Page 47 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)

Eleanor lets out a sigh that sounds like defeat wrapped in resignation. "Even though I would love to say no, I think it's time for Niko to understand the issues; he is a Ricci, after all."

"You say that with such reverence!" My laugh is more bark than anything else, the sound echoing off the walls of our gilded cage.

She points at me, her finger accusing. "Well, his father is the underworld king, is he not?"

"And his mother is the queen." The words are a retort, sharp enough to cut. I'm both those things and neither—a king on a throne built of bones, a queen draped in shadows .

"Are we gonna stay on topic today, children?" Spike chimes in, hands raised like he's balancing the scales of justice.

Angel's there, smirking over his popcorn, the crunch of kernels like the tick-tock of a time bomb we're all waiting to go off. Maybe I should have gotten some fucking popcorn too...

"Yes, sorry," Eleanor's voice draws me back, apologetic but edged with that steel I know all too well. She's no damsel; she's a warrior queen.

This is the moment when we peel back the layers of deceit that have shrouded our world in shadow.

"Okay, well, for all intents and purposes, Fuckwit No.1 told me he was hired by a man named Tino to do the job," Spike says, his voice slicing through the silence. "He had been on Ricci’s payroll for years and wasn't fully okay with what he was asked to do, but the money was substantial."

I lean forward, my elbows digging into my knees. "He was paid 50k in cash up front for the job." Spike continues, recounting the details with the precision of a blade. "He was assured no one would find out and the hotel security cameras would be removed the day before."

"Fuck's sake." I rub a hand over my face. "So, I’m gonna take a guess and say Tino was the Tino - Enzo’s righthand man?"

Spike nods, his expression grim. "Yes, the the same."

Angel chimes in from his perch by the window. "This makes sense, as the apartment building paperwork shows there was some security camera maintenance in the building the same week it went down. "

"Right, well, that’s it for Fuckwit No.1," Spike declares, then his gaze shifts, dark and knowing. "As for Fuckwit No.2, things get interesting."

He pauses, biting his bottom lip—a tell that the news isn’t pretty. "So, Fuckwit No.2 was the one who had the most amount of contact with Tino; he said Tino approached him on a building site where he was working and offered him the same deal as the rest."

My knuckles whiten as I grip the chair, leaning in. "The only difference was he was to scoop out of the building, arrange the day and time that worked best, and arrange everyone to execute their plan."

Spike exhales slowly, and the room holds its breath with him. "They were meant to go in, rough you up, and get you to leave. That’s it," he admits, the weight of the betrayal hanging between us.

I feel the rage simmering beneath my skin, ready to boil over. "They did because he told them that was the plan; he changed it to suit himself."

Angel, ever the fucking detective, adds his two cents. "I ran his record; he had priors for rape and stalking."

"Was he on my payroll too?" My voice is a growl, the threat of violence never far from the surface.

"No, he wasn't, but he was on the payroll of a company your family used for building," Angel meets my gaze squarely, his eyes like flint.

"Remember when your dad had the club in the Cross refurbished into a strip club—' The gentleman's only one?'" I ask, the memory bitter in my mouth.

"Yes," Spike confirms, and it feels like the final piece of a puzzle snapping into place, a picture of treachery revealing itself.

The air in the room is thick with tension, a tangible pressure that seems to squeeze around my chest. My knuckles are white as they grip the edge of my chair, every muscle coiled tight.

"That's the building site he was approached on," Angel cuts in, his voice the scrape of a switchblade against a stone. "Enzo wanted it to be some kind of fucking pleasure palace, right?"

I rake a hand through my hair, yanking at the roots. Memories crowd into my mind, dark and slippery as oil. "Council shot it down. Dad wasn't having any of it either." I can still hear their heated arguments and feel the vibrations of slammed doors.

Spike leans forward, elbows on knees, his gaze briefly flickering to Niko, who's playing the part of an innocent bystander—poor kid's anything but. "When Tino confirmed the job, he nearly blew a gasket after hearing what happened. He was ready to put a bullet in the guy."

Eleanor, her arms folded defensively across her chest, chews on her bottom lip. Her frown is a shadow that darkens her delicate features. "I still don't get how Patrick and Enzo tie together. They're up to their necks in this shit, but why?"

"Has to be something personal," I grumble. The game's always personal in our world.

Niko pipes up, his youthful voice slicing through the murk of theories. "Patrick could be more to Enzo than we think." His eyes are too old for his face; he has seen too much already .

Eleanor's brow knits, her mind turning over possibilities like tumblers in a lock. "But how? Enzo's old enough to be..."

"His dad," Niko finishes for her. A chill runs down my spine at the implication. "Dude's the same age as your old man would've been."

"Enzo never had kids, didn't even fucking marry." I glance at Angel for backup.

"Nothing on record," he confirms, tapping keys on his laptop to punctuate the sentence. The silence that follows echoes with unspoken fears and questions.

I stand abruptly, the movement sharp, a knife thrust into the quiet. "I need something solid. You can't walk into the lion's den unarmed. If I go in blind to meet Enzo..." My fists clench and unclench, aching for the satisfaction of Enzo's blood on my hands.

"Matteo," Eleanor's voice is a tightrope, stretched thin with worry, "we'll figure this out."

"Better be bloody fast." The words are a growl, torn from somewhere deep inside where the darkness lives. "Because if I don't kill him, one way or another, he's going to kill us."

I pace the room like a caged animal, my thoughts racing faster than my feet over the cold tile. The tension's thick enough to choke on. I can almost taste the iron tang of blood in the air, anticipation of violence simmering under my skin.

Niko breaks into my circling, "How old is Patrick?"

"Thirty-eight this year." Eleanor's voice cuts through, sharp as a shiv. I wouldn't say I like the surety in her words, the closeness they imply.

"Teenage dad then, was he?" Spike's trying to lighten the mood, but his humor lands dead as a body in the river .

"Patrick claimed Irish soil birthed him," Eleanor pipes up, flipping her hair back with a flick of her wrist. "But that's worth shit all now."

I stop pacing; fists knotted at my sides. My mind conjures up images of Patrick, smug and breathing, and the urge to tear him apart blooms hot and vicious. "If only I could kill that bastard twice."

Angel's fingers fly over keys, the rapid-fire clicking a staccato beat to our fucked-up symphony. He's hunting ghosts in the wires, digital specters that might give us the edge we need.

"Wasn't his old man Conner Murphy?" Spike’s question hangs heavy, a lead balloon in the stifling room.

"Yeah, Conner and Caitlin," Eleanor confirms, face lit by the blue glow of Angel's screen. "Kicked it in a building collapse, left their golden boy a nice stash."

"Convenient," I mutter, sarcasm dripping like acid from my tongue.

"Too bloody convenient," Eleanor agrees, eyes flinty and sharp.

"Okay, so Enzo has never left Australia," Angel grumbles, frustration lacing his voice.

"You joking!" Spike's laughter is like a bark, a quick, disbelieving sound that echoes off the walls.

Eleanor leans forward, tattoos shifting with the grace of a panther. "What about Patrick’s parents?" she asks, voice cutting through the bullshit.

Angel gives her a look that could curdle milk. "What about them? "

"Have they been to Australia? And when and what date?" Her fingers tap an impatient rhythm on the arm of her chair.

"Meaning, if the bastards planted roots here before Patrick popped out or after," I add, my curiosity clawing its way up my throat.

"Good question, I’ll check." Angel's fingers are back at it, dancing across the keyboard like he's playing some twisted concerto.