Page 46 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)

Chapter Thirty-Four

Matteo Ricci

I grunt, shifting in the goddamn chair that's become my temporary bed.

Swear it's a medieval torture device masquerading as furniture.

My shoulder's throbbing like a bastard, collarbone screaming every time I bloody well breathe.

A lazy-boy, they call it. Must've been named by some sadistic prick who never took a bullet.

Eleanor's asleep, thank fuck, her chest rising and falling with that steady rhythm that keeps the darkness at bay. She's a tough one, but these days even she's got limits. Crutches stand sentinel by the bed, a reminder of battles still being fought.

The warehouse stint was a clusterfuck of stitches and antiseptics, but Angel hauled our asses back home—said it'd do us good.

Seven days to unravel this mess before we're face-to-face with the other bosses.

Enzo's dirty hands are all over this shit, just gotta prove it.

And the two goons we nabbed might sing, given the right. .. persuasion.

Eleanor wanted to grill them herself, fire in her eyes even through the pain.

But three days of hell softened her resolve, and Spike's now playing interrogator.

Five hours and counting, radio-fucking-silence from him.

Angel, with his gadgets and wires, assures us he's on top of it.

Says he'll feed us the intel soon. The waiting’s like a blade twisting in my gut, patience never my virtue.

I glance over at Eleanor again, watching for any sign of discomfort. The thought of her in pain twists something fierce inside me. I'm used to control, to power, but this—a fight where I can't just snap my fingers and fix everything—it chafes worse than the damn sling cutting into my skin.

Niko had taken to sleeping in our bed next to Eleanor every night, his little frame a protective shield around her delicate form.

The fear of almost losing her had etched deep lines of worry on his face, his usually stoic expression now softened by the need to keep her within arm's reach.

His once private dungeon downstairs now stood abandoned, he now hovered over Eleanor's every move, as if afraid she might vanish if he looked away for a moment.

Eleanor, on the other hand, seemed to bask in Niko's constant presence, her laughter ringing through the house whenever he was near.

She welcomed his affection with open arms, finding solace in his unwavering devotion.

Their bond was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to wrap around them both like a protective cloak.

It was as though they were two halves of the same whole, inseparable and intertwined in a dance of love and loyalty.

As I observed them together, I couldn't help but feel like an outsider peering into their intimate world. The way they gravitated towards each other spoke volumes about the depth of their connection, leaving me feeling like I was witnessing a rare and beautiful phenomenon unfold before my eyes.

"Spike is heading home now," Angel's voice cuts through the silence, gravelly and sure. He's hunched over his tech fortress at the dining table, screens giving his face an eerie glow.

Eleanor frowns, the crease in her brow deep enough to hide secrets in. "I always forget that man has a house of his own. Matteo, I wanna buy the neighbour’s houses and have Angel and Spike live closer," she declares, conviction lacing her voice despite the painkillers swimming in her system.

I can't help but smirk at her audacity, my heart a twisted mess of adoration and concern. "You planning to start a mafia commune?" I tease, trying to ignore the throb in my shoulder.

Then Angel laughs, a sound rich and full-bodied, echoing off the walls. Eleanor scowls at him. "What is so damn funny?"

"You do not want me living next door, Eleanor," he chortles, shaking his head.

"Why not?" She's got that look, arms crossed, ready to take on the world from her propped-up throne of pillows.

"It would make it easier to get to and from work, and I could keep an eye on you!" Her tone brooks no argument, but she's missing the point, as usual.

"That right there is exactly why!" Angel's still laughing, the bastard.

Eleanor's frown deepens, confusion playing across her features. "I’m confused… "

Angel leans back in his chair, the picture of self-assured sin. "You know how you love a form of voyeurism?" His grin's sharp, all cat and canary.

My chest rumbles with a suppressed chuckle.

“Well, it’s one of my favorite pastimes,” Angel chuckles.

"Fuck," Eleanor drawls, dragging the word out like it's got barbs on it. Her voice is a slow pour of honey over the tension in the room. "You're into that sort of shit too, Angel?"

Angel's grin goes wide, all teeth and no remorse. "More than you." He leans back, arms spread across the back of his chair, owning the space around him.

Eleanor's eyes nearly pop out of her skull, and I can see the wheels turning in her head, adding up two and two to get a five she never saw coming. "You do not."

