Page 35 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)
Chapter Twenty-Four
Eleanor Wang
M y eyes scan over the pages spread out before me, but they're just blurs—blots of black on white that mean shit all to me right now. I can't shake the memory; the recoil of the gun still thrums through my veins like a second pulse.
I thought I wanted nothing to do with the Riccis' world, to keep my hands clean and my conscience clear. But fuck, was I naive. Watching Matteo, seeing the lengths he'd go for me... it's twisted, but it's got me feeling more alive than I've been in years. The sidelines were never gonna be enough.
Matteo isn't insane—no, he's calculated, cold as ice when he needs to be.
But to me? He's something else entirely.
He's fire and fury, sure, but also whispers and warmth.
When his world bleeds into ours—at home—he's still mine.
Still soft, even if his hands have done things that would make most stomachs churn.
"Princess?" His voice cuts through the fog in my head. There's a click of fingers, a snap close to my face, pulling me back.
"Shit sorry, what’s up?" My voice doesn't match the pounding of my heart. I'm not scared, not exactly. It's more like awe, maybe respect. Or something darker, something that whispers that I'm just like him.
"I called you three times Eleanor, you sure you’re okay?" His frown digs deep lines into otherwise youthful skin, concern shadowing those sharp, dangerous features.
He's worried about me—worried I'll see him as a monster. Little does he know, I'm starting to think we're cut from the same cloth. A killer's cloth. I killed a man and slept soundly, wrapped in dreams soaked in vengeance. Am I fucked up for that? Maybe. But Matteo, he gets it. He always has.
I want to laugh, to tell him he's got nothing to worry about, that I don't fear him. I respect the hell out of him. And despite—or maybe because of—the blood on his hands, I feel safe. Protected. Because I know, without a doubt, there's not a fucking thing in this world he wouldn't do for me.
"Fine, baby, just daydreaming," I assure him, forcing a smile. It's half true. Daydreams and nightmares are getting hard to tell apart these days. But this? This raw, violent life? It's our reality. And as fucked up as it is, I wouldn't trade it for the world.
Maybe I should've stayed ten years ago, I think, tracing the cold wood of the desk with a fingertip. But then the ghosts of those betrayers flicker through my mind. No, safety was never guaranteed, not even within the gilded cage of Matteo Ricci's world .
He arches an eyebrow, then he leans down, lips brushing mine—a gentle storm, a tender tempest. "I hope it's a nice daydream," he murmurs against my mouth.
"Baby, any daydream that consists of you is nice," I answer, tasting the truth in my words. His chuckle rumbles like distant gunfire, sending shivers down my spine. "Well, thank you, Mrs. Ricci."
"Still not your Mrs yet; stop counting your chickens before they've hatched," I tease back, half-hearted, because goddamn if the idea doesn't thrill me to the core.
"Just over two weeks left, Princess; close enough!" His voice holds a promise, one sealed in blood and whispered vows.
I mimic chicken wings with my arms, a playful threat in the midst of our dangerous ballet. "Don't make me turn your ass pink again!"
"As appealing as that sounds, Matteo, I have a mountain of paperwork to do thanks to you and your paperwork allergies," I retort, cocking an eyebrow in challenge.
"That shit gives me hives," he groans, scratching his arm in mock agony. It's almost endearing—almost.
"Thankfully, you're rich enough to pay me double to do it. I need mental health pay too for the amount of stress you're putting me through." My voice is half-joking, but the edge is real.
"Sorry, Princess, I’ve never been good at the whole paperwork side of it all; I prefer to be out on my feet than in here on my ass," he admits with a shrug that speaks volumes of his restlessness.
"Plus, you're a billionaire now, I think that's good enough compensation for mental health pay." His gaze holds mine, both challenge and jest.
"Fuck off, cunt." I lob a pen at him, an ineffectual weapon that bounces harmlessly off his chest as he takes his seat by my side. Chairs matching, like some twisted domestic fantasy—courtesy of Angel, no doubt.
