Page 13 of Matteo

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 couchjust 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 herprotest 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?

---