Page 7 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)

Chapter Five

Eleanor Wang

"Let's get this over with," I mutter under my breath, clutching the invitation like it's a lifeline—or maybe a death sentence.

The second we step into the room, it's like walking into a pit of snakes. Eyes latch onto us, sizing Patrick like prime meat at an auction. They'd claw at him if not for the veneer of civility that these shindigs plaster over their greed. It's enough to make you sick.

"Christ, look at them," I whisper to Patrick, who merely offers a wry smile. He's used to it, the attention, the faux admiration .

"Part of the charm," he replies, voice dripping with sarcasm. I snort. Charm, my ass.

Patrick would be top of Britain's most-wanted bachelor list if his heart weren't already locked down tight.

Aela did a number on him—the good kind. Ever since she came into the picture, he's been wearing blinders.

Can't say I blame him; she's a force of nature.

But it doesn't stop the hordes from trying.

Moneyed folk and their goddamn side pieces—it's almost tradition.

But not for Patrick, and certainly not for Aela.

I feel a pang somewhere deep inside when I think about it. That devotion, that absolute certainty—I've seen it once before, etched on a face I try to push out of my mind. Matteo's face. His eyes that held promises and secrets and things better left unspoken.

"Focus, El," I chide myself silently.

"Always the cynic," Patrick teases, gently elbowing me as we navigate the crowd. "You know you love these events."

"Love" is a stretch. I'm here because it's part of the game, part of the dance we do to keep up appearances, to maintain control. In this world, power is everything, and you hang onto it with both hands, or you get crushed.

"Like a root canal," I shoot back, my lips twisting into a smirk.

"Ah, but necessary," Patrick quips, raising a glass of champagne to his lips.

"Like a bullet to the brain," I retort, my gaze lingering on the throngs of people pretending to give a damn about anything other than their bank accounts.

"Exactly," he says, and we laugh, dark and knowing. It's a fucked-up world we live in, but at least we're clear-eyed about it.

I'm elbowing through the sea of silk and diamonds, Patrick's arm a steel band around mine, when Mrs. Brunswick, the night's empress of charity and hypocrisy, zeroes in on us like a vulture to a carcass. Her voice is all honeyed poison as she corners us under the ostentatious crystal chandelier.

"El and Patrick, so nice you could make it, where is Aela?" She bats her lashes at Patrick, who's already slapping on his best bullshit grin.

"At home, unfortunately, we had some paperwork that needed to be finished today so she offered to stay back and get it done," he says, voice dripping with more sweetness than the champagne flutes they're offering on silver platters.

Mrs. Brunswick claps her hands together, looking like she's about to swoon from the sheer nobility of it all. "Oh, isn't she just a gem! Well, she will be missed. Thankfully El is here to take her place for this evening," she turns her grin on me, teeth like knives hidden behind red lips.

My face pulls into what I hope passes for gracious as I lie through my fucking teeth, "Oh, it’s such a pleasure to be here, Mrs Brunswick." The words taste like ash.

Patrick, ever the escape artist, waves vaguely across the room. "If you would excuse us," he says, and it's the only lifeline I need.

We break away from her talon grip, slipping through clusters of suits and gowns. My heart's racing, not from nerves, but from the thrill of the game. It's all about power and control; we're pulling the strings right now .

"Let's find a corner with fewer bloodsuckers," I mutter to Patrick, scanning the room for an exit or at least a less crowded spot where I can breathe without smelling someone else's greed.

When Patrick nudges me forward, my blood's already boiling hotter than the Aussie sun. "Fuck that woman needs a throat punch!" The words slip out, venomous and vicious, before I can rein them in.

"Shhhh El, your green-eyed monster is showing," Patrick chortles, a touch too loud in the hush of faux civility around us. But there's truth in jest; I'm seething, all right.

I shoot him a glare sharp enough to slice through his amusement. "I can't be the only one who wants to give it to her."

Patrick grins, his irritation masked by a layer of charm as polished as his cufflinks. "Oh, I’m sure there are plenty, like me for example, but a gentleman never hits a lady." His accent thickens, wrapping around the words like smoke, a clear signal he's ready for a stiff drink.

The irony's not lost on me—us talking about being gentlefolk while our pasts are anything but gentle.

London's been home for a decade, yet every word from my mouth betrays my roots.