"Should've asked for my own desk," I mutter under my breath, remembering how Matteo shot down the idea, claiming we'd just end up knocking elbows all day long. The thought irks me—his constant nearness a smothering heat.
The chair creaks as I shift, trying to carve out a sliver of personal space between us. His presence is an enveloping shadow, his warmth a constant pressure against my side. Fucking annoying.
"Need room to breathe, Matteo," I mutter, nudging him with my elbow. He just grins that maddening grin and taps away on his laptop, oblivious to the claustrophobia creeping up my throat.
"I have a few things I need to set up for the four-seat meeting next week," he announces, eyes not leaving the screen. "And I need to find a new receptionist as well."
My brow arches involuntarily. "Why a new receptionist? Is one of the girls leaving?"
He pops the 'p' like a gunshot. "Nope. I want to fire Becky."
"Fire her?" I frown, puzzled and a tad annoyed—another thing to deal with. "Why?”
"Since she found out about you, her advances have gotten worse," he sighs heavily, a rare note of weariness threading his voice. "I don't like the way she acts towards me."
I roll my eyes. "Well, she pisses me off too, Matteo," I admit, crossing my arms over my chest. "But she's good at her job, isn't she? And I trust you enough to know nothing will happen. So I'm not fussed if she stays or goes." I shrug, trying to mask the twinge of jealousy.
Matteo leans back in his chair, lips curling into a smirk that's all dark promise and danger.
"Oh, I know Princess, but she pisses me off," he growls, the words heavy with unspoken threats.
"Most people who piss me off get a bullet between their eyes.
And she is heading that way if she doesn't back off, hence why I need to fire her. "
"Okay, but maybe we can put it off for another couple of weeks?
Maybe after this meeting?" I say, trying to sound reasonable amidst the chaos that seems to follow him like a shadow. "I have enough paperwork to keep me employed for the next six years so I can’t really help you just yet anyway. And you have enough work and the meeting. Let’s just worry about it after? "
He frowns, the gesture foreign on his usually impassive face. "Yeah, I think that’s actually a good idea." But his eyes darken, and I know he's imagining Becky's face when he tells her she's done. "But it doesn't make seeing her face every day any easier."
I let out a belly laugh that ricochets off the walls. "And this is why I love you," I tell him. "Any other man would love the attention, yet you're acting like she has COVID!" My heart thrums, not just from the adrenaline that comes with being near him, but from something deeper, more dangerous.
"Princess, even after you left, I still didn't see any other women." His voice has dropped to a whisper now, the confession slipping out like a silver blade glinting in the dark. "You broke that part of me."
"Broke that part?" I echo, my pulse racing.
"Yep, you came in and smashed it. Every time I looked at other women, all I could see was how different they were from you." He admits it sheepishly, and it's so fucking endearing I can barely stand it.
Fuck, this guy makes my knees weak and my mouth water.
I wanna suck his dick for those sweet words.
"Dude, you can't say shit like that," I scold him, pointing a finger at him, then jabbing it toward the laptop screen piled with digital mayhem.
"I'm never going to get any work done if you keep making my undies wet and wanting to jump your bones," I sigh, frustration knotting in my throat.
"I can always hire an admin lady," he teases with a wink that's pure sin.
"Then what would happen to my job?" I snap back, the challenge clear in my tone.
He wiggles his eyebrows, a wolfish grin splitting his face. "I can pay you to sit there and look pretty."
"Fuck off, cunt," I bark, chucking another pen at him—it sails past his head and clatters against the wall. I'm running low on ammo here. "This is why I need my own desk. You're too distracting!"
He leans over, presses a kiss to my cheek that sizzles against my skin. "Get back to work before I have to fire you," he murmurs, the threat playful but edged with steel.
As he stands and strides toward the door, confidence rolling off him in waves, I can't help but call out, "Where are you going?"
