Page 19 of Matteo

"Oh, Princess, you have no idea," Spike chimes in, his voice carrying from his dark corner at the back. I’d assumed he was knocked out, but the man's always got one eye open, forever playing the part of the silent watcher.

"Shhh, dickheads, the kid is sleeping," Matteo hisses with a volume that's anything but hushed.

My gaze flickers to the slumbering form of my son, oblivious to the chaos around him. Little angel doesn't know he's caught in a den of wolves, or maybe he does, and doesn't care. I lean back, closing my eyes, trying to will away the turbulence inside me. But with every breath, I feel Matteo's phantom kiss lingering on my lips, branding me, claiming me like I never left his side.

I slump into the leather seat, my heart still a wild thing in my chest. "The kid has a name, and Niko can sleep through a tornado, so don't stress," I snap, but my voice's a hint of pride.

Matteo stands over us, his presence engulfing the space. "He gets that from you," he says, a rare warmth softening the edges of his voice. His gaze lingers on the boy, a smile playing on his lips.

"Well, he didn't get his looks from me, so he had to get something," I mutter, not quite ready to let Matteo see the full extent of my affection.

"He does look like me." He sounds pleased, the bastard.

My eyes narrow as I scrutinize Niko's peaceful face. "He is you. Walks, talks, and acts just like you. The DNA was strong." It's not admiration in my tone—it's an accusation.

"You say it like it's a bad thing." Matteo cocks his head, eyes probing.

"Because it is." My words are like bullets. "I spent ten years making sure he was different, and it didn’t work."

Matteo's frown carves deep lines into his face. "Why would you not want him to be like me?" His question slices through the tension between us.

"Because I don’t ever want my son to be a killer, let alone a four-seat holder, Mafia leader." My glare could set the plane ablaze. "I might return to Sydney with you, but you will not be inducting my son into your world. I ran to escape that shit, and the last thing I want is for you to ruin that."

Matteo studies me, his expression unreadable. Then, a twisted smirk twists his lips. "No sugar coating with you now, is there?"

"Never have and never will, Matteo, you just don’t like the truth." The words slice out of me, sharp as a shiv.

He leans back, that smirk curling up like smoke from a gun barrel. "You'd be surprised what I like coming out ofyour mouth, Eleanor." His voice is dark chocolate laced with razor blades.

I roll my eyes so hard they could knock out a hitman at ten paces. Curling protectively around Niko, I feel his small breaths against my chest—a rhythm in the madness. “Goodnight, Matteo,” I whisper, the fight draining out of me for now, replaced by the pull of sleep's dark embrace.

The cabin dims to shadows and murmurs, but the darkness is no stranger—I wear it like a second skin. I edge into sleep's clutches, my last thought a silent vow: over my dead body will he claim my son.

Chapter Ten

Matteo Ricci

The plane's wheels kiss the tarmac, and I can't shake the feeling of eternity that clung to that flight. Eleanor, she's a fucking angel or something, dozing like we ain't cruising miles high in a tin can. Only rouses herself for a nibble or to lose her gaze into some digital novel on her phone. Niko's thumbs assault a handheld console, blissfully ignorant to the world. The hangar greets us with its gaping mouth at 7 am sharp, spitting us out into the furnace that is an Australian summer morning.

"Fuck me," I mutter under my breath as the heat slaps my face with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. England's drab skies ain’t got nothin' on this blaze.

I swivel and catch Eleanor basking in the sun’s embrace, face tilted skyward, soaking it all in like it's salvation. “You look beautiful like that,” I tell her, voice barely above gravelly whisper. She shuts her eyes tighter for a heartbeat, then brings her gaze down, worry gnawing on her bottom lip. Shequickly shifts her attention to Niko, guiding him down the steps to the runway with a tenderness that could crack the hardest of hearts. "Come on, Darling, I’m sure Matteo has a car ready for us," she tosses over her shoulder, breezing past me without a second glance.

Eleanor's playing the 'ignore Matteo game,' thinking it'll rile me up. But I don't bite—my place's forty minutes out, and distance means jackshit when you're already under my skin. And yeah, the ride's sorted, not by my hand but Angel's. He knows his shit, knows what I need before I do.

"Let's roll out," I say to myself, tailing after the woman with more fire than this sun-scorched land.

The silk of her pajamas flutters as Eleanor strides toward the black sedan that's purring just for us. I shuffle behind, my gaze snagging on how the fabric clings and billows with each step she takes—like it's taunting me. Niko's shadow in miniature form mimics her every move silently, his small hand dwarfed in hers.

"Got all the shit loaded?" Angel grunts at Spike as they heave our bags into the trunk. The car's a hulking beast, spacious enough to fit the family we hardly are.

"Every last piece," Spike confirms, slamming the trunk shut with a satisfying thud.

Cars are just metal coffins on wheels to me, but this one’s built like a fortress. As long as it outruns bullets and gets me where I need to go, I couldn't care about what's under the hood.

We're locked into an hour of snail-paced traffic. I lean back, the leather seat creaking under my weight. Atthe same time, cars crawl around us like ants under a magnifying glass—every one of them scurrying nowhere fast.

"I did not miss this traffic," Eleanor mutters, her eyes tracking the chaos beyond the tinted window. She's always had a sharp tongue for things that piss her off.

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