Page 38 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Matteo Ricci

B eeping. That incessant beeping drills into my skull like a jackhammer, shattering the void I’ve been lost in. Eyelids weigh a ton each, refusing to cooperate. Every muscle screams in protest, rebellion against movement.

“He’s waking up,” a voice, soft and unfamiliar, slices through the fog wrapping around my consciousness.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, boss," another, this one gruff and edged with concern, from the other side.

Confusion reigns in my head. My mind's a scrambled mess, trying to piece together the fragmented snapshots that are my last memories. The weight on my chest is crushing—physical and mental—a heavy, leaden blanket smothering me.

"Princess..." It's all I can manage, a croak more desperate than audible. My tongue feels swollen, dry as the barren outback that stretches across this godforsaken continent .

"Boss," the urgent tone from my right snaps at me, demanding. "Boss, you need to wake up, mate."

Gritting my teeth, I fight against the heaviness of my own body, forcing my eyes open to a slit.

Blurred shapes swim into view, slowly sharpening into focus.

The stark, sterile walls of the makeshift hospital room claw at my senses.

Cold, hard reality bites down. Warehouse.

.. our warehouse. The place where we patch up bullet wounds and broken bones away from prying eyes.

"Princess!" I try for a shout, but it's nothing more than a ragged whisper, a weak call that wouldn't scare a rat.

She should be here. Where the hell is she?

Panic claws up my throat, a wild animal caged in my ribcage.

Fear isn't something I'm accustomed to, an unwelcome stranger in my house of power and control.

But it's there now, gnawing at my insides like a feral beast.

"Where the fuck is Eleanor?!" The words scratch their way out of my throat, raw and desperate. My gaze darts around the sterile gloom of the warehouse hospital room. No sign of her. Only shadows and silence answer back.

"She isn't here, boss, she was taken," Spike's voice cuts through the fog in my brain, sharp as a switchblade.

The room spins, my heart hammers against my chest like it's trying to break free. I can feel the darkness slithering up from the depths, threatening to drag me under. No. Not now.

"Boss, god dammit, don't you dare; I need you here to help me." Spike's grip on my arm is ironclad, hauling me back from the edge of oblivion. His snarl is inches from my face, hot breath searing my skin .

"Who took her?" I demand, each word a bullet fired point-blank.

"I don’t know, they turned up seconds after the crash, used the jaws of life on the car, grabbed her and left." He exhales long and hard, his frustration a tangible thing in the air between us. "I was pinned by the steering wheel; I couldn't get out to help her. I’m sorry, boss."

"Fuck, we gotta go get her." I try to rise, but pain lances through every inch of my body, a brutal reminder of my own mortality. It’s no use; I'm as weak as a newborn fawn, limbs trembling with the effort.

"Sorry boss, you’re not moving till the doctor has finished with the x-rays and tests," Spike's plea is laced with worry, his eyes begging me to understand.

"Fuck!" The scream tears from me, a primal sound of anguish and self-loathing. Tears carve tracks through the grime on my face. "I fucking didn't keep her safe! I promised her I would keep her safe. I kept her with me at all times to keep her safe, but by keeping her close I got her kidnapped!"

Every confession feels like a nail driven into my flesh, an indictment of my failure. "This is all my fault; she was safer in bloody London!"

"Boss," Spike's hand is heavy on my shoulder, grounding me, a lifeline in the tempest. "I honestly don't think she was safe anywhere."

His eyes hold mine, and in them, I see the echo of my own torment. Regret flickers there, a ghostly flame in the dark. But beneath it, there's something else—something unyielding.

Eleanor might be quick-witted and sharp, her tongue a weapon that could cut through steel, but right now she needs me, and I'll be damned if I let her down again.

No matter what it takes, I will find her.

I will bring her home. Because without Eleanor, this twisted empire I've built is nothing but a house of cards, ready to collapse at the slightest breath.

"Alright, Spike, what are you not telling me?" My voice is a gravelly growl, the edge of command still there despite the pain that laces every word. I can feel the weight of his hesitation before he even speaks.

Spike drags a chair across the concrete floor, its screech a bitter harmony to my thrumming pulse.

He collapses into it like his bones are lead, running a hand over his stubbled face as if to wipe away the fatigue and fear etched into his skin.

"Angel found out some info after we left," he begins, voice thick with unease.

