Page 6 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)

Chapter Four

Matteo Ricci

T he wheels of the private jet kiss the tarmac, and my heart's a jackhammer in my chest. Twenty-one goddamn hours and Eleanor's face is seared into my brain. That photo - her eyes, the curve of her lips - is like a siren’s call, pulling me through hell's time zone to claim what's always been mine.

"Boss?" Angel's voice is a distant buzz, but I'm still lost in those eyes; that knowing smirk says she's seen more darkness than most can handle.

"El," they're calling her now. A decade hiding in plain sight, working for some big-shot developer in London.

But every picture's her arms covered, like she's clinging to secrets meant only for me.

She's changed, fleshed out in all the right places, each curve a promise of sin.

Filled or not, those tits are mine. All of her, every inch, every scar, mine to reclaim.

I stagger off the plane, the need for a drink gnawing at my insides, an itch I can’t scratch. The car's there, sleek and black, idling like a predator. No waiting, no bullshit. That's how we roll. But my stomach's a twisted mess, threatening to spill over.

"Boss, you okay? You're looking a little green around the gills," Angel probes, eyeing me with that mix of concern and mockery only he can get away with.

"Need a drink," I mutter through clenched teeth. My throat's parched, craving the burn.

"Whiskey and gin in the car," Angel throws back, a smirk on his lips. It's the kind of care that keeps him alive, that forethought.

"Keep talking like that, Cock Face, and you'll be looking for a new job." I shoot back, the corner of my mouth twitching despite the roiling in my gut. His glare could cut glass, but I know there's respect there. We've been through too much shit for anything less.

"Lucky you pay my bills, Boss. Any other man would be laid out for a comment like that." He retorts, stepping beside me as we head toward the car.

"Fuck," I hiss under my breath, sucking in air that tastes like freedom and revenge. This city won't know what hit it. Neither will she.

The whiskey burns down my throat, a welcome fire against the London chill. I down another mouthful, feeling the liquid courage seeping into my veins. The car weaves through the city like it's threading a needle—smooth, precise. Angel's got the wheel, eyes sharp as a hawk's.

"Twenty minutes out," he says, voice steady.

I look at the passing lights, the city's shadows hiding her. Eleanor. El. Whatever she calls herself now, she can't change what she is to me—mine, always .

"Good," I grunt, clenching my jaw until it might crack. "Tomorrow can't come soon enough."

Angel nods, silent now, knowing when words are like gasoline on my fire. We've danced this dance before—he and Spike, my shadows, my fists when I need them. But right now, it's about her. About answers.

"Remember, we play it cool," Angel reminds me, his voice cutting through the engine's hum. "Can't spook her."

"Like a fucking ghost," I reply. Still, there's a tremor in my gut that says otherwise. There's nothing subtle about how I need her, the way I'm ready to tear this city apart brick by brick to get her back.

"Boss, you sure you're up for this?" Angel asks, glancing my way with that knowing look. The bastard can read me too well.

"Never been more fucking sure of anything," I snap, but the edge in my voice betrays the storm brewing inside.

"Alright. Just checking." He turns back to the road, no further questions asked. That's Angel—always poking, prodding, but knows when to let it lie. A good man to have at your back, a deadly one in your face.

"Keep your eyes peeled for any tails," I say, scanning the rearview mirror. Paranoia is a constant companion in our line of work.

"Always do," he replies with a grunt that carries all the weight of our world—a world of shadows, blood, and loyalty.

We roll up to the hotel, sleek and silent as a shark cruising through deep water.

The place reeks of money and secrets, two things I've got in spades.

Sweat prickles at the base of my skull, anticipation mixed with something darker.

I crack my knuckles and feel the tension coil in my muscles like a spring.

"Remember, Boss. Morning," Angel says, pulling the keys from the ignition.

"Right." A nod is all I manage. Because once I see her and lock eyes on Eleanor again, all bets are off. This game we're playing? It ends with her. With us. And I'll be damned if I let anyone else hold the cards.

"Let's get settled. We've got a big day ahead," Angel adds, stepping out into the night air. I follow, straightening my suit jacket, feeling the cold kiss of London against my skin.

"Tomorrow," I whisper to myself. "Tomorrow, she's mine again."

The concierge is quick on his feet, scurrying towards us like we're royalty. He grabs our bags without a word and throws them onto the trolley with practiced ease. Angel strides off, purpose in every step, to secure the keys to our temporary kingdom.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath as I scan the foyer.

It's all marble and crystal, money dripping from the fucking chandeliers. But none of it does anything for the riot inside my skull. I need to see Eleanor to know she’s real, not just pixels on a screen or ink on paper.

My heart's a relentless drum echoing in my ears—tomorrow, tomorrow.

"Come on, Boss, let's get up to the room," Spike whispers, nudging me towards the lift. His voice is low but cuts through the noise in my head.

"Right," I grunt, following his lead. The scent of leather and aftershave fills the small space of the elevator, mingling with the faint perfume of wealth that clings to the concierge. He's eyeing us, curiosity clear as day on his young face.

"You here for the fundraiser?" he asks, all innocence and polite interest.

Angel's head snaps towards him. "What fundraiser?"

"Down in the city tonight," the kid elaborates, looking between us, puzzled by our ignorance.

"And how would one get on the list for such an event?" Angel's voice is smooth, but there's steel beneath the velvet.

"Oh, it's invite-only," the concierge stammers, backpedaling fast enough to trip over his words. "Sorry, I thought you were going."

"Where is the event?" Angel presses all casual curiosity now.

"Down at the Natural History Museum, off Cromwell Rd," the kid spills, eager to please.

"Thanks, mate." Angel's smile doesn't reach his eyes, but it’s enough to send the boy into a relieved nod.

