Page 32 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)

Matteo's back is a rigid line of authority as he strides back over to Toni.

Muscle and menace in every step, the man's like a goddamn executioner returning to his altar.

My eyes flick to the bag in my hand, its crinkly sides mocking me.

It's a toss-up—do I suffocate on the horror or just let it all out?

The contents of my stomach decide for me.

I glance up just in time to see Spike finish with Toni's other foot, each toe dropping to the ground with a sickening thud.

Then comes the right hand, fingers snipped off like they're nothing.

Fucking hell. It's a scene you can't unsee, no matter how hard you try.

And the stench—God, it's like I'm trapped in some twisted barbecue from hell.

The first heave hits me hard, risotto spewing into the bag like vile confetti.

It gets everywhere, sticking in places it's got no right to be.

I'm hacking, retching, spitting out grains that cling to my lips.

There's nothing ladylike about this chaos, and yet I'm stuck here, watching the savagery unfold like some grotesque show.

Spike's grinning like a loon, slicing through flesh with a zealot's fervour.

His eyes are alight, finding joy in the carnage.

It sends a shiver down my spine. Niko should never see this side of him—the side that takes pleasure in another's pain.

It's a brand of madness that's too raw, too feral.

Spike's not just a soldier; he's a fucking maestro of misery.

I swallow down the bile rising again, gripping the bag like it's the only thing keeping me tethered to sanity.

Time drags on, a relentless parade of horror. The stench clings to the inside of my nostrils, a sickening mix of charred human remains and bodily waste. It's suffocating. The air in this godforsaken warehouse is thick with it, every breath a reminder of what's unfolding before my eyes.

"Matteo?" My voice is a whisper, barely audible over the symphony of Toni's muffled cries and Spike's eager snipping.

Matteo whirls around, his dark gaze meeting mine, and for a second, I see something flicker there—an apology, maybe. He strides over, all raw power and predatory grace, wiping his bloodstained hands on a rag as if he can erase the last two hours just like that.

"Fuck, Princess, I'm sorry." His voice is rough, carrying the weight of a storm about to break.

"You want to go home?" He reaches out, offering escape, but I have one more demon to face.

"Yes, but I wanna shoot him first," I say, my finger pointing at Toni's broken form, dangling like some grotesque marionette from his chains.

"Are you sure 'bout that? We don't have who sent him yet?" Matteo's hand hovers over the gun at his waist, questioning me with those tumultuous blue eyes that burn with an intensity that both terrifies and captivates me.

"He isn’t going to give it, Matteo." My hand is steady as I take the gun, feeling its cold weight grounding me.

I raise the barrel, aiming at the shattered man across the room. Toni's a husk, his eyes pleading for an end that I’m all too willing to give.

Spike stands by, impassive now, watching the scene unfold with detached curiosity. How many times has he watched this dance, I wonder?

The gun trembles in my grip, a cold extension of my fury. I square my shoulders, breathe out slow, and find that serene place where the world narrows to just me, the weapon, and the target.

"Sorry, Toni," I whisper, but there's no mercy in my voice.

I pull the trigger twice—the first bullet rips through his groin, a spray of crimson painting the grimy floor.

His scream slices the silence before the second shot crashes into his head, silencing him forever.

It's a sharp crack, an echo that reverberates off the warehouse walls and within the darkest corners of my soul.

"Can we go home now please?" My voice breaks, raw from the smoke and screams. Dropping Matteo's gun into his waiting hand, I shiver, feeling the finality of what I've done settle like ash on my skin.

The need to escape this stench of death claws at me, desperate for fresh air, for the safety of distance.

"Of course, Princess." Matteo's voice is a soft growl, wrapping around me in a promise of protection. He guides me with a firm hand on my back, leading me away from the carnage, away from the monster I've become.

Outside, the night swallows us, the chill a stark contrast to the heat of hell we leave behind. Matteo opens the car door, and I slide into the dark interior, the leather seat cradling my exhausted body.

Blood splatters his tanned skin, dark against the light, like some horrific abstract art.

He's a masterpiece of violence—sinew and muscle shifting under inked flesh as he peels off the stained shirt.

I watch, transfixed, as Matteo Ricci, kingpin draped in brutality, wipes the remnants of vengeance from his face.

"Keep looking at me like that Princess and I’ll end up fucking you on the bonnet of this car," he says, voice rough like gravel.

"Who says I don't want that?" The words spill out, thick with desire. My body throbs for him, craving his touch—even slick with the blood of my tormentor.