My tongue rolls out curses with an Aussie twang that clings to me like the scent of eucalyptus.

Grew up with silver spoons and satin sheets, but you can hear the bogan in my voice, rough as sandpaper, ready to strike a match on propriety.

The glint of crystal and the rustle of silk fill the air as I push through the throng, my heels clicking sharply on the marble.

Every step in this gilded cage, a reminder of a world I don’t belong to.

My thoughts stray, unbidden, spinning back to him—to Matteo.

The man who pulled me from the fringes into a maelstrom of dark suits and darker deeds.

"Black sheep," I mutter under my breath, the words tasting like irony on my tongue.

Yeah, that's me. Always was. I can still hear my parents' voices, their tones laced with expectations they draped around my neck like a noose.

They never knew about the world Matteo dragged me into—a world where power is whispered through the barrels of guns and promises bleed out in back alleys.

"Focus, El," I scold myself, shaking off memories best left untouched.

But they cling, persistent as shadows at dusk.

The four seats. Sydney's twisted version of a royal court where Matteo sits, his throne carved by blood and bullet casings.

The rules were simple—obey or die. And God help those who thought there was a third option.

I sidestep a cluster of women, their laughter like the clinking of champagne flutes, hollow and expensive.

Their world, this world of charity balls and polite conversation, starkly contrasts the one I grew up in.

Dad teaching science with a passion most reserved for religion, Mum caring for sick kids with hands gentle enough to cradle a heartbeat.

Their life was one of quiet dignity, old money whispering through the walls of our Chatswood house, its voice too soft for the roar of the underworld.

"An artist," I scoff, the dream feels like a joke now. A time when my biggest worry was paint stains on my fingers, not the lingering scent of gunpowder. My aspirations got tangled up with Matteo's ambitions—the kind that came with a price on your head and a target on your back .

"Get outta your head, Eleanor," I hiss to myself. There's no room for weakness here, not in the chokehold of the past. You gotta stay sharp, stay alive. That's the only art that matters now.

Ink needles dance across my wrist, a relentless sting that's gonna mark me for life.

The symbol of my family legacy, Wang, etches into my skin—a mix of pride and rebellion in every black line.

This declaration is my stamp on the world that screams that I am more than just my parents' daughter.

I'm creating art on my canvas, my own damn story.

The buzz of conversation fades as he strides in—a storm dressed in Armani. Matteo Ricci, all slicked-back hair and dangerous edges. He's the kind of man that makes girls cross their legs tighter and guys check their pockets. A living sin with a smirk that could turn saints into addicts.

"Fuck me," I mutter under my breath, watching those tailored pants work his stride like it's a catwalk made for predators. His arms, Jesus, are like sculpted marble wrapped in silk—ink hidden underneath, telling tales of power and darkness.

He owns this space, every inch of it, and as he approaches the till, I see the way cash flows from hand to hand, his grip firm, unyielding—the currency of control. It's a ballet of silent threats and understood promises, the dance of the damned.

Then, our gazes lock—a crash of blue against gold, an ocean meeting the sun in a cataclysmic moment. Fuck, there's heat in that look, a fire that speaks of bed sheets and back alleys, of whispers that claw down your spine and leave you gasping for air.

"Hi, I'm Matteo," those words roll off his tongue, easy as sin, his left hand outstretched like he's offering me the keys to the kingdom—or maybe just the handcuffs.

"Matteo," I breathe out, barely a whisper, my name for him a secret I want to keep between my lips and his skin. My heart's pounding a rhythm that beats 'take me, break me, make me yours.'

"Own this place," he adds, and it's not just the shop he's talking about. I know it. He's staking claim, and I'm already signing the deed over with every racing pulse in my veins.

I clench my jaw, trying to keep my cool while my brain's firing off a thousand dirty thoughts per second. Fuck propriety, this isn't Chatswood and he's no teacher or nurse. He's trouble, pure and simple, and I'm drawn to him like a moth to a flame that promises to burn me alive.

My brain's short-circuiting, synapses frying as I stare into Matteo's cerulean gaze. Those eyes are like twin skies at noon, cloudless and blindingly blue. The world tilts a bit, my heartbeat thumping loud enough to drown out the buzz of the tattoo needle.

"Hi, I'm Matteo," he says again, voice low, pulling me back from whatever edge I was teetering on.