Page 48 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Matteo Ricci

S ix days bleed by, a blur of shadows and whispers in my world. I shoulder open the door to my office. Eleanor's perched at the edge of the room, her eyes slicing through the silence. "Found this," she says, flicking a tiny mic taped under the desk with a manicured nail.

"Fuck." The single word is a grenade in the stillness.

Angel's already on it, fingers dancing over his phone like he's playing a damn piano. "It's Becky's," he grunts, and that's all the confirmation I need. That little rat had been scuttling here, laying her traps before every meeting.

"Anything else?" My voice scrapes out, a blade drawn across the quiet.

"Clean as a whistle after that," Eleanor replies, her gaze sharp enough to draw blood.

"Should've known," I mutter, recalling when Becky tried tailoring me here. It wasn't just curiosity nipping at her heels—it was betrayal .

"Enzo's mole or just batshit crazy?" Eleanor's question hangs heavy between us.

"Does it matter?" I say, prowling closer. She stands, and there's a challenge in her eyes, a fire that matches mine.

"Let's give the bitch a send-off she won't forget," she purrs, and fuck if that doesn't sound like the best idea I've heard all week.

The table between us might as well be an altar, but what are we about to do? Sacrilege. But gods, if it isn't divine. Eleanor hops up, her cast making her usual grace a little clumsy, but it only amps the tension crackling around us.

"Want an audience?" she taunts, nodding toward Angel, who's smirking by the doorway.

"Maybe next time," he chuckles, shaking his head before leaving us to our sordid sacrament, the door clicking shut like a confessional booth sealing shut.

"Come here," Eleanor commands, and I obey, driven by raw need and the dark symphony of our twisted desires.

Sex with Eleanor ain't ever just sex. It's power, possession, a war where we both come out on top. With my shoulder aching like a bitch and her leg all cast up, it's a dance of discomfort, but the pain's just another flavor in this feast.

"Take it," she gasps, and I do, claiming her over the table, each thrust a promise to protect what's mine. The mic listens, a silent witness to Becky's downfall. Our bodies move in a brutal rhythm, echoes of dominance and defiance interlaced with pleasure.

"Say goodbye," I grunt, and Eleanor's laugh is like a razor's edge cutting through the air .

"Bye, Becky," she mocks, the words bouncing off the walls.

I finish with a roar that could shake the concrete of our empire, feeling the last shreds of Becky's treachery crumble away beneath us.

We're a mess of sweat and inked skin, a tangle of power and raw emotion, and as I pull away from Eleanor, I know that whatever comes for us, we'll face it head-on, together, unyielding as the steel of our bones and the blood of our hearts.

"Ready to clean house?" I ask, my breath ragged.

Eleanor smiles, feral and free. "Always."

Luca steps out of the lift, commanding attention as he moves with a predatory grace.

The sharp click of his Italian leather shoes echoes in the corridor, a subtle warning to those who dare cross his path.

His eyes, cold and calculating, scan the surroundings with a predator's focus, missing nothing.

Every step he takes exudes power, each movement deliberate and precise, like a lethal dance choreographed for maximum impact.

"Luca," I greet him with a nod, feeling the weight of tonight's reckoning in the air.

"Good to see you again," he replies, thumping my back with a force that speaks more of camaraderie than comfort.

My gaze shifts to Antoni Rossi, his lean figure cutting a less imposing but no less dangerous silhouette. He offers his hand, and I take it, the grip firm but without the need to prove strength .

"Matteo," he says, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Antoni."

We cross the threshold into the boardroom, a den where decisions are carved from flesh and futures are bought with bullets. The chairs are thrones for kings of chaos, and we sink into them with the ease of men who've weathered storms of lead and lies.

"Is Eleanor here?" Luca's eyes roam the shadows, searching for the woman.

"Yeah," I chuckle, "but she ain't playing hide-and-seek. She's holed up in my office, waiting for me."

"Think we'll meet the woman who flipped this world?" Antoni's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, but there's respect there—a recognition of Eleanor's brand of ruthlessness.

"Sure," I lean back, letting the leather creak beneath me, "after we're done here."

Luca nods, and I can see the anticipation lacing his smirk. The game's about to change, and he's ready to roll the dice.

"Drink?" I offer, reaching for the cut crystal decanter, its contents amber and aged—like us.

"Pristine, please." Luca asserts, his voice the growl of a lion laying down the law. Neat, please.

