Page 10 of Matteo

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 Idon’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 bedsheets 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.

"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 beenten years, love. You’re going to be okay. If he hasn’t found you yet, he isn’t going to."

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