The lift's doors glide open, and we step into the penthouse suite—a sprawling space that feels too clean, too pristine for us. The concierge, a scrawny kid who can’t be more than twenty, hustles our bags to the center of the room with hands shakier than a leaf in a storm.

He darts glances at Angel, and I can see his instinct is screaming at him to bolt.

Can't blame him; Angel's got that look that says he's one wrong word away from snapping necks.

“What’s with the obsession with fundraisers all of a sudden?” I question Angel, my voice a low growl as the concierge scurries out, practically tripping over his own feet to escape the tension coiling in the air .

"Eleanor attends them all with her boss when his wife cannot make them," he replies nonchalantly, eyes glued to his phone screen.

I feel my pulse quicken, a mix of anticipation and something darker winding through my veins. "Get me on that list, Angel, NOW!" There's an urgency that claws at my throat, demanding immediate action.

"Easy, easy..." Angel's voice is steady, but I can tell he's already on it, tapping into whatever network he needs to get shit done. "Guest list says Patrick and Aela, his wife."

I'm halfway to the mini-bar before he finishes his sentence, pouring myself a generous amount of whiskey. It burns down my throat, but the heat does nothing to soothe the restless beast. My fingers twitch, itching for action, for the moment I reclaim what's mine.

"Where are you bloody goin'?" My tone is sharp as I zero in on Spike, who's decked out like he's about to wage a war in the shadows, every inch of him strapped with enough blades to outfit a small army.

"Thought I’d scope out the place, maybe follow this Patrick back to his digs, see what he knows," Spike explains, testing the edge of a knife with a thumb encased in black leather.

"That’s not a bad idea, actually," Angel agrees, and a wicked gleam in his eyes tells me he's already calculating the risks and rewards.

"Shit, okay, hold on a sec." I'm unbuttoning my shirt, tossing it aside with a flick of my wrist. "Let me get changed into my secret ninja suit, Batman," I mutter, the words tasting like bile .

Angel and Spike chuckle, a dark sound that echoes off the high ceilings. This isn't a game to them, but they're damn sure going to enjoy it like one. They know the drill—get in, get what we want, get out—no matter the cost.

Pulling on the matte black gear feels like a second skin, a transformation from a high-powered mafia boss to a predator on the hunt. My movements are automatic, muscle memory guiding each strap, each buckle until I'm just as armed as Spike.

"Ready to dance with the devil?" Spike grins, his twisted version of reassurance.

"Always am," I shoot back, checking the knife's weight in my hand. London's glittering streets will learn what happens when they cross Matteo Ricci tonight. And God help anyone who stands in my way.

The night's got a chill that cuts right to the bone, the kind that makes you wanna do something warm or someone who is.

I'm layered in black from head to toe, gear strapped tight against my body, weapons hidden but within easy reach.

Spike's got enough knives on him to stock a goddamn cutlery store, and he looks like he's ready to sink a blade into any bastard who even blinks wrong.

"Come on, Boss, let's go," Spike urges with that shit-eating grin.

"Fuck off, Cunt. Stop looking at me like I'm a fucking fairy," I snap, feeling every inch of my skin crawl under this outfit. Recon isn't exactly my style—I prefer the direct approach—but tonight's about Eleanor, and I'd walk through hell in gasoline drawers for her.

"If the shoes fit, Boss," Spike teases, ducking just in time as Angel's hand whizzes past where his head was seconds ago.

"Leave the Boss alone, Fuck Face; his vagina is out; let him be a fucking girl," Angel chimes in, smirking at both of us.

"You’re both fucking fired," I growl, my voice low and dangerous as I shoulder-barge past them, leading the way to the lift. The tension between us is thick, a blend of adrenaline and loyalty, sharp as the blades we carry.

Angel arranges our exit, and a sleek car awaits us when we step off the private airstrip. We're dropped across from the museum, the building looming like a fortress against the London skyline. But we aren't here for the art but for the hunt.

"Let’s head in there," Angel suggests, nodding toward the casino with its warm glow spilling onto the cold street. "There’s a window seat we can sit at and watch them come in and out."

The casino's din hits us the second we step inside, a cacophony of clinking glasses and the desperate murmurs of gamblers praying for luck that ain't coming. We go to the window seat Angel mentioned, the perfect spot to play a waiting game I'm already sick of.

"Keep your eyes peeled," I mutter, scanning the crowd for any sign of the Patrick fucker. If he so much as breathed on Eleanor, I'd make him wish he'd never been born. Tonight, London's shadows are mine, and the darkness feels like an old friend whispering bloody promises.

I watch the frosted breaths of those outside, their figures distorted through the glass. Spike's back at our table in no time, a tray of drinks balanced in his hand like he's done this a thousand times before.

"Angel," I growl, my voice low and rough, "show me a photo of that Patrick cunt so I know what to look out for, will ya?" He doesn't hesitate, shoving his phone in my direction with an image that ignites a firestorm in my chest.

There he is. The black Irish bastard with hair slick as oil spills and eyes like shards of sky.

Towering over most, he'd be hard to miss. A protector type, the sort Eleanor would gravitate towards for safety. My fingers twitch, itching to wrap around his throat. Has he dared lay a finger on her? It’s enough to churn my stomach; the bile rises, hot and acidic.

"Boss, you gotta keep your shit together,” Angel's voice cuts through the haze of my murderous thoughts. “I’ve never seen you like this; you’re all pale, looking like you're about to hurl into the nearest pot plant."

He's fucking right. I'm up, lurching towards the greenery, and then it's all spilling out—my guts betraying me, spewing into the leaves and dirt.

The world spins, but not just from the sickness.

It's rage, it's fear, it's the desperate need for control slipping through my fingers like sand. Damn it all.