Page 29 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)

Chapter Twenty-One

Matteo Ricci

I 'm behind the wall, eyes narrowed as I watch Niko lumber across the gym floor. It's like he's got lead in his boots, each step booming like a goddamn gavel. I rub my temples, feeling the onset of a headache that's bound to be a bitch.

"Stealth, Niko. Light on your feet, for fuck's sake," I mutter under my breath, but it's no use.

Eleanor's next to him, tiptoeing with more grace, but Christ, her breathing's so loud it could wake the dead. She pants and gasps like she's run a marathon, not just crossed a room.

"Easy, Eleanor. Breathe through your nose," I instruct, voice low. But it's like telling a fish to climb a tree. Panic flares in her eyes, chest heaving fast enough to create a bloody breeze. Yeah, no Zen master shit for her. No quiet calm or inner peace. Just raw, unfiltered panic.

"Boss..." Spike's whisper is practically a hiss in my ear, and I nearly shoot the ceiling from the shock .

"Fucker," I snap, heart racing as my hand grips the cold metal of my gun before I realize it's him. "Jesus, you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Sorry, boss," he chuckles without an ounce of regret, "you were too busy watching those two dipshits being elephants."

My scowl deepens as I shove the gun back into place. "You're not fucking wrong there." I glance at Spike, taking in his smug grin.

"Want Angel and myself to take over the kids' training?" He nods towards Niko, who's now attempting – and failing – to meld with the shadows like some oversized, clumsy panda.

The sight is so ridiculous, so utterly hopeless, that laughter bursts out of me, bitter and sharp. "I was just thinking that," I concede with a heavy sigh, finally turning to face him.

Spike's already grinning, clearly relishing the thought of knocking some stealth into the pair. Fine by me. Let them deal with this circus act. I've got more giant demons to wrestle than teaching these two how to move like they're not about to bring the whole damn building down on our heads.

"So," Spike's voice cuts through the shadows. "Got some intel."

I lean back against the cold wall, arms folded across my chest. "Spill it."

"Chatter's up about Toni." He shifts his weight, hands in his pockets. "Gonna head out, sniff around for details."

"Take those two dipshits at the gate with you. It's a changeover. Make 'em sweat over time," I say, a cruel twist to my lips. The bastards had it coming.

Spike smirks, a glint of shared sadism in his eyes. "What'd they screw up?"

"Late for shift two days back," I tell him, eyebrow cocked. We both know the cost of slacking.

"Fucking dickheads," he mutters, shaking his head as we stride toward the front door. A silent command and our footsteps sync; a dance of death we've perfected over the years.

"Keep me posted. Every damn detail," I order.

"Will do, boss," Spike whispers too close again, and I'm airborne, heart slamming against my ribs. "Fucking fuck! You're a cocksucker!" I bark out, fury lacing my words.

"Keeping you sharp, boss," he laughs, a sound that reverberates in the stillness of the room he just vacated.

"Enough!" I call out to the room, my voice echoing off the walls. "We're done here. Dinner time."

Niko pipes up from behind, a smirk tugging at his lips. "What's cooking, ol man?"

"Cut the crap," I snarl, though there's an edge of affection I can't mask. "Plain old dad work for you?"

"Really? I like ol man," he says, the shit-eating grin plastered on his face tells me all I need to know.

"Kid, don't push it," I warn, but inwardly, I'm chuckling. The little bastard's got spunk; reminds me of myself at his age. But he doesn't need to know that.

"Alright, let's rustle up something that doesn't taste like cardboard," I grumble, throwing a knowing glance back at Eleanor.

The stainless steel of the kitchen blade glints under the harsh light as I slice through the raw chicken, each cut clean and precise. My mind's a jumble of strategies and survival—cooking's just another battlefield.

"What for dinner?" Niko's voice cuts through my focus, as random as ever. Kid's got timing like a grenade with a faulty pin.

I glance over at him, eyes narrowed. "I’m so hungry I could eat an elephant," he declares, oblivious to the irony.

"Yeah, I'm sure we can arrange that with those feet of yours," I mumble under my breath, barely audible over the chop of the knife.

"What?" He cocks his head, brows furrowed. The kid's hearing is too sharp for his own good.

"Nothing, kid." I shake my head, tossing the chicken into a hot pan where it sizzles like rain on hot pavement.

"Come on, let's get dinner started. I'm thinking chicken and mushroom risotto.

" I throw an arm around his shoulders, giving them a squeeze.

Can't have the boy thinking the old man's gone soft.