"Rocks for me," Antoni shoots back, his relaxed demeanor belying the steel trap of his mind.

"Ancora un Colorado, video," Luca ribs him, the tension breaking like bones under a boot heel. Still a pussy, I see.

"Someone's gotta have taste buds left," Antoni retorts, and we share a laugh, dark and knowing. We're not just aging; we're surviving, thriving in a world that chews up saints and spits out sinners.

There was a crackle in my ear. Angel's voice was low and steady. "He's heading up in the lift now."

The words settle in my gut like a round-chambered, ready to fire. Enzo's last ride up, and he doesn't even know it. The four seats are about to be three because in this game when you fuck with one of us, you sign your death warrant.

"Right then," I say, the edge of my voice sharp enough to draw blood, "let the fucking games begin."

The lift dings like a damn funeral bell, and the weight of the silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. I lean back in my leather chair, its creak almost deafening in the stillness. We're all sipping whiskey like we ain't moments away from death, doing a waltz into the room.

Luca's grin slices through the tension, sharp as a razor. His eyes are alight with that familiar brand of madness that says he's ready for blood. Mine pulse in response, the craving for chaos never far beneath my skin.

Footsteps echo, a slow march down the hall. My heart don't race—it's steady, like the drumbeat of war. Enzo's about to walk into his damn requiem, and the bastard doesn't even know it.

The door swings open. Enzo struts in, cocksure as ever, and heads straight for the whiskey. "Evening," he drawls, pouring himself a drink like he's got all the time in the world.

"Evening," we echo, a choir of ghosts waiting to drag him to hell.

"Look at you lot. Why are there all the long faces?" Enzo laughs, eyes darting around, looking for the joke he's not privy to.

I can't help myself; I lean in, feeding off the suspense. "I wouldn't say the Pope," I start, voice low and smooth as poisoned silk, "but Patrick did."

The glass pauses halfway to his lips. The liquid trembles, a prelude to the quake about to hit. He chokes on the amber nectar, coughing, spluttering, eyes wide as they snap to mine.

"Patrick..." he gasps out, the name a fragile lifeline he's clinging to.

"Dead," I confirm with a smile that could cut glass. It's all teeth and no joy.

Enzo goes paper-white, shock rooting him to the spot before he lurches up to his full height. "What the fuck is this," he snarls, but the fear's there, creeping into his tone.

"Missing someone?" I prod, twisting the knife. "Your right-hand man?"

"Tino?" Confusion slithers across his features, and a snake in the grass finally senses the hawk above.

"Yep, Tino." I watch the realisation hit and see it shatter his composure.

He gets it now. Tino's gone, his boy's gone. And him? He's a rat in a trap, surrounded by predators playing the long game.

Enzo scrambles for some thread of hope, his voice reeking of desperation. "He's away in London," he stammers, clinging to the lies Angel crafted.

"Wrong," I sneer, my smirk a jagged knife edge. "Your precious boy's chumming the waters in the harbour." The truth hits him like a freight train, derailing whatever bullshit he'd constructed in his head.

"Fuck," he breathes, all bluster gone as he sinks back into his seat, defeated. His eyes, those pitiful wells of despair, dart up to me. "How did you find out?"

"Kidnapping Eleanor was a dumb fuck move," I say, lounging back casually. "Tracked the bastard down by the shit he owned. Found out he's been obsessed with her since before she could even spell 'stalker.'"

The older man's face twists, something dark and ugly surfacing. "He loved her."

"Love?" I spit the word out like venom. "She was a kid, Enzo." Disgust coats my tongue, thick and sour.

"Details," he dismisses with a careless shrug. That's when I know he's beyond fucked up, beyond saving.

I slowly sip my whiskey, letting the silence stretch before I drop the next bomb. "And who do we find holding the leash? Tino."

"Seems that way," he admits, his voice empty of fight.

"Angel dug deeper," I continue, relentless. "Found a sweet little tidbit about Caitlin. Your cleaner, right?"

His eyes snap to mine, a flicker of something—guilt? Affection? It's gone before I can place it. "Caitlin was more than just a cleaner," he murmurs, almost to himself.

"Course she was," I scoff, not caring about his sordid past. "And now, here we are."

"Here we are," he echoes, the finality of it sinking into his bones.

I lean in, my eyes slicing through the bullshit. "She didn't feel the same, Enzo." My voice carries a mocking lilt as I watch him squirm. "She worked for you, then bolted back to Ireland. They married some bloke named Conner and popped out Patrick seven months on. Ring any bells?"

