Page 39 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)
"Watch the language," I scold, tapping the back of his skull lightly.
He grins, all cheek. "Mum said I can swear as long as it's inside the house and not out in public. "
I shake my head, trying not to smile. Kid's got guts, I'll give him that.
"Your mother..." My words stall in the thick air, lodged deep in my throat.
Niko's eyes are shimmering pools, brimming with unshed tears that tug at something primal inside me.
I swipe a hand over the tightness in my chest, the ache there nothing to do with broken bones.
"She's got her own style," I manage, voice rough like gravel.
"If she gives you the green light on swearing, then hell, it's gospel. "
"Boss." Angel's voice cuts through the tension, stern as a slap across the face. He's standing—a sentinel by the pool table turned command center—eyebrows knitted like he's holding back a storm. "Sit the fuck down before you fall down!"
I can't sit; every fibre screams to keep moving, to tear the city apart brick by bloody brick until I find her. "I can't sit, I need to find her." The words are a growl, a challenge.
"Seriously cunt, put your fucking ass in a seat now before I make you," Angel snaps back, no hint of jest in his tone. His concern is as stifling as a chokehold, suffocating in its intensity. "We're on it, but you crashing to the floor won't help anyone."
Defiance simmers in my blood, but reason—or whatever twisted version of it I operate on—prevails.
I slump into the nearest chair, the movement sending a jolt of pain shooting through my fractured collarbone.
Gritting my teeth against the hurt, I lock eyes with Angel, who's all focus and fingers flying over his laptop keys.
"What have we got?" I demand, voice slicing through the hum of electronics and the scribble of markers on whiteboard.
Angel doesn't look up, but I can hear the click-clack of his determination, the hunt laid out in keystrokes. There's a war raging silent in this room, and we're right on the front lines, strategy our weapon of choice.
"Talk to me, Angel." It's not a request—it's an order, barked from a throat lined with desperation and the metallic taste of fear for Eleanor. Without her, the world's just shades of grey, and I'm a beast clawing through shadows.
Angel's fingers pause, hover above his keyboard like birds of prey ready to dive. "Okay," he starts, his voice rough as gravel, "we've been combing for everything to do with Patrick. All his properties, possible flight details..."
"Spit it out," I growl, my patience thinning like ice under a blowtorch.
He huffs, eyes still fixed on the screen.
"Three in Sydney, two in Melbourne, one in Perth that he still owns.
Used to be thirteen before he bailed ten years ago.
Been selling them off..." His voice trails, but I'm already piecing the puzzle together, feeling that sick twist in my gut tightening with every word.
"Those renovations... always the same contractors, Murphys Contractors," Niko adds, looking up at me with Eleanor's sharp eyes. The kid's a genius, too damn smart for his own good—and mine. Eleanor's touch is all over him, her wit, her brains. Goddamn it, where is she?
"The last six properties are untouched, primo for flipping," Niko continues, snapping me back from the edge of my own spiraling thoughts .
Angel finally tears his gaze from the laptop and faces me, dragging his hand down his face. "That leaves us with three here in Sydney."
"Where?" The word comes out strained, almost a snarl.
Niko's on it, rattling off addresses like he's reading from a grocery list, not potential lifelines to Eleanor. "Warehouse in Campsie, house in Botany, strip of shops in Blacktown."
"Details," I demand, needing more, always more.
"The shops are dead, haven't seen life in twelve years. Warehouse leased to some clothing joint. And the house... rented to a Mrs Tinsdale, seventy if she's a day. She owned it before Murphy swooped in, now pays a pittance to stay."
"Hasn't changed the rent in ten years..." He frowns, that crease between his brows deepening. Something's not right.
"Angel," I bark, a fresh surge of adrenaline kicking through my veins. "Mrs Tinsdale. Dig up what dirt you can. Now."
"Already on it, Boss." Angel’s back to his laptop, fingers a blur.
The room spins, a carousel of chaos and possibility, each detail another potential lead to Eleanor. That woman, Mrs Tinsdale—she could hold the damn key. Where are you, Princess?
Angels head pops back up and says, “She's been a widow since she was twenty-six, her husband meeting his end in a brutal car wreck."
"Real accident or does it look like a hit?" I spit out the words, feeling that familiar itch of suspicion crawling up my spine .
"Accident, a car ran a red light, and he was killed on impact," Angel mutters, his eyes never leaving the screen.
"Work?" My voice cuts through the tension hanging in the air.
"Hold on, just hacking the ATO," Niko's fingers dance across the keyboard like he's playing a damn concerto. Kid's got skills, but this shit? It's next level.
"Hacking the what?!" My temples pound, head spinning with the cocktail of pain meds and adrenaline.
"Okay, I’m in…" The kid's all focus, concentration etched into his young face. "Right, so it seems she hasn't worked once in the last ten years."
Angel leans back, squinting at his own screen. "She's on disability due to breaking her back at work. Took a tumble down some stairs, got a payout, but needs the pension to survive."
"Um Dad……" Niko's voice trembles, and when I snap my gaze to him, his face is as white as bone.
"The owner of the company was Conner - Conner Murphy."
"For fuck’s sake!" Fury explodes inside me, and the chair I'm perched on becomes a missile that crashes into the TV, shattering the screen. The sharp crack echoes my rage. "What the fuck is going on?!"
"Watch your collarbone Boss," Angel huffs, not even flinching at my outburst.
"Spike!" My shout ricochets up the staircase. "Get the car ready, and strap on!"
"Angel, we’re going to pay a visit to Mrs Tinsdale." The words are a growl, a promise of hell to anyone who stands in my way.
"Niko, you’re going in the storage room." I turn to my son, locking eyes with him.
"The storage room?" He blinks, confusion written all over his face.
"Yep, I’m not taking the chances of having you with us, but I’m also not taking the chances of leaving you unprotected." I tilt my head up toward the ceiling where our fortress of solitude hides behind cold steel.
"Take your laptops with you." Angel's voice is firm, brokering no argument. "They work inside the room. You can keep an eye on us and help feed me information as I need it."
"Okay…" Niko's reply is soft, unsure, but there's no room for debate.
"Come on kid, I’ll take you up." Angel gestures toward the stairs, already moving, ready for whatever hell we're about to unleash.
"Niko," I grasp his shoulder, squeezing tight. "I love you." Three little words that mean more than any empire I could ever build.
"Love you too, Dad," Niko's voice cuts through the tension like a knife, his words quick and sure.
That hits me harder than any bullet could.
There's no damn way I thought I could stay standing without Eleanor by my side, but looking at him—my boy—it's clear he's the anchor that's keeping my feet planted on this blood-stained earth right now.
He hasn't been mine for long, but shit, the love I've got for him is wild, fierce, like an inferno in my chest. A perfect blend of me and Eleanor, he's the best goddamn thing I've ever had a hand in making.
I stare at him, my heart hammering behind my ribs, wondering if my own folks ever felt a shred of what I feel for Niko.
Doubt it. They weren't in the business of coddling—I was moulded to be a king of shadows, not a kid dreaming of sunshine.
My old man's brand of love was cold steel and whispered threats. But Eleanor, she's something else. She treats Niko with a kindness that's foreign in our world, raises him to be human, not just another pawn in the game. And fuck me if that isn't something I respect more than anything.
"Go on, get to the room," I grunt, pushing past the ache in my collarbone to give him a shove toward safety. "We've got a war to wage."