Matteo, the man who turns murder into an act of devotion. And here I am, twisted enough to find it arousing.

Most Mafia brides are kept in the dark, shielded from the gore and the guilt. Not me. Enzo’s shocked expression lingers in my mind—his eyes wide as I sat at the table, privy to their blood-soaked plans. It's clear, Matteo wants me all in, chained to the throne beside him in this underworld kingdom.

The warm Australian night does nothing to cool my skin, flames licking inside, fuelled by the power radiating from the man before me.

As Matteo slides into the driver's seat, the engine roars to life, mirroring the wild, reckless beating of my heart.

This is our world, cruel and beautiful—and I'm too far gone to ever climb out.

"Matteo?" My voice cuts through the heavy silence, a blade poised at the edge of darkness.

"Yes, Princess," he answers, his fingers curling around the ignition.

The engine purrs to life beneath us, growling like some feral beast as we pull away.

Street lamps flicker above, casting light on Matteo's inked skin, making the art etched into his flesh dance in the shadows—each one a story of violence and survival.

"I’ve been thinking about the proposal that Enzo came to you with." I watch him, muscles tense under my scrutiny.

"What part of it?" His words come out as a low growl, protective instincts flaring to life.

"The trafficking women part." I brace myself for his fury, but there's a strategy playing out in my head—a dangerous gamble.

"It’s never going to happen, Princess," he declares, vehement and final. His blood-stained hand reaches out, claiming my thigh with an iron grip. "I’ll never allow him to do that in my city. You don’t have to worry."

But I'm already tumbling down the rabbit hole, my voice steady, "I was thinking we should allow it. To an extent." I pitch the idea like a gambit, knowing full well the stakes.

"Hang on..." He holds up a hand, commanding me to pause. Shock paints his features raw. "You want to traffic innocent underage women through Sydney?!"

"No," I clarify, fixing my gaze on his dark eyes. "If we hold auctions for women who agree to be sold with contracts to said buyers, then we can control what happens to them." My heart pounds, not just from the adrenaline of murder but from stepping into the role of his equal in this twisted game.

"Like a mail-order bride, but with contracts and a get-out-of-jail-free card to go with it?" He ponders my words, the cogs turning in his mind as he navigates this new territory I've laid before him.

"Exactly." I shrug nonchalantly, as if we're discussing stocks, not souls. "We could make it a business on the books?"

"I'll think about it," he concedes, and I can tell the idea tempts him. It's a solution that could appease Enzo without staining our hands more than necessary. "Could be win-win."

I lean back, letting the leather embrace me, and my eyes devour Matteo's form. The streetlights play over his tattoos, revealing secrets in the ink I've yet to learn. "I don't think I’ve ever seen a man as beautiful as you, Matteo…"

"Are you checkin' me out from over there, Mrs Ricci?" He teases, a smirk playing on his lips, tainted red with someone else's lifeblood.

"I sure am," I shoot back, laughter lacing my voice, "but it’s not Mrs Ricci yet. You might own this city but even you have to wait the six-week grace period to sign a marriage certificate."

He chuckles, a sound that vibrates through the car and into my bones, wrapping around my heart like the chains we willingly forge together. This dance of power and possession, it's intoxicating—and I'm drunk on Matteo Ricci.

"Only three more weeks, Princess," Matteo muses, his voice a low rumble as he shifts gears. The streetlights cast an intermittent glow on his face, revealing the blood that still stains his jawline—a crimson mark of vengeance. "Although I’m thinking of just having Angel marry us today and sending in the paperwork now. It won’t be stamped for three weeks, but it will be sitting in the court office waiting. "

I laugh, the sound sharp and a little hysterical. "Of course, Angel is a celebrant!" It's so absurdly fitting, the thought of Angel presiding over our nuptials. "He did an online course when he got the flight from London," Matteo adds, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

The car takes a sharp turn, throwing me against the side. My breath catches, and for a moment, I'm weightless, suspended in this life we've carved out of darkness and desire.

"Well, that guy is full of surprises. But a bit presumptuous don't you think?" I challenge, arching an eyebrow. "What if I had said no?"

Matteo's laugh is a dark chuckle, one that sends shivers down my spine. "You and I both know that would have never happened!" He looks at me then, his gaze fierce and unyielding, as if he can see straight into the marrow of my bones.

It could have, I think, even as my body betrays me, leaning closer to his magnetic pull. Why does this fucker know me better than I know myself?

"Nope," Matteo says, popping the 'p' with a surety that seals my fate as much as any vow could.