Page 2 of Matteo

I can tell it's serious, something more than the usual street squabbles or police bribes. My heart hammers against my chest, an echo of the old drum of war, readying for whatever hell is about to break loose.

"Talk," I demand, my voice edged with steel.

"Mr Morelli is here." Spike's words cut through the haze, and a tight tension wrapped around my spine.

"Fuck." Morelli's timing is as impeccable as it is suspect, slithering into my domain with his serpentine grace.

"Let him stew for a minute," I growl, pacing the room. The shadows cling to me, an extension of the darkness deep in my soul. I don't trust Morelli; I don't trust anyone who isn't bound to me by blood or loyalty. And even then, trust is a blade that can turn in your hand without warning.

"Boss, he—" Spike starts, but I shoot him a glare that could freeze hell over.

"Did I stutter?" I snap, and he shuts his mouth with an audible click. He knows better than to question me when I'm riding the razor's edge. "Give me a second to get my head straight."

I stride toward the massive desk, every step planned and precise. Control. That's what I need now. The image of Eleanor, fierce and undeniably mine, flares in my mind. Her face anchors me when everything else wants to drag me into chaos.

"Alright," I say after a moment, the word a bullet shot from my lips. "Bring the rat-faced bastard in."

Spike, or Domino as his birth certificate claims, pivots on the balls of his feet, a fluid motion that belies the lethal precision I know he carries in his slender frame. He's nothing like the muscle-bound goons you'd expect to flank a man in my position—boss of Sydney's underbelly. But then, appearances are for the fuckin' sheep, and my right-hand man is a wolf in hipster clothing.

His hair, more suited for a beach bum than a butcher, is knotted up top, and those ice-blue eyes have seen more crimson than a goddamn vintner. The guy's got a collection of knives that would make Jack the Ripper blush; each blade baptized in the blood of those who crossed us.

As Spike saunters out the door, I lean back in my leather chair, every inch of me coiled tight, ready to spring. A lesser man might find humor in