"Ew, mushrooms!" He recoils as if I’d suggested we dine on rat poison.

"Hang on, you sure you're my kid?" I frown, turning to look at Eleanor over my shoulder. She meets my gaze with that half-amused, half-apologetic look that always manages to twist me up inside.

"Sorry Matteo, he hates them," she says, her shoulder lifting in a half shrug that somehow speaks volumes.

"Chicken and spinach risotto, then," I grunt, staring down at Niko with suspicion brewing in my gut.

Kids these days don't know how good they've got it. If I had dared scrunch my nose at my mamma’s cooking, she'd have made sure I dreamt of nothing but the dish I despised until I learned to love it—or at least pretend to.

"See, you do like it, you ate it!" That would be her victory cry. And now, the thought of putting Niko through the same culinary boot camp tempts me something fierce.

The kitchen fills with the earthy scent of herbs and the sharp tang of garlic as I begin to craft the risotto, letting the familiar motions pull me back from the edge of those darker thoughts. Control—it's not just about power; it's about knowing when to wield it, and when to let the pot simmer.

"Matteo, I see that glint in your eye," Eleanor's whisper is like a blade sliding against the grain of my conscience.

She's seen through me; she always does. I turn, catching the tail end of her retreat towards the dining room.

The memory of my mother's culinary tyranny remains unspoken between us. How the hell did she know?

Minutes drag their feet before she reappears, two glasses of whiskey balanced in her hands, amber liquid promising the fire I need to simmer down. I'm fumbling with the freezer, cursing under my breath as I hunt for the spinach. "Here," I grunt, shoving the ice tray at her.

"Thanks." That single syllable from her is sharper than the edge of a knife, clean and precise.

"I hope one of them is mine," I say, dropping the ingredients on the counter with a thud before snatching the nearest glass. The whiskey smell hits me, raw and biting.

"Yep," she confirms, popping that 'p' like a gun going off in the quiet of our kitchen. Then she's turning on her heel, leaving me with the empty ice tray and the taste of spirits burning down my throat.

"I'm starting to feel like the bitch in this relationship," I mutter into the glass, the words bitter on my tongue.

"Well, one of us has to be," her voice floats back, taunting, trailing laughter from the stairs leading to our room.

"Dinner is in thirty minutes; will I need to wake you up?" My call chases her up the staircase, a challenge thrown into the space she's left behind.

"Nope, I’m showering," comes the clipped reply, and I imagine the steam rising around her, the water tracing the lines of her tattoos.

"Niko, go shower too; that way dinner will be ready for both of you when you get out," I bark over my shoulder, shifting into boss mode even in the comfort of my own home.

"On it, Da," he chirps, and I can hear the smirk in his voice without even looking.

"Da is Irish, Niko..." I grumble, but I'm talking to the boy's back now as he scampers off, eager as a pup.

"I know, felt strange to say it too," he admits, and there's something in those words that catches in my chest, something warm and dangerous like a live wire.

I watch him disappear, and it strikes me—I don't mind this 'dad' gig. Not one fucking bit.

The clink of dirty dishes mocks me, a goddamn symphony of domesticity.

I'm elbow-deep in suds, scrubbing away at the remnants of tonight's feast, and I can't help but wonder how the hell I ended up here. The kingpin of Sydney’s underbelly playing house like some aproned matriarch. Fucking unbelievable.

Eleanor and Niko, they've got a knack for vanishing when shit needs doing.

Convenient, that. And me? I'm left contemplating the emasculating reality of becoming the mob's answer to a Stepford wife.

Pathetic. But the thing is, I don't even bristle at the thought like I should.

Maybe it's the way Eleanor's laughter cuts through the silence or how Niko looks up to me more than he fears me.

It softens a man. Or maybe it just fucks with his head.

My phone buzzes against my thigh, a violent reminder of the world beyond these four walls. I yank it out, pressing it to my ear without hesitation. "Matteo," I grunt, voice laced with irritation and ready for war.

"Boss, I got him." The voice on the other end is Spike, and his words are sweet as sin.

"Office or warehouse?"

"Warehouse, boss."

"Good." I shove the plate I'm holding back into the sink, water splashing in protest. "On my way." Those dishes can rot for all I care. Duty calls, and the devil doesn't do dishes.

I storm upstairs, stripping off the domestic facade and sliding into the skin of who I really am. In minutes, I'm encased in black—tailored to intimidation. No jacket tonight, not with the heat clinging to Sydney like a second skin.