Page 30 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)

I find her in the library, lost in pages like she's searching for salvation between the lines. Eleanor. She's oblivious until I'm practically breathing down her neck, a ghost haunting her tranquil moment. "Good book?" I ask, voice dripping with a mixture of amusement and accusation.

Her cheeks flush, betraying her thoughts before she even speaks. "Um yes, it is, thank you." Her fingers twitch, pulling at her shirt as if she could hide behind cotton and modesty.

"Is my Princess reading a dirty book?" The tease rolls off my tongue, a familiar dance between us.

"It's the only kind I read," she retorts, throat working to swallow her embarrassment. She's adorable when she's flustered, downright irresistible.

"Listen," I start, my tone hardening with the gravity of what's to come. "I hate to rip you from your fantasy land, but there's trouble. Get dressed, bring your smut with you. You're gonna need the escape."

Her eyes widen slightly, a flicker of concern before she masks it with that ironclad poise she wears so well. "I understand," she says, rising to her feet, the book clutched in her hand like a lifeline.

"Good girl." The words slip out, a blend of pride and something darker, something that revels in her obedience. It's fucked up, this power dynamic we dance around, but it's our dance, and we know the steps by heart.

"Give me ten minutes," she says, already moving towards our bedroom with a purpose in her step.

I snatch the smutty novel from her hands, thumb fanning through the pages. "Don't lose my page," Eleanor warns.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I murmur.

Ten minutes drag by, my eyes skimming over words that'd make a whore blush, and I'm no prude.

But this shit— three men bending to one woman's will—it's a far cry from the life I lead.

It wraps its fingers around my gut, tugs with an odd sort of envy.

"Do women really get off on this?" The question hangs heavy as Eleanor reappears, all long legs and lethal looks, hair bound high like she's ready for war rather than whatever twisted fantasy that book promises.

"Hey, I said don't lose my page," she snaps, reclaiming her book with a quick, practiced move. There's a challenge in her eye, a mischief that says she knows exactly where that page was heating up, and so do I now, my body reacting traitorously beneath my pants.

"Come on, I thought we had somewhere to be," she teases, slipping her hand down, palm pressing just enough to draw a stifled groan from my lips. "Nice to see someone enjoyed the book."

"Fuck," I hiss, adjusting myself while she tosses me a wicked grin over her shoulder before descending the stairs. What else can I do but follow?

"Seriously, we need to talk about that book," I grumble, trailing after her like some lovesick goon when I'm anything but. She pauses at the door, turns, and I'm struck by how the streetlights cast her in a halo of danger.

"Matteo, why are you all dressed to kill at 7 pm?" Her voice slices through the bullshit, brings me back to the brink of reality.

"Right, in the car," I deflect, scratching at my neck where the collar feels too damn tight.

"Is Angel here?" Her gaze searches past me, seeking reassurance in the form of our most trusted ally .

"Yeah, he's downstairs with Niko, doing tech stuff. He'll handle bedtime for the kid."

"Okay good, let's go then," she says, swinging her arms towards the door like she's wading into battle instead of stepping out into the night.

"Fuck, okay, yes, I'm getting distracted.

" Gritting my teeth, I shove open the front door, leading us into the cool air that does nothing to chill the heat curling inside me.

I slide into the driver's seat, engine roaring to life under my command.

Everything else fades away; it's just the road, the mission, the woman beside me.

"Okay, Princess," I start, voice low, every word measured. "We need to talk before we get there." I steal a glance her way, bracing for impact because if there's one thing I know about Eleanor, it's that she's full of surprises, and none of them play nice.

The car eats up the road, its growl a feral undercurrent to the silence stretching out between us. Streetlights flicker by, casting Eleanor's face in a staccato of light and shadow. She's a statue beside me, all cool lines and unreadable intentions.

"Hit me with it, Matteo," she murmurs, eyes glued to the bleak tapestry of the road unfurling ahead.

"Tonight, I need you obedient," I start, my grip on the wheel turning my knuckles white. "No fucking around, Princess. You do what I tell you. Please." The last word scrapes out of me like it's clawing its way through gravel.

"Okay." Just that one word, flat and final, and suddenly I'm the one off-kilter.

"Okay?" I echo, as if saying it again could fill the cavernous space her single syllable left behind.

"Okay." She doesn't look at me, doesn't need to. Her agreement is a silent slap to my face, snapping me back into boss mode.

"Right, well, I’m not joking about this," I warn, each word bitten off, tasting like blood. "Spike has Toni," I confess, the words barely more than a whispered curse.

"I gathered," she replies, and there's steel beneath the velvet of her voice. It's a cold comfort, knowing she's with me but not flinching from the darkness.

"Are you going to be okay watching us question him?" I ask, because even though I can't shield her from the shitstorm, I still want to wrap her in bulletproof glass.

"As long as you kill him when you're done, I don't mind," she answers, dry as the desert wind that howls outside our bubble of calm before the storm.

"Mobster life is rubbing off on you nicely, Princess," I offer with a crooked smile, finding twisted pride in her adaptation to my fucked-up world.

"Let's hope not," she shoots back, but there's no real bite to her words, just resignation laced with a hint of dark humor.