"To make sure the office is empty and ready for the date I need," he throws back over his shoulder, his voice trailing off like the tail end of a storm.
The door clicks shut behind Matteo, his presence lingering like the echo of a gunshot. My chest tightens; freedom tastes bittersweet on my tongue. I need space like I need air, yet the silence without him screams too loud. Fucking paradox.
I slump deeper in my chair, alone in the sprawling office that's more a battlefield than a sanctuary. My gaze flits to the laptop, where the blinking notification light mocks me. Two new emails. Aela and Patrick, their names weaving through my thoughts like ghosts.
"Fuck it," I mutter and click open the first email. "Miss you" stares back at me. My heart does a traitorous leap—damn emotions.
"Hey sexy lady," the email starts, and I can practically hear Aela's laughter ringing through the words. Her concern bleeds through the screen, asking if they can visit. Patrick chimes in with his own brand of affectionate grumbling. They miss me. The thought warms and stings all at once.
"Miss you too, you crazy fucks," I whisper, feeling the pull of old ties, memories tugging like chains.
Dragging my thoughts back from London, I shake my head. It's been only four weeks since I left, but each day has stretched, contorted into an eternity of change.
My belongings are adrift somewhere on the ocean, heading this way.
I picture the crates, wondering if they're crammed with more than just clothes and books.
Knowing my luck, I'll be drowning in furniture too.
As if I don't have enough shit to sift through.
Old life, new life—all cluttered together in storage units I've yet to see.
"Get your head in the game, Eleanor," I scold myself. The past is a distraction, a siren call to a ship already wrecked on these rugged shores.
The second email glares up at me, "Visiting" demanding attention. Matteo would have a field day with this. Hell, he'd probably set the docks on fire just to keep unwanted guests at bay.
"Too much drama, not enough booze," I groan. Alone with my swirling thoughts and the whispers of emails unanswered, I feel the void Matteo left behind. The man's like a fucking drug—addictive, dangerous, and impossible to quit.
"Stockholm Syndrome," I mutter under my breath, the words tasting like iron on my tongue. This isn't love; it's a goddamn hostage situation, and I'm both captor and captive. Welcome to the family, Eleanor. Welcome to the goddamn Ricci madness.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, a deep breath steadying my nerves.
The cursor blinks, relentless. Patrick's words glare up at me from the screen, a demand hidden beneath the veneer of concern.
A visit. I can't have that—not yet. Too many pieces still in play, too much blood still fresh on the floor .
"Fuck," I mutter, typing out a response with more force than necessary. The keys click like gunshots in the silence of Matteo's absence.
Subject: Cannot wait
Aela, I cannot wait to see you guys! We're flat out with work right now though; I’m Matteo’s PA now. Matteo is even worse with his paperwork than Patrick was. Can you imagine? I'll check a date with Matteo and let you know. Love and miss you both,
Eleanor xox0
"Shit," I hiss. My heart thumps—a caged bird desperate for the sky—as I hit 'send.' The echo of my pulse drowns out the quiet of the office. I drag a hand through my hair, tugging at the ends as if I could pull the stress straight out of my skull.
"Matteo won't like this," I whisper to the empty room. His world's one where control isn't just desired, it's bloody well demanded. And visitors? They're variables he can't fucking stand.
I owe them—Aela, Patrick—my life. For ten years, they were my shield against the chaos. But Matteo... He's not just chaos; he's the goddamn storm that swallows it whole.
"Blow job first, then ask," I decide, a sardonic laugh bubbling up. It's twisted, this dance we do—pleasure and power wrapped tight in silken sheets. He's always softer, pliant almost, when lust clouds his judgment.
"Food for thought," I scoff, rising from the chair. My legs are stiff, coiled tension begging for release. Maybe after I've worked Matteo over, he'll say yes. Maybe he'll understand why they need to see me, why they can't just take my word that I'm alive and kicking.