Page 8 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)

"Hi, Matteo," I croak, tongue finally remembering its job. He straightens up—a tower of inked sin—and addresses the tattoo artist with a casual authority that seems to fill the room.

"Don't charge her, just make sure she fills out the forms," Matteo commands, eyes never leaving mine until the last syllable falls from those full lips.

He pivots, suit hugging him like a second skin, and strides out. My mouth's still hanging open, likely catching flies or whatever bullshit they say about gaping idiots.

"You can wipe your mouth now, Miss," the tattooist snickers, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Shit. Fuck, am I drooling?" I fumble for composure, hand swiping at my lips, but it's too late for dignity.

"Nope, but if your mouth stayed open any longer you would have," he laughs, and I'm pretty sure my cheeks are aflame with more than just the sting from the needle.

"Damn." My voice is a hoarse whisper, but inside, a storm's brewing—hot, fierce, and reckless. Matteo Ricci just walked in and turned my world on its head. And the crazy part? I'm ready to dive headfirst into the chaos he promises.

The elbow jabs into my ribs, sharp and sudden—a fuckin' wakeup call. "Hey, Earth to El!" Patrick's voice slices through the hum of the room.

"Fuck, shit, sorry." My gaze snaps to him, away from the glittering gowns and smarmy smiles that crowd the fundraiser like vultures on a carcass.

"What's up with you these days?" He frowns, all concern and creased brows. The kind of look that says he's seen too much, knows too much.

I shrug, staring at the polished floor as if it's got the damn answers. "I don’t know. Been thinking of the past a lot lately," I mutter, half-hoping the ground will swallow me whole.

Patrick’s smile is a crack in his perfect facade. "It’s been ten years, love. You’re going to be okay. If he hasn’t found you yet, he isn’t going to."

"Probably right," I sigh, but my heart's not in it—more hollow than a drum. Maybe it's time to move on, Love. His words wrap around me like chains.

"Maybe it's time to move on, Love. I can think of many men in this room right now that would ride your bus," he grins, eyes darting around the sea of tailored suits and fake tans.

"Did you just call my vagina a bus, Patrick?" I can't help it—the laugh that bursts out is bitter as tonic without the gin.

"Well, it did house a child and move with said child inside it. I say that's a bus," he fires back, grin undeterred by my glare.

"Fuck, your dad's jokes are so lame!" But the laugh comes easier now, slipping out as we weave through the crowd.

He beams, all teeth and twinkling eyes. "Well, one of us has to be the lame one, and we all know Aela ain't it, so I nominate myself."

"Christ, Patrick," I smirk, but there's warmth there, a spark amidst the dark. "This is why you’ll be stuck with me as your PA for life. I cannot live without your inspirational words of wisdom."

"Come on, let's see what table they have us at today." He claps a hand on my shoulder, guiding me like I'm one step shy of a breakdown—which ain't far off the mark.

We trudge over to the assigned seats, chairs scraping against marble floors, every sound echoing in this hall of lies. Charity, my ass—this is an auction where the currency is power, and everyone here is buying .

I slouch in the damn chair; every course they bring out is tinier than the last. My stomach growls—it's a betrayal, echoing off the walls like a plea for more than these pretentious crumbs.

The speeches drone on, a cacophony of self-congratulation that grates against my nerves.

Forty thousand pounds donated, they say, but who's counting the cuts of ego and backdoor deals in this tally?

"Cheers to fucking charity," I mutter under my breath, swirling around what's left of some red wine that probably costs more than my apartment.

Patrick catches my eye, his gaze saying it's time to cut through the bullshit.

We're up, sidestepping empty congratulations and air kisses smeared with greed.

It's 9:45 pm when we escape into the more relaxed London night.

The museum fades behind us—a temple of wealth where gods count their blessings in banknotes.

"Come on, Love, let’s get the fuck outta here," Patrick's already flagging down our ride, the black car pulling up like a chariot, ready to whisk us away from this farce.

"Cheers for the lift home," I quip, sliding into the leather seat and letting the city lights blur past.

"Darling, I’ve been dropping you home for ten years now; when are you gonna stop saying thank you?" He's all mock exasperation, but the smirk's there—can't miss it.

"When the—" I start, but he's got it memorized, the ritual of our exits.

"Weeds stop growing, yeah yeah, I know." That familiar smirk. Comfortable silence wraps us up as London’s night swallows the car whole.

The city's pulse throbs through the window, alive with secrets and sins. They resonate with me, a symphony of the same dark cravings that once lured me into Matteo's bed, into his world—a world where control is currency and power is the only law that matters.

We pull up to my place, that high-rise fortress of solitude. Patrick's out first, gentleman to the bone, or so he plays the part. Never fails to walk me to my door.

"Ever the gentle fellow, Patrick," I can't hold back the snark, and why would I?

"Ha ha, I’ll be walking you to your door till I find you a man to take you off my hands, but until then, you are stuck with my chiseled butt," he retorts, and I swear the moonlight bounces off his teeth when he grins.

"Thanks to you and your chiseled butt." I mock salute him, the silliness contrasting the night's heavy cloak.

The key card hits the sensor, and the lock clicks—freedom, or something like it. "See you in the morning, Patrick," I call out before stepping into the void of my apartment entrance. The darkness is a welcome embrace, just me and the ghosts of a life drenched in ink and blood.