Page 37 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)
Chapter Twenty-Six
Eleanor Wang
T ime slows, the world flips—once, twice—an eternity of chaos.
I'm a rag-doll in a tin can, thrown side to side, every bone-jarring impact a drumbeat to the ringing in my ears.
My head's pounding like it's got its own heartbeat. We skid to a halt, and reality snaps back. The car’s upright, but the roof is smothering us, so damn close it presses me into the crushed leather of the back seat.
"Eleanor?" Spike's voice cuts through the dissonance, muffled, like he's shouting from beneath the water. "Eleanor?" Louder now, urgent.
"Here..." I groan, my voice a raspy whisper lost in the wreckage.
My hand flails, seeking something solid.
"Boss?" He's not calling for me now; his concern's for Matteo.
I twist, a sharp stab of pain shooting through me as I reach toward the right where Matteo should be.
Nothing but empty space and twisted metal where he should be.
"What happened?" Panic laces Spike's voice. "Boss!" Desperation now, a raw edge that chills me more than the cold creeping in.
"I can't see him!" The realisation slams into me, a punch to the gut. Matteo isn't here. He's gone.
"Fuck!" Spike’s curse is a snarl of fury and fear. "We need to get out, can you move?"
I try, god, I try, but my body's a lead weight, pinned down. "I don't think so, I’m pretty much laying on the seat back here," I admit through gritted teeth.
"Can you reach or see your door at all?" Spike's trying to keep it together, but his voice is tight, strained.
"I can’t even see you," I rasp out, the effort to speak sending spikes of pain radiating through me.
Footsteps. Running towards us—a rapid cadence over gravel. "Help! Help!" I scream into the void, hoping against hope it's someone who gives a damn.
Metal grinds on metal, the distinct sound of our tomb being pried open. "Help!" I cry again, louder, desperate.
"Eleanor stop!" Spike's shout is a jolt of electricity. "There is no way the authorities got here that quick."
Fear, ice-cold, seeps into my veins. If it's not the cops... then who the hell is it?
"Who is it?" The words slip out, a whisper lost in the chaos.
Then pain, sharp and unyielding—someone's got my ankle.
Light floods the crumpled space where metal used to be, blinding me as they wrench me from my steel cocoon.
"Argh!" The scream tears from my throat, raw and desperate.
My leg's on fire, each tug a new circle of hell.
"Fuck! Stop!" It's pointless, the plea drowned by the grinding of twisted car parts and my own ragged breaths .
"Fuck, Eleanor!" Spike's voice is distant thunder, filled with panic and fury. I hear the sounds of his struggle, boots against dash, a futile attempt to reach me.
Cold air slaps my face, a cruel reminder that I'm no longer trapped. But freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose. And I've lost... so much.
"Matteo..." The name is a prayer, a curse. My eyes search frantically, and there, a shadow sprawled on the unforgiving ground. "No, no, no, no, no!" Desperation claws at my chest, a wild animal refusing its cage.
"Matteo, wake up!" My screams are a siren's call, unanswered, unheard. The truth is a blade twisting in my gut—he's too still, too silent.
"Stop." The command is like gravel, chillingly close. "He's dead." A dark voice, not Spike's, seeps into my ear, carrying the finality of a grave.
My heart hammers, then halts. Matteo can't be gone; this can't be how our story ends. But black spots dance before my eyes, a macabre ballet to the rhythm of my disjointed breaths. The darkness comes, greedy, consuming everything until there's nothing left but the void.
"Are you sure he's dead?" The voice slices through the murky haze of consciousness, sharp and cold. I try to rise, to confront the reality of that question, but my body is a slab of concrete, unyielding, heavy with dread. My eyes, they're shuttered windows refusing to open, keeping me in the dark.
"One hundred percent I checked." Those words seal it—Matteo, sprawled on unforgiving asphalt, life bleeding out.
No, no, no. This can't be. My heart claws at the inside of my chest, desperate to escape the truth.
Where am I? The surface beneath me is firm, steady—a stark contrast to the throbbing chaos of my leg.
It's broken, has to be. The pain is its own entity, gnawing, biting at my senses.
