Page 9 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)
Chapter Six
Matteo Ricci
" A ngel, get us something to eat," I growl, my voice barely more than a snarl as I survey the room. My gaze lands on the demolished foliage – that pot plant never stood a chance against my fury. Spike's already taken care of the evidence, shifting it out of sight like the reliable cleaner he is.
We hunker down in the shadows, two predators in wait, tearing into the sandwiches Angel procures.
He hands me a Coke; the fizz contrasts the bitterness pooling in my mouth.
I'm wired tight, every second stretching out like an eternity.
Dad used to say patience was a virtue. Fuck virtues.
They never got me anything but more time stewing in my hell.
Waiting isn't just painful—it's excruciating.
Ten goddamn years of it, and what do I have to show for it?
A throne built on blood and bones and a heart that's been hollowed out, empty except for her.
Eleanor. But she's here now, within reach, and there's no way in hell I'm letting another minute slip by .
"Two blasted hours!" I curse under my breath, watching through the window as Patrick finally leads Eleanor out of that swanky fundraiser. The sight of them together ignites a firestorm in my chest. Not Aela, his wife. No, he's with my Eleanor.
The world tilts as they descend the steps. I'm on my feet before I can process the movement, the remnants of our meal clawing up my throat. "It's her," slips from my lips, a venomous whisper betraying the storm inside.
Spike cocks an eyebrow, his skepticism palpable even in the dim light. "How can you tell from here?"
"Trust me, I just fucking can." My words are clipped, a command more than an explanation. "Angel, the car. Now."
"Already on it, Boss," comes the swift reply—Angel's always one step ahead.
"Fuck, Angel, where is the car?!" My voice cuts through the night like a serrated blade.
"Right there, Boss!" Angel's already at the sleek black sedan, the door swung wide as if by magic. We dive into its shadowy confines—no time to waste.
"Follow that fucking car," Angel instructs the driver, pointing to the taillights ahead just as they're caught in the amber glow of a traffic light. The gentle hum of the city around us barely masks the pounding of my heart.
"Shit, Boss, what you wanna do?" Spike's eagerness is practically dripping from his words.
"We stick with Eleanor. Patrick's a problem for another day." I need to see her, to breathe the same air she's poisoning with her absence from my life.
"Alright, Boss." Spike's grunt tells me he's disappointed, itching for action. He wanted bloodshed tonight—I can feel it.
We tail them through the city's veins and arteries, past neon signs and shadowed alleys until their car pulls up to a nondescript apartment block that stands like a silent sentinel in the night.
Patrick steps out, all suave and composed, escorting Eleanor to the entrance. Rage bubbles up inside me—hot, volatile. That's my woman, not his to touch or protect. I want to end him right here, right now.
"It's okay, Boss, he's just walking her inside," Angel murmurs, trying to douse the flames of my anger with his calm demeanor.
But as Eleanor's hand touches the door, opening it to her sanctuary, Patrick does something unexpected—he leaves. No lingering touch, no stolen kiss. Fuck him for playing the gentleman. My fists clench, nails biting into my palms.
"Ten. Fucking. Years." I grind out each word, a manifesto of pent-up rage and longing. My mind's a storm, swirling with thoughts of vengeance and possession. She's mine. Only mine. And I'm close enough to reclaim what's been ripped away.
Spike's out of the car like a shot, his frame silhouetted against the dim light of the apartment block.
I'm right on his heels, my heart beating in my chest. He scans the buzzers, fingers itching to press for entrance when an old blonde lady shuffles out.
Spike's charm is on full display, a predator's smile as he holds the door open.
The lady thanks him with a nod and hobbles into her rusted Honda, engine coughing to life before disappearing into the night .
"Chivalry ain't dead after all," Angel drawls, sarcasm dripping from every syllable like blood from a wound—his southern twang grates on my nerves.
"Shut up. What apartment is she in?" My voice is a growl, impatience clawing inside me.
"Apartment 3's a blank slate, Boss. No name." Spike's eyes are shut, concentration creasing his brow.
"The others?" My fists clench at my sides, eager for answers.
"Taylor, Jones, Wicket..." he recites like a mantra, eyes still closed.
