful steps. He arches an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching up into that devilish grin that infuriates and ignites me.

"Princess, you might regret unleashing my inner ninja," he teases. Then, with a flare only Matteo could pull off, he hands over the steaming bowl, brushes a kiss to my temple, and spins away, arms raised like he's mocking the notion of grace.

"Fuck," I mutter. The man is a walking paradox—a sculpted statue come to life, all power and lethal poise wrapped in a tailored suit.

"Reminds me, can you teach me your ninja skills?" I ask, admiring his graceful ballet movements. He meets my gaze and replies, "We can start whenever you're ready." I nod, suggesting we begin the following day, which elicits a chuckle from him.

He leans against the doorframe, watching me with eyes darker than the ink on his skin.

"Sure, Prince," he replies, voicing a low rumble.

"Could drag your ass out of bed at dawn to train.

Or hit the gym before bed." He pauses, a shadow crossing his face.

"Maybe drag Niko along. Kid's got the stealth of a fucking elephant. "

"Gym?" My confusion must be as clear as day because Matteo lets out a chuckle deep enough to resonate through the room.

"Princess, the gym. We have one. It's attached to the garage," he says, like he's revealing the secret entrance to his mafia lair.

"Since when?" I'm floored. I thought I knew every inch of this place, but clearly, the house has secrets wrapped in shadows, just like the man before me.

"Since always," he laughs, shaking his head as he strides away. "Eat up. I'll come for you soon."

I swear under my breath. Deceiving house for a deceiving life. I make a mental note to hound him for a full tour later; can't stand not knowing every corner of my own cage.

Memories flood back as I finish the pasta, memories of Matteo storming into my life with the force of an unrelenting storm.

I remember the first time he cooked for me, swaggering into my tiny kitchen, declaring himself boyfriend and chef for the evening.

His confidence was a live wire, sparking and untouchable.

"Boyfriend now?" I had challenged, incredulity painting my words. But Matteo, oh, he had just laughed, a sound that made my heart hammer against my ribs.

"Princess, I told you, you were mine. So yes, boyfriend, and if you need a ring to hammer it home, I'll give you that too." His arrogance was a force of nature, and I was caught in its eye.

I couldn't help it; he was heat and danger wrapped in one, a man where I'd only known boys.

"Show me where you keep everything," he had said, and I had followed, led by the intoxicating blend of fear and desire. Brittney's warnings echoed in my mind, but what did she know about men like Matteo? Men who promised the stars with a knife hidden behind their backs?

That night, he didn't just feed me—he marked me, claimed me with every bite of Tagliatelle al Giardino so expertly crafted it could've been art.

And when he stayed, wrapped around me in the darkness of my dingy apartment, it wasn't just warmth I sought—it was possession.

I was the spider ensnared, and I longed for the devouring.

The silverware clinks against the fine china, a delicate symphony in stark contrast to the tension thickening the air. I chew slowly, my eyes trained on Matteo’s, searching for lies in the ocean of blue that is his gaze.

"Matteo, why do you keep turning up on my doorstep?" I demand, setting down my fork with a finality that echoes throughout the dimly lit dining room.

"I thought I made that part pretty clear, Princess," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards, his eyebrow arching like he's privy to a joke I'm not. He lifts his glass of wine casually, the red liquid swaying gently with his movements.

"You’re mine; it can’t be any more simple than that."

"But why? And how?" I press, incredulous. The memory of our first encounter at the tattoo shop plays behind my eyelids—his sudden appearance there was like a match struck in darkness. "I mean I meet you in a tattoo shop, then bam, you turn up here every single day since?"

"Love at first sight," he declares with an easy shrug of one shoulder, as if he's discussing the weather and not stalking.

"But I don’t believe in love at first sight," I retort, my skepticism as sharp as the knife by my plate.

"That’s okay, Princess, I do." His voice doesn't waver; conviction poured into every syllable, as if his belief alone could rewrite reality.

"You have a very twisted way of looking at things Matteo," I say, shaking my head, trying not to get pulled under by his intensity.

"That might be true," he concedes, standing so suddenly the chair scrapes back like a growl. He walks over, his presence engulfing the space next to me, a dark cloud with silver linings. "But when you grow up in my world, you think and act differently to everyone else."

He grabs my hand, his fingers warm and unyielding, and pulls me to my feet. "You’re 2 years younger than me and have not experienced what I have, so believe me when I tell you this." His voice drops, a dangerous whisper meant only for us.

"The second my eyes met yours in the shop, my heart actually skipped a fucking beat. My stomach felt like I was going to vomit, and my hands were instantly clammy." His confession slices through the air, raw and jagged.

"I’ve killed men before, and I’ve had a gun held to my head, yet not once have I ever felt scared.

Until that moment." His eyes are twin storms, swirling with emotions I can't begin to understand.

"What if I died and never got a chance to talk to you?

What if someone else got to you before I did, and I never got the chance to kiss you?

" His lips descend towards mine, a predator closing in on its prey.

And he is right. A shiver of fear trails down my spine, but it's laced with the sweet poison of desire. What if I never got a chance to taste this man?

His kiss lands, ghostly soft, and all thoughts of resistance melt away. I lean in, deepening the kiss, claiming him as much as he claims me. His taste is intoxicating, a cocktail of power and danger that I've become addicted to.

"You’re it for me, Eleanor," he murmurs, his smile felt rather than seen. "You have me hook line and sinker; there will never be another - there will only ever be you."

The words wrap around me, a binding oath sealed with the pressure of his hand against my skull. This kiss, this connection—it's terrifying and electrifying, and I'm too far gone to care about the consequences.

He was right, I did feel the connection, the invisible rope that now ties us together. The fear that this could all burn down around us somehow makes the moment sweeter, more urgent.

That night Matteo cradles me till sleep claims us both, and when daylight tries to steal me away, I find myself still ensnared in his arms, our fates irrevocably intertwined.

I'm lost in the haze of recollection, the ghost of Matteo's kiss still burning on my lips, when his voice slices through the fog. "You okay there, Princess?"

Startled, I snap back to now. My gaze lifts to find him leaning against the doorframe, a knowing smirk playing across his chiseled features. The air between us crackles with the same tension that's always simmering just beneath our skin.

The aroma of Tagliatelle al Giardino still hangs heavy, a fragrant trap that lures me straight back to the night that changed everything.

And he knows it—the bastard. He's got that look, eyes glinting with dark amusement because he's aware precisely what that dish does to me.

It's a time machine, pulling me back to the first taste of true love.

"I bet if I walked over there and kissed you, you would taste the same as you did twelve years ago," he says, and damn him, his voice is velvet draped over steel.

My cheeks flare up like they've been slapped, heat crawling up my neck. "I think you would be right," I murmur, cursing myself for going red. But it's involuntary—Matteo's effect on me is as certain as a bullet to the heart.

"Nice to see I still bring that color to your cheeks," he drawls, his tone dripping with satisfaction. But then he straightens, the playfulness fading into something more commanding. "But it’s almost time for the gym."

He turns, leaving me adrift in a sea of papers and smoldering thoughts. I watch the retreating lines of his suit, the broad set of shoulders that speaks of a life borne from brutality and control. Dark charm and danger rolled into one lethal package—that's Matteo Ricci.

"Okay, let me get changed; this dress is as uncomfortable as fuck," I grumble, maneuvering around mountains of receipts and contracts that litter the floor. The chaos of paper crunches under my feet as I make my way to the sanctity of our room.