Page 43 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)
Chapter Thirty-One
Matteo Ricci
T he night clings to Mrs Tinsdale’s house like a shroud, silent and foreboding. But nothing, not even hell itself, could keep me from Eleanor.
"Fuck!" I curse under my breath, my boots pounding the gravel driveway. I take the front door with one well-aimed kick, splintering wood flying like shrapnel. "Eleanor!" My voice doesn't sound like my own; it's a desperate roar tearing through the stillness.
Darkness swallows me whole, save for that mocking sliver of light up ahead. That's where she'll be. It has to be.
Spike and Angel are right there with me, the familiar click-clack of their guns a deadly chorus to my racing heart. We storm the lit room—empty. Just a hospital bed, cold and mocking, with cuffs dangling like some sick joke.
"Shit." I spin on my heel, back into the void, shouting her name until my throat burns. She's here. She must be. This godforsaken place reeks of her fear, her pain.
I barrel down the hallway, the darkness clawing at me, trying to slow me down. And then—a glimpse of movement, a muffled whimper.
There. The back door cracks open, moonlight slicing the gloom and there’s Eleanor, in Patrick's grasp, his hand pressed against her lips silencing her cries.
"Eleanor!" It rips from me, a gasp laced with fury and terror.
"Let her go!" I snarl, muscles coiled tight.
"She isn't yours!" Patrick's scream bounces off the walls, mania glinting in his eyes. He's lost to the madness, but he doesn't know who he's fucking with.
I'm Matteo Ricci, and hell will freeze over before I let him take what's mine.
The steel of the barrel presses cold and unyielding against my spine, but it's the gun at Eleanor's temple that has every muscle in my body seizing with dread.
"Take another step and you will never see her again." Patrick's voice is a razor blade sliding through the tension-soaked air. I don't need to see his face to know it's twisted into a sick grin.
"No!" It rips from my throat, raw and desperate. Eleanor's body goes limp, her knees buckling as she crumples into his arms like a marionette with its strings cut.
"Take another step, and I’ll shoot, Matteo." The voice behind me is poison wrapped in velvet. “Tino?” The bastard who's Enzos right hand man.
"Good guess," he sneers, a mockery of camaraderie lacing his tone.
"So, Enzo really is in on this..." I spit out, hoping to keep him talking, stalling for time .
"A little bit of yes and a little bit of no," Tino whispers, sending a chill down my already ice-cold spine. That's when it happens—a hot splash of blood against my head, the scent thick and metallic, filling my nostrils.
Spike's laughter cuts through the chaos, unhinged and chilling. "That fucker talks too much." He's not wrong.
I whirl around, coming face-to-face with Tino's last gurgling breaths, a knife jutting from his neck like a grotesque growth. His blood is a river pouring onto the floor, a dark tide taking him under.
My eyes snap back to Eleanor, to Patrick bending over her like a vulture ready to feast. I launch myself forward, all instinct, no finesse. My shoulder smashes into him, and we're flying—through the doorway, into the night.
The ground hits hard, and pain explodes through me, a white-hot starburst of agony. Collarbone's fucked, but that doesn't matter now.
I barely register the pain before my instincts kick in, a jagged pulse of adrenaline dulling the throb to a distant echo.
Patrick's fist connects with my cheek, a hard, meaty crack that rattles my skull.
His breath reeks as he hisses close, the stink of madness and obsession.
"You can't have her, she's mine," he snarls.
"Fuck you," I grunt, spitting blood onto the grass, the taste metallic and sharp on my tongue.
Rage surges through me, dark and turbulent as the stormy sea.
I launch myself at him, our bodies colliding with the force of our mutual hatred.
My fists fly, each blow a promise, a curse.
His face gives under my knuckles, again and again. Not a bloody chance .
But then, a searing white-hot agony explodes in my shoulder.
A gunshot shatters the night’s silence, echoing off the night like a taunt.
The bullet tears through flesh and bone, a brutal intruder ravaging its way through.
Pain, raw and unmerciful, wraps around me, squeezing the breath from my lungs.
"Boss!" The call is distant, a voice from another world.
I'm falling, collapsing forward, gravity pulling me down onto Patrick's twisted form.
Blood spills between us, hot and slick, a grim testament to the violence we've wrought.
My vision swims, the edges of consciousness fraying as darkness creeps in, whispering sweet oblivion.
A boot kicks me off, sudden and hard. Rain of bullets, one after another—pop, pop, pop, pop—Angel's making sure Patrick won't ever stand again. Blood sprays like a vile fountain, painting the night with death.
"Fuck, boss!" Angel's at my side, his grip iron on my shoulder. "We gotta get out of here before someone calls the cops!"
My head spins, and the ground tilts. "I don't think I can walk..." The world's a hazy, throbbing mess of pain and shadows.
"Fuck off, cunt. Stand the fuck up, let's go!" No gentleness in Angel’s voice, no fucking mercy. He hauls me upright, and the pain is a monster, clawing its way through my flesh.
Spike's ahead of us, cradling Eleanor like she's made of glass, her face deathly pale in the dim light. She's alive. That's all that matters. We move down the hallway, a procession of the damned .
"The van should be out the front, go get Eleanor inside," Angel barks at Spike's retreating back.
"On it," Spike grunts without looking back.
"Come on cunt, walk faster, we need to get some pressure on you before you bleed out on us," Angel's voice is rough, pushing me along.
Through the front door, fresh air hits like a slap. Spike's at the ambulance now, loading Eleanor into its belly. Her tattoos, those intricate stories etched into her skin, are hidden under the sterile white of the bedsheet.
And then it hits me—we're climbing into a fucking ambulance. "Angel, why the fuck is there an ambulance here?" Confusion cuts through the fog in my brain, sharper than the pain wracking my body.
"It's okay, they are under our employ. They will drop you guys off at the warehouse where the doctor is waiting," he says, matter-of-fact amidst the chaos.
"Since when did we have an ambulance on our bloody payroll?" I grunt through clenched teeth, the pain in my shoulder spreading like wildfire.
Angel chuckles, a sound that's too light for the darkness suffocating us. "Since your son employed seven of them last week thinking it would be a good investment," he says, dodging the pools of blood as if it’s just spilled wine.
"Turns out the kid was right; might wanna give him a pay rise, boss!"
"Kid can have anything in this damn world he wants," I spit out, barely recognising my own voice. Pain has a way of distorting things – sounds, sights, even the goddamn soul.
"Thanks, Dad, I've been eyeing off a new TV seeing as I need a new one now," Niko's voice crackles through the ambulance radio, and I swear I can hear his smug grin from here.
"Where the fuck are you?" My growl is a mixture of relief and raw fury. "You're meant to be in the safe room."
"Oh, don't worry I am. I just hacked the ambulance radio," he laughs, that little shit. The thought of throttling him is momentarily as tempting as the thought of safety.
"Fucking kids," I grumble, slumping against the cold metal interior of the ambulance. Angel's hand is a vice grip on my arm, pulling me up.
"Stay with me, Matteo. We're almost there." His words are like anchors, trying to keep me in the land of the living.
The engine roars to life, a beast tearing through the night, ready to swallow us whole. The siren's wail is silent, our escape quiet but just as desperate. Shadows flicker past, the city's underbelly exposed in the harsh glare of passing streetlights.
"Stay awake, boss," Angel's voice cuts through the haze again. "For her."
Eleanor's still form is the only thing in focus, a beacon in the storm. For her, I'd walk through hell barefoot, let alone hang onto consciousness.