Page 12 of Matteo

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.

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