"All that digging he did into the camera footage, and the people living in the apartment building Eleanor lived in ten years ago pulled up a name we didn't realize was important until now. "

"Whose?" The frown on my face feels like it's carved from stone.

"Patrick Murphy." The name hits the air like a bullet, and suddenly the room's too tight, too hot.

"Patrick fucking Murphy? The London snake?" I spit out the words, venom coating my tongue. "The one who helped to hide her and kept Niko a secret?" My volume's cranking up, heat rising in my chest, a beast awakening. "How the fuck did that cunt’s name come up?"

Spike won't meet my eyes; they're glued to the cracked floor, guilt written in the lines of his slumped posture.

"Well, he owned the apartment building. In fact, he even owned the apartment building Eleanor first lived in; the one over in Glebe.

I don't know what it all means, but he’s been tied to her for as long as you have… "

"What the fuck?" I snarl, my brain trying to piece together this twisted puzzle, each revelation another jab to my gut. "This makes no sense."

"Angel's been smashing his head against it too," Spike says, his voice strained thin. "He's been scouring through his Australian bank statements and finances, but there's nothing out of place. Just rent from properties and money from sales of buildings...all clean. All after she left Australia."

"So, he bailed the same time she did, tailing her scent like a bloodhound?" The words tumble out, laced with confusion and a rising tide of fury. "You don't think he’s the bastard who had her raped?"

"Fuck knows," Spike mutters, looking about as lost as I feel. "He isn’t tied to any mob down under, or so Angel reckons. No strings, no connections."

"Christ." I press my palms into my eyes, willing away the darkness that threatens to swallow me whole. Who the hell is Patrick Murphy, really?

"Boss, we'll figure this shit out," Spike assures with a grim determination that mirrors my own. But deep down, the question gnaws at my insides: Who the fuck has my Eleanor?

Pain jolts through me as I shove the sheets away, every breath a goddamn knife in my side. "He isn't Irish Mafia, is he?" The question claws out of my throat, raw and ragged.

Spike's eyes are hard, his jaw set tight. "Not that Angel can find." He's got that look, the one that says we're wading into deeper shit than we thought.

"Christ." My hand scrapes over my face, dragging along stubble that feels like sandpaper. "This isn't happening. Who the fuck is Patrick Murphy?"

"Still piecing it together," Spike huffs, frustration lining his face.

The door swings open with a creak that grates on my last nerve, and the doc strides in, all business and bullshit bedside manners. "Doc, I need to get this sorted out now," I growl at him, feeling like a caged animal.

"Okay, got it." He's flipping through papers clipped to a board, not looking at me. "I have your x-rays here. You have three cracked ribs, a fractured collarbone and cheekbone, you also had dislocated fingers, and you have a concussion."

Every injury cataloged is another reminder of how she's out there, alone. Vulnerable.

"Fuck's sake." It slips out, a hiss between clenched teeth.

"Given your condition, we should—" he starts, but I'm not having any of it.

"Skip the damn formalities," I cut him off. "MRI, now. Then I'm off to find Eleanor."

"Mr. Ricci, your injuries?—"

"Are nothing compared to what'll happen if I don't get her back." There's a promise in my voice, one laced with all the violence I've meted out before and will unleash again.

The doc's verdict finally comes after an eternity.

"No bleeding inside," he says, like it's a fucking consolation prize for the agony lacing my collarbone.

My arm's been up under my chin for hours now, numbed by pills that make my extremities feel like they're floating somewhere in the room but not attached to me.

I push through my front door, each step a jab of pain—or what I can still feel of it. Stairs creak under my boots as I head straight for my room. No way I'm letting this brace imprison me any longer than necessary.

With a grunt, I peel it off, freedom and a sharp twinge greeting me together. Gotta be careful now, only use it when there's no other choice. I slide into stretch jeans, pull a black top over my head—tight against my skin—and shove the pain back where it belongs.

Two floors down, the Niko’s lounge is a mess of tech and wires, whiteboards screaming with notes. A regular crime scene, minus the body bags. Niko's planted on the floor amidst it all, his eyes light up like flares when he spots me.

"Dad!" He launches himself at me, nearly crushing my already bruised ribs. His face buries in my chest, voice muffled. "I’m so glad you’re okay."

"Easy, tiger," I chuckle, wincing as his grip tightens. I cup his face, guide him back an inch. "Let's not snap me in half, huh?"

"Shit, sorry, Dad." His apology comes out quick, eyes dancing with mischief.