"Wicket, which one's that?" My pulse hammers, hope to surge like a drug through my veins.
"Number 4." His answer is instant.
"That's it," I say, certainty locking in place. "She's in 4."
"How you figure?" Spike's eyes snap open, confusion clouding his face.
"Star Wars spin-off shit. Ewoks. Wicket was her favorite." My lips twitch into a rare smirk, the memory bittersweet.
"Okay, Boss, but that doesn't mean—" Spike starts.
"City apartment had the same damn nameplate. It's our thing." Satisfaction uncoils within me. She remembered.
We take the stairs two at a time, feet pounding the steps like a countdown timer. Each step brings me closer to her, to the end of this decade-long agony. Two flights up, and we're at her door—her sanctuary, soon to be her cage.
"Boss, we sure 'bout this?" Angel's voice is a whisper of doubt .
"Never been surer." And with that, we stand there, poised on the precipice, ready to reclaim what's always been mine.
The door rattles under Spike's knock, a thud that echoes up the stairwell with a promise. "Coming," her voice—fucking finally. The wait's a blade twisting in my gut.
The door swings wide, and there she is—Eleanor—in silk that clings to her like a second skin. "What did you forget, Yvonne?" Confusion paints her tone, oblivious to the storm on her doorstep.
"O—" Her lips part, forming that perfect little circle as recognition dawns. Those eyes lock on mine, the same fire burning in their depths. I'm back in time in ten years, standing before my queen.
"Eleanor," I rasp out, stepping into her world, uninvited, unstoppable. She stumbles back, pure shock etched across her face. I can't help the smugness that curls my lip— “I found you, Princess.”
"Matteo..." she breathes, and the sound of my name on her tongue's like a hit of the hard stuff straight to my veins. Every instinct screams to grab her, claim her, drag her from this shit-hole back to where she belongs—with me.
Her skin goes ashen, a stark contrast against the rich, red silk hugging her frame. She's falling, and I lunge forward, my arms outstretched to break her descent. “Shit,” I mutter as her body slumps into my grasp. Light as a fucking feather, but every inch of her screams power, even unconscious.
"Fuck! Angel, find me somewhere to lay her down!" My voice booms through the cramped space. Angel doesn't skip a beat; he is already scouting ahead like the pathfinder.
"There's a couch just down the hall," he yells from somewhere in the depths of the apartment.
I hoist Eleanor against my chest, her head lolling against my shoulder. The tattoos on her arms brush against my skin, whispering tales of survival, strength, and defiance. I stride down the hallway, guided by Angel's call.
"Shit, how long does it take for people to wake back up?" Anxiety knifes through me—this isn't part of the plan. I'm used to controlling outcomes, not waiting on them.
Laying her down on the grey cushions, I notice the first signs of life—a flutter beneath her eyelids, a twitch in her delicate fingers. That's my girl. I was always fighting, even in the grip of darkness.
Eleanor's lashes flutter, those dark curtains lifting to reveal the storm in her eyes. Her fingers graze my cheek—cool silk against my stubble. "I've missed you," she breathes out, voices a ghost of the past.
"I've missed you too, Princess," I rasp, the words clawing up my throat. She shifts, trying to rise, but fear blooms in her gaze as she spots Angel and Spike flanking us. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, what are you doing here?" she stammers, panic-edging each word.
"I've come to take you home, Princess," I assert, feeling the old possessive pull, the need to reclaim what's mine.
"Nope. Not gonna happen; you need to leave. I don’t know how you found me, but you’ve gotta go!" Defiance sparks in her, the same fire I remember.
"What? Why? Who else is here?" My voice drops an octave, darkness creeping into the edges of my vision.
Spike's already moving, a predator on the hunt, and her protest slices through the tension. "No, no, no, no, Spike, stop. No, you cannot go down there... Shit!" Desperation claws at her voice, and she struggles against my hold, futile against my iron grip.
Minutes crawl by, and then Spike returns, dragging a revelation with him—a half-asleep kid looking like he's been torn from a dream. Black hair and light blue eyes that punch the breath from my lungs. "Mum, what’s going on?" The boy's confusion is a slap across my face.
"Eleanor, who the f-f-fuck is that?" My words stumble, trip over themselves, shock chaining them together.
"That’s... your son," she says with a weight that crushes worlds, her eyes never leaving the boy.
"Son..." The word feels foreign in my tongue, like a bomb detonated in silence.
"Boss," Angel's snapping his fingers, jolting me back to a reality where my heart thunders like gunshots.
"What's his name?" My voice is gravel, dragged through broken glass.
"Niko," she whispers, a sacred confession.
"Niko... as in Niko Ricci?" Every syllable pounds into my skull.
"Yes, I honoured the bloodline rules for naming your children," she admits loyalty to tradition, a knife twisting in my chest.
In the dim light of Eleanor's living room stands a legacy I never knew existed—a son. And not just any son. Niko Ricci is named for the blood that runs through our veins, the blood that's been spilled on streets and soaked into the soil of this unforgiving underworld .
I shove off the couch, my frame rigid with turmoil that's got no place to go. "Hold on, hold on, I need a minute," I grunt, voice raw like gravel. My legs carry me—half stumbling, half marching—towards her balcony. Hand on the handle, I yank the door, and it swings open to the night's cold embrace.
A slap of freezing wind greets me, stinging my face, a welcome distraction from the chaos inside my head. I have a son. My son. The thought echoes, a chant amidst the howling gusts. Why the fuck did she leave? How the hell has she kept him shielded from the life I bleed?
Hands trembling, I fumble in my pocket for a smoke. Nothing. A bitter laugh escapes me. That's right. I quit the sticks. But why? Why would I quit anything?
"Thought you might need this Boss," Spike's voice breaks through the tempest, his hand outstretched, offering salvation—a cigarette and a flicker of fire.
"Thanks," is all I can muster, voice barely above the wind's wail. I huddle under my shirt, shielding the flame as I light up, inhaling deep, letting the nicotine hit me like a punch to the gut.
"I have a fucking son," I mutter into the void that stretches out beyond the balcony. No one hears. No one answers.
"He looks exactly like you," Spike says, standing beside me now, his gaze fixed into the darkness. He doesn't need to look at me; he sees what's in my soul.
I glance back through the window, catching sight of Niko curled into Eleanor, her arms a fortress around him. The kid's safe in a way I've never known—safe from me .
"Fuck, no wonder she ran," I rasp, smoke curling from my lips, carried away by the wind.
"She was keeping the kid safe," Spike adds, steady as ever. His words are a blade slicing open the truth I've avoided.
"Fuck, what do I do from here?" The question's a grenade in my mouth, ready to explode. "Do I leave and pretend we never found them, or do I take them home?"
Home. The word's a loaded gun, safety off, pointed straight at my heart.
My boot connects with the chair, skittering across the balcony like a puck on ice. "FUCK!" The word rips from my throat, raw and ugly.
"We could just kill Enzo...?" I spit out the idea like bad liquor. It's tempting, a quick fix to a complex problem. My hands itch for the violence that comes as naturally to me as breathing.
Spike leans against the railing, his eyes hard as diamonds. "And start another war? I'm starting to think she left because of the last war." His voice is a calm contrast to the storm raging inside me.
"Fuck," I mutter again, the word tasting of defeat this time. The smoke from my cigarette blends with the night air, indistinguishable now from the cold mist.
"Take them home, Boss," Spike presses on relentlessly. "Enzo knows about her already, and she is already unsafe. Even if Enzo doesn't know about the boy, he knows about her, and that's one too many people who know her location."
He's right. I know it's down to my goddamn bones. But the thought of dragging Eleanor and Niko back into my world, where every smile is a prelude to a knife in the back, makes my stomach churn.
"Every move we make, there are pieces that fall," I say, flicking the cigarette over the railing and watching it disappear into the night.
"Better our pieces than theirs, Boss," Spike says quietly. He's not just talking about chess pieces. He's talking about lives—survival in this cutthroat world that devours weakness whole.
"Fuckin' hell," I growl, all the fight draining out of me. I can't leave them out here, dangling like bait for every hungry shark in the water.
"Alright," I finally concede, the decision feeling like a lead weight in my chest. "We take them home."
"Good call," Spike says, but we both know 'good' is just a relative term in our line of work. There's no good here, only less bad—and sometimes, that's the best you can do.