Page 36 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Matteo Ricci

" E leanor, dinner ready!" I bellow up the stairs, the clink of cutlery against porcelain a symphony to my ears.

It's the one thing that's pure in this twisted life—a home-cooked meal for my makeshift family.

Angel and Spike have stuck to me like shadows, long before Eleanor and Niko walked back into my chaos.

They aren't just fixtures—they're fucking necessities.

The house hums with the warmth of loyalty and the scent of bubbling sauce. I'm obsessive, compulsive—my need for them is non-negotiable. Without their daily presence, I'd unravel faster than a bullet tears through flesh.

"Niko, can you set the table please?" My voice carries from the kitchen where I'm king of the castle.

"Already done, Pappy." The pride in his voice grates on me—wrong title again.

"Nope, try again!" I chuckle, shaking my head as I stir the pot. Kid's got a way of testing names like he's trying on shoes. But deep down, I crave that simple three-letter word—Dad. It's foreign, yet it's all I fucking want.

Dad. That label hangs in the air, unfamiliar and enticing. It's not just about the word; it's about being her man, putting another baby in Eleanor's belly. The thought alone gets me hard—wrapped around her, protecting what's mine.

"Need help?” Eleanor's voice slices through my longing, standing there, all queenly in the doorway.

"Princess, I don't need help cooking, only cleaning up after," I shoot back, the corners of my mouth betraying a smirk. She's got this habit of vanishing when it's time to scrub the sins off the plates.

"Poof!" And she's gone, laughter trailing behind her like a ghost.

"Come and grab your plates Fuck Faces! I might cook it, but I don't bus tables too!" I call out, doling out portions of lasagna like I'm dealing cards—a hand everyone wants in on.

"Coming!" The chorus echoes through the house, each voice a testament to this twisted domestic bliss we've carved out in the dark heart of Australia's underworld.

The phone's ring slices through the domestic hum, a harbinger of chaos. Spike's on it like a hawk, his eyes narrowing as he listens to the other end. He turns to me, nodding once—our signal. It's go-time.

"Princess!" My voice booms up the staircase, a commanding echo in the cavernous house. "We gotta go out."

"Really?" Eleanor's voice drifts down, laced with annoyance. "I was just about to have a eat."

"Sorry! And wear something black please," I call back, my words chasing her disappearing footsteps. Silence hangs, a noose of uncertainty. Is she tired of this life? Of me?

I hear her before I see her; those heavy steps betraying her non ninja-like descent. She lands with a flourish, missing the last two steps—a shadow dancer in her element.

"Hiya," she quips, hands darting through the air in fake martial arts chops. That laugh escapes me—it's involuntary, watching her juggle innocence and lethality.

"Come on, Master Splinter, let's go." I can't keep the amusement from my voice, but there's an edge to it, steel beneath velvet.

"Splinter?!" Mock shock paints her delicate features. "It's Michelangelo!" She twirls, hands mimicking the deadly dance of nun chucks.

"Really?" I laugh, grinning despite the urgency.

"We're lean, we're mean and we're green," she declares, hand pressed to her chest in mock solemnity. Bloody hell, she's a riot.

I arch an eyebrow at her. "Didn't realize you were such a devoted fan."

"I'm not; it was Niko's favourite movie when he was little." Her eyes glaze over with reminiscence. "Thousands of hours, Matteo. It's etched into my soul."

"Then, Michelangelo," I say, extending my arm in old-world courtesy, a dark smile playing on my lips, "may I have this honour?"

Her hand slips into the crook of my elbow, a silent pact sealed between us.

"We got two bodies to extinguish," I tell her, voice cheerful as a kid on Christmas morning .

"Oh, really?" The way her eyes light up, you'd think I'd promised her diamonds, not bloodshed.

"The blood lust has taken over there, Princess," I chuckle, but there's pride in that sound. She's mine—fierce and fearless.

"Absolutely," she says, the thrill of the hunt sparking within her. And with that, we stride together towards the night, ready to unleash hell upon anyone who dares cross the Ricci family.

"Okay, okay, let's go kill the past!" Eleanor's voice rings out, fierce and determined, but I'm not fooled. There's a hint of pallor beneath her usual fire, a subtle drain of color that tells me she's not as unaffected as she seems.

"Princess," I start, my voice low and steady, "we're just gonna get the intel on who's pullin' these strings, then we're out.

Spike can handle the clean-up." My eyes lock onto hers, willing her to see the truth in my words.

I shrug nonchalantly. "Unless you're itchin' to show off those sharpshooter skills again? "

A smirk dances on her lips, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. I wrap an arm around her, guiding her with a gentle nudge towards what awaits us outside. "Spike's got the wheels ready. Let's do this quick and get back to our boy."

"Okaaaay, you're right," she breathes out, more to herself than to me.

We stride out together, the cool night air a slap of reality.

The car sits idling, a beast waiting to devour the road.

Spike's silhouette is barely visible behind the wheel, but his presence fills the space like a silent promise of violence.

"Boss!" he greets, nodding as we slip into the leather seats.

I fasten my seatbelt, the click sounding like the chamber of a gun locking into place. "Spike, what's the low down?" I demand, every muscle tensed and ready for what's coming.

"Dean and Jeffrey spotted 'em holed up in Redfern," he says, his voice as gruff as gravel. "Just got word they nabbed 'em both. They’re hauling ass to the warehouse now."

"Good." The one word is a growl, satisfaction mixed with a hunger for retribution. The engine roars to life, echoing my dark anticipation, and we pull away from the curb, leaving behind the illusion of normalcy, plunging headfirst into the abyss.

The streetlights blur past us, painting Spike's set jaw in strobes of orange and white. "So, we're gonna head over to the warehouse," he says, the car devouring the road beneath us, "and hopefully they'll have 'em tied up and waiting for us."

"Good!" My voice is a snarl, the sound of it raw with the promise of violence. "I wanna know who is behind this." The craving for retribution gnaws at my gut, an animalistic hunger for blood and answers.

"We'll be there in twenty, boss." Spike's words slice through the tension like a blade.

I can't sit still, can't fucking wait to tear into whoever dared cross us.

I turn to Eleanor, her profile carved from shadows and moonlight, every line of her face screaming she's made for this life as much as I am.

I grab her chin, rough but needing her to feel me, to understand that this world, our world, won't swallow us whole .

"It's okay, Princess. The big bad wolf will deal with it," I promise her, my lips brushing softly against hers. It's a kiss meant to reassure, to claim, to remind her and me both who the fuck we are in this dark city's food chain.

But then her eyes—those sharp, clever windows to her fierce soul—widen. Shock ripples across her features, and I feel it. The prelude to chaos. A split second where everything slows down, and I know, I fucking know?—

Impact.

Metal screeches, glass shatters, and the world tilts on its axis. Instinct kicks in; I throw my arms around Eleanor, yanking her close as the car lifts off the ground. We're airborne, a brutal dance with gravity and fate, and then?—

Darkness swallows us whole.