"She's waking up," someone murmurs close by, their voice laced with a quiet urgency that sets my nerves on edge.
Eyelids heavy as iron curtains finally lift after an agonizing struggle.
Blinding white assaults me, a sterile blaze of lights glaring from every direction.
Fuck, it's too much. With a groan, I attempt to shield my eyes, but something halts my arm mid-air.
Chains. Cold metal encircling my wrist, chaining me to the hospital bed.
But this... this isn't a hospital. It's a room drowned in white, walls lined with bookcases crammed full, spilling over with books—a silent audience to my captivity.
"Fuck." The word is a whisper of dust, a futile rebellion against the bindings that hold me down, against the blinding light, against the stark, empty reality that unfolds before me.
My gaze flits across the room, landing on a figure beside me.
A sense of surreal calm floats through my mind, like I'm caught in some twisted daydream.
Books upon books, their spines a kaleidoscope of muted colours and faded gold letters, surround us in this sterile white tomb.
But no, this can't be heaven—not with the stench of betrayal souring the air.
"Patrick?" My voice barely breaks the silence, a hoarse whisper betraying my confusion .
"El." His reply is soft, almost tender, but there's something cold lurking beneath it.
"What the hell, Patrick? What are you doing here?" I demand, fighting against the restraints that hold me captive.
His smile doesn't reach his eyes as he leans closer. "I've come to take you back home," he says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Home?" The word tastes like ash on my tongue. "I don't understand?"
"Home, El." His smile widens, a predator baring its teeth. "You belong to me."
"Belong?" I snort, despite the fear coiling in my gut. "Did you just say that I belong to you?"
"Exactly." He tilts his head, amusement flickering in his gaze. "You didn't think I did everything I did for you for no reason? Come on, El, you’re not that stupid, are you?"
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing Matteo's name. "I don't understand. Why? I thought you were my friend?"
"Friend, yes." He shrugs, dismissing my confusion like it's nothing. "But I also own you. I’ve owned you longer than you think."
Panic claws at me, a feral beast trapped in a cage. This is all wrong. Patrick—the one I love, the one I trusted—now claims me like I'm property. A possession.
"Where is Matteo?" The words scrape out, raw and desperate.
"Dead," he says, casual as if discussing the weather, indifferent to the way my world crumbles .
"And Aela? Where is she?" My voice trembles; my world narrows to the pounding in my head.
"In London. She doesn't know about any of this." He watches me, gauging my reaction.
A spike of pain shoots from my leg to my hip as I attempt to sit up, a scream strangled in my throat. "Fuck," I gasp out. Childbirth was a fucking breeze compared to this agony.
"Easy, El." Patrick's voice holds no comfort, only a command to submit.
The pain's a bitch, gnawing at my insides, making every breath a battle. I shift, trying to find some fraction of relief, but Patrick's hand is firm on my shoulder.
"Stop moving you silly lass; you broke your leg and cracked a few ribs," he snarls, shoving me back against the pillows.
His eyes never leave the screen of his phone, like I'm just another item on his bloody to-do list. "The doctor will be here in five minutes to give you some more painkillers. Just lay down and be patient; we can’t fly till we get your bones set. "
My gaze drifts, heavy and half-lidded, and lands on the other man in the room—the one I've ignored until now. It clicks. Tino, from Matteo's office, with that slick grin and shark eyes. He stands there, leering, like he’s got secrets too dark for daylight.
"Tino?" My voice cracks, sounding foreign even to myself.
"Was wondering if you remembered my handsome face," he beams, smug satisfaction oozing from every syllable.
His face might be chiseled from stone, but it’s his loyalty to Enzo that's unbreakable—or so I thought. "Don't you work for Enzo?" The frown etches deeper into my forehead, confusion mixing with the throbbing ache of betrayal.
"Yes," he says, his smirk stretching wider, baring teeth like a predator scenting blood.
Patrick's patience snaps like a frayed rope. "Shut up, you two." He barks the order, authority radiating from him with the ease of a man used to being obeyed. "Tino, go see what’s taking the doctor so long; I need this leg dealt with so I can go home."
"Right away, boss," Tino mutters, spinning on his heel and striding out.