Enzo's gaze flickers, guilt gnawing at the edges. "Good to see you did your homework well," he grumbles, but there's a twist in his words—a secret lurking.

"Spill it," I demand, not one for patience.

"She came crawling back to Sydney," he says, bitterness seeping through every syllable. "Begging for money, spewing stories about Patrick and her shit marriage."

"That's why you bankrolled Conner’s business?" I ask, piecing together the sordid puzzle.

"Was supposed to be her ticket out," Enzo snaps, his face contorting as if recalling a foul taste. "But the slut stayed. I said it was for Patrick. Promised to ditch the bastard when the kid turned eighteen." A twisted smile plays on his lips, like he's savouring a private joke.

"Let me guess," I say, my disgust rising, "Patrick overheard one too many of those intimate chats?"

Enzo's grin is all teeth, no soul. "Like father, like son. The apple didn't fall far from the tree." Pride oozes from him, sickening and thick.

"Is that why you helped him with Eleanor? Ten years ago?" I'm putting the pieces together, and I don't fucking like the picture they're painting.

"Yep," he confirms with a disgusting sense of satisfaction. "My boy wanted his girl. I knew what that ache was like, so I gave him a hand." He shrugs like we're discussing the weather, not the destruction of lives.

"Then you come crawling to me, give up Eleanor’s location. Why the fuck would you do that?" I can't hide the confusion laced with rage.

"Patrick refused to toe the line and wouldn't return to Australia. Needed to remind him who's boss," Enzo yells, his face reddening. "Followed Eleanor around like a lost fucking puppy. It was pathetic."

"Needed her here to lure him back, huh?" I chuckle without humor. "Well, that backfired for you, mate."

Enzo's face hardens, and I know I've got him right where I want him—cornered and desperate. Power twists and coils inside me. This is my game, and in it, I'm the fucking king.

"Fuck's sake," Enzo mutters, his eyes hollow. "So what now?"

"Now?" I lean in, feeling that familiar itch in my trigger finger.

"Now you die." Without so much as a blink, I yank the gun from under the table and let two rounds punch holes through his chest. He slumps, but I'm not done.

Standing, I aim for his head and squeeze off another shot.

The sound echoes, a sweet symphony to my ears.

"Hope you've got clean-up on standby," Luca says, the corner of his lip twitching.

"Always," I grin, reaching for the decanter and topping off my whiskey. The liquid gold swirls in the glass, catching the light. "More?" I offer it around, refilling their glasses with a heavy hand.

"Thanks," Antoni nods, taking his drink like any other night.

"Let's get the fuck out of here," I say, pushing back from the table. We stride down the hall, me leading the pack. The cleaning crew's already there, shadows waiting for my signal. I nod once, and they slip into the room like ghosts.

Two sharp raps on my office door, and it swings open. The barrel of a gun greets me. "Princess," I say, the tension bleeding away when she lowers the weapon.

"Matteo..." Eleanor's voice washes over me, soothing the raw edges inside.

"He's dead," I tell her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Go sit behind the desk. Time to meet the rest of the family."

She moves with a limp but still manages to look like she owns the fucking world, perching on the edge of my desk. Sexy doesn't begin to cover it.

"Luca, Antoni, this is Eleanor," I announce, sweeping my arm out. The pride I feel is a living thing, fierce and possessive.

"Hello, Eleanor," Antoni's voice is smooth and respectful. He takes a seat opposite her.

"Piccola cosa come te ha causato tutto questo.?" Luca chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief. Tiny thing like you caused this?

"Yep, she's a goddamn wildfire," I can't help but boast.

Laughter fills the room, a brief respite in our dark world. The rest of the night goes by in a blur of business talk, the necessary evil of our existence.

"Anything else, or can we fuck off now?" I'm itching to be alone with Eleanor to wash away the blood and bullshit of tonight.

"Just one more thing," Luca interjects, and we all turn to him. "I want to start prepping my boy to take over."

"Really?" My curiosity was piqued despite myself .

"Gabriel," he says, his eyes glinting with something that might be pride. Or a warning. "He'll stir some shit up, no doubt." Laughter again, but it's edged with an unspoken understanding.

"God help us all," I mutter, half-joking, half-serious.

"God ain't got nothing to do with this," I think as we wrap up the night, our kingdom of shadows shifting ever so slightly with each move we make.