Angel chuckles, low and throaty. "Oh, Eleanor, the last thing you want is to be out hanging the washing in the morning and looking up at my balcony." That grin hasn't left his face, not even for a second.

"Ooh, my God!" The words explode from her, and she slaps her hands over Niko's ears as if it'll scrub clean what he's already heard. "You dirty, dirty man," she accuses, but the laughter bubbling up from her belly tells another story.

"Dirty" doesn't even start to cover it. In our line of work, filth clings to your skin and seeps into your soul. Angel knows it, revels in it, and makes it his own brand of art.

"Look at this," Angel says, motioning toward the window with a dramatic sweep of his hand. "I think the view of the bay is all you need."

Eleanor turns, looking at the endless blue water, calm as a lie. A soft smile ghosts her lips. "I think you’re right about that one." She looks over at me; cheeks tinged pink like the sky at dawn after a night spent spilling secrets and blood.

"I don't mind buying the neighbor’s houses," I throw in with a wink. You might as well stir the pot; keep things simmering.

She hurls the pen she's been fidgeting with straight at me. "Oh, shut up." It bounces off my chest, harmless as a moth. "You’re all a bunch of dirty men."

I can't argue with that. Not when we've built empires on dirt and graft. Every one of us here, bound by sinew and secrecy, knows just how filthy we are.

And not a damn one of us is looking to get clean.

The door swings open with that familiar creak, the one I've meant to oil for weeks now. Spike strides in, the scent of soap clinging to him like a badge of cleanliness in an otherwise stained world. He's all crisp lines and fresh fabric, starkly contrasting the grit and grime of our daily dealings.

"What took you so long?" Eleanor's voice cuts through the room, sharp as a blade. She's perched on her usual throne of cushions, a queen in her own right, not having budged since the sun first clawed its way into the sky.

"Had to go home and clean up," Spike says with a nonchalant shrug, but there's something tight about his shoulders, a coil ready to spring.

"That's a long fucking shower!" Eleanor’s glare could start fires. "Where do you live? Fucking Campbelltown?"

"No, I have an apartment in Paddington," he shoots back, his frown mirroring hers. "What's with the interrogation? "

"She wants to buy the neighbor’s houses and have us move in," Angel announces. He saunters in, popcorn in hand, like we're here to binge some daytime drama, not unravel the knots of the city's seedy underbelly.

"She does know you’re into voyeurism, right?" Spike's gaze lands on Eleanor, a mix of amusement and challenge dancing in his eyes.

"She does now," Angel chuckles, tossing a kernel into his mouth, crunching the tension between bites.

“So, not keen to buy the neighbor’s pads anymore?" Spike arches an eyebrow, his grin spreading wide across his face.

"Nah, yeah, I changed my mind," Eleanor's laughter is a light flicker in the dark canvas of our world. It's rare and beautiful, even if it's laced with sarcasm. "But seriously, what took you so long? I was a bit worried."

"I usually like to blow off some steam after I’ve spent some time doing what I did," Spike explains, his fingers sketching quotes in the air, painting invisible words that we all can read loud and clear.

"Oh," Eleanor's cheeks bloom with a flush of red, a rare show of embarrassment from a woman who's seen the darkest corners of our lives. "Sorry," she mumbles, and it's almost comical how this single word seems to struggle out of her mouth like it's foreign to her tongue.

I lean back, watching the exchange, a smirk on my lips. We're a fucked-up family, sure.

Spike strides across the room, a predator in his own right. He leans down over Eleanor, his lips brushing the crown of her head in a tender gesture that clashes with the darkness clinging to our souls. "Thank you for caring, but..." His voice drops to a whisper meant only for her ears.

I watch, something like warmth flickering in my chest. These moments are rare. They're the tiny sparks in an endless night. The Buffy clan's got its hooks in Eleanor, and she's one of us now—claws, fangs, and all. This is family.

"So, what did you find out?" I ask, my voice slicing through the softness of Spike's moment. He slides into a seat next to Eleanor, his eyes meeting mine with that look that says shit's about to get real.

"A lot, actually," Spike starts, his gaze shifting to Angel. "And I'm sure Angel has done some digging while he got the information, too."

"Yep!" Angel punctuates the air with that sound like he's having the time of his life. The bastard loves this game, even when it's soaked in blood and secrets.

"Umm, are we gonna talk with mini-me in the room?" Angel jerks his thumb toward Niko, sitting there as quietly as the grave, soaking everything in.