Page 41 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Matteo Ricci
"There has to be a faster way through this traffic!" I growl, desperation edging out reason. My leg bounces uncontrollably, a physical echo of the chaos writhing inside me.
Spike manoeuvres the car with the finesse of a beast slinking through the urban jungle, his eyes cold and focused.
"I’m going the fastest way, boss," he snaps back, flipping the bird at some asshole who's too close for comfort.
We swerve, narrowly missing the jerk's bumper as Spike accelerates through the light.
That's when the ringtone slices through the tension—a sharp, jarring note that has me fumbling for the phone. Night security. They'd only call if hell was breaking loose.
"Ricci," I bark into the device, voice like gravel, no room for bullshit.
"Boss, it's Nick here from night security," comes the hasty reply, words tripping over themselves in urgency. "I have a doctor here who desperately needs to talk to you. Says it’s about Eleanor."
My heart clenches, and I feel the blood in my veins turn to ice. "Put him on the line."
"Mr. Ricci, Sir," stammers the voice, thick with fear and something else—hope, maybe, or just the relief of a man unburdening his soul to the devil himself.
"Tell me where Eleanor is," I demand, the command laced with a threat that could freeze fire.
"If you can promise me the safety of my family, I will," he rushes out, nearly tripping over his own words.
"Give Nick the details of your family and I’ll send a team to them the second I hang up," I say, the words coming out like a vow carved in stone. Protection in exchange for information—it's the currency of our world.
"Thank you, Sir," he says, and I can hear the quiver of tears in his voice as he recites names and an address to Nick.
The doc's words hitch in his throat, gasping like he's running from the devil himself. "Patrick Murphy has her holed up in his old nanny place down in Botany. She has a broken leg and broken ribs," he spills out in a rush that tastes like desperation.
My fists clench so tight I feel my nails biting into my palms. "I placed a cast on her leg that takes longer than one day to set with the hope that you can get there before he moves her.
" His voice is a shaky mess, the fear palpable even through the fucking phone line.
"You will need to hurry. I won't be back in the allocated time.
And I think the car that he gave me has a tracker. "
"Fuck!" The curse slices through the tension in the car, sharp as a switchblade. "Wouldn't surprise me if he already knows where I am. You need to get there now," he says, panic edging every word.
"What's the address?" My heart hammers against my chest, blood roaring in my ears like it's ready for war.
"58 Serpentine Street in Botany. It's a little red brick house with a brick fence." There's a tremble in his thank you, like he knows he just sold his soul for a lifeline.
"Thank you," I grit out, each word a promise of retribution. "I owe you."
"Just so you know, she cannot be moved. She has a nasty break in her leg. The moment you pick her up the leg will no longer be set in place, and she will be in immense pain." His voice is like a hammer to my skull, pounding home the reality of Eleanor's agony.
"Fuck, how do we get her out, then?" I snarl, throwing a glance to Angel and Spike who are all business, eyes hard, ready to rain hell.
"She can be wheeled out on the bed she is in," the doctor’s quick to offer a solution, some semblance of hope in this fucked-up scenario. "It’s one of those hospital beds that is used in nursing homes."
"Boss, I’ll arrange a van to come to the house so we can wheel her out," Angel says, fingers already dancing over his phone, orchestrating our next move.
"How long have you worked for Patrick?" I ask, needing to know the measure of the man who dares cross me.
"I don't work for Patrick; I work for Enzo Morelli," he replies, and the car plunges into a silence that's louder than a fucking bomb blast. Enzo Morelli—the name rings like a death knell, a reminder that this game is bigger than one rat in a nest of vipers.