Page 42 of Matteo
It's been just over a week since Toni Venchetti vanished into whatever hole Matteo's men crawl into when shit's about to hit the fan. Since then, Matteo's shadow looms larger, his presence a constant reminder that we're perched on the edge of something dark and inevitable.
"Enzo hasn't been around," I point out casually, watching as Matteo's jaw clenches, a tell so subtle only someone who's stared into the abyss with him would notice.
"He's busy," Matteo replies, his tone clipped. "No more surprise visits."
I nod, the upcoming four-seat gathering a ticking time bomb. Every three months, they shuffle cities, hosting a game of Russian roulette disguised as a board meeting. This time, Sydney is the stage, and I'm the unwilling audience to go to a show for which I never bought tickets.
"Thankfully," I say dryly, leaning back against the door. I don't have to see outside to know that the guards are there, their sharp eyes scanning for threats invisible to me but all too real to them.
Matteo steps closer, his hand brushing mine, sending a jolt up my arm. "You're safe here, Eleanor. With me." His voice is velvet wrapped around steel, comforting yet chilling.
"Safe," I echo, tasting the irony. Safe in a gilded cage is still caged. Since spilling my guts to him, since admitting the fear that gnaws at my insides, the guard detail has doubled. Because that's what Matteo does—he controls, protects, and possesses. And I, whether I like it or not, am his to protect.
"London was different," I admit, remembering thedeceptive peace of locked doors without the looming threat of retribution lurking in the shadows. "I didn't feel the walls closing in."
Matteo's gaze hardens, the darkness behind his eyes swirling like storm clouds ready to burst. "London wasn't home. This is where you belong, Eleanor, with me."
And I can't argue with that because, despite the dread that clings to me like a second skin, there's no place I'd rather be than here, caught in the eye of the storm that is Matteo Ricci. Here, every heartbeat is a drumbeat of power and control, where love and madness dance a razor's edge waltz.
"Home," I whisper, and I let myself believe it for a moment. But even as the word lingers between us, I feel it—the calm before the storm—and somewhere beneath the layers of muscle and menace, Matteo feels it, too.
The door slams shut with a thunderous clap that sends a shiver down my spine. Niko's scowl could sour milk as he trudges out of the study, his new teacher standing in the doorway like an iron pillar.
"Language, Niko," she snaps, her voice a whip crack echoing in the high-ceilinged hallway. "And remember your assignment."
I stifle a smirk from where I lean against the wall, hidden by shadows. Mrs. De Luca is a formidable force. Her steely gaze and ruler-straight posture belong to an era of rigid discipline—the kind that forges leaders or breaks spirits.
"Stupid old hag," Niko mutters under his breath—too low for her to hear, but not for me.
"Respect," I snap, stepping into the light. His head whips up, eyes wide, caught.
Niko's lips purse, rebellion simmering in his dark eyes. It's like staring at a younger Matteo. But this kid doesn't know half of what his father had to endure.
"Whatever," he spits out, stomping away, his footsteps pounding like a drumbeat of adolescent fury.
"Don’t be too tough on him," I tell Mrs. De Luca, who nods, her face an unreadable mask.
"Only a little," she assures before disappearing back into the room, her determination as palpable as the tension that lingers in her wake.
Turning away, I can't help but feel a twinge of guilt pierce my chest—like a splinter working its way under my skin. This isn't the life I ever wanted for Niko, but Matteo's world doesn't care about wants. It's about survival, power, control.
Angel and Spike are hunched over a mess of papers and screens in the adjacent room, their faces grim as gravestones. They're hunting ghosts, digging through a decade of dirt and secrets while I drown in invoices and ledgers.
"Anything?" I ask, crossing the threshold into their territory of technology and whispers.
"Shadows, mostly," Spike grumbles, scratching at his chin. "But shadows can bleed if you stab them right."
"Keep stabbing," I say, voice flat, thumbing through a stack of papers, the edges biting into my skin. Hard evidence is a bastard to find, slippery as an eel, and twice as ugly when you finally get a grip onit.
"Never stop," Angel replies, his fingers flying across the keyboard, a maestro playing a symphony of search and seize.
"Good." I nod, my heart thudding in my chest. Every keystroke, every page turned, is another step deeper into the abyss, the dark heart of the Ricci legacy.
If only we could rewrite the past, unspill the blood, unbreak the broken. But this life isn't about what-ifs or regrets. It's about facing the storm, teeth bared, fists clenched.
This is my life, forged in shadow and silence. And I'll be damned if I let it take me without a fight.
As I rifle through the tattered documents, the scent of ink and old leather wraps around me like a shroud. Matteo's world, this empire of shadows, is drowning in paper—a decade's worth of secrets piled high on every surface. The dim light from the desk lamp casts long, sinister shadows across the room, making the numbers and words dance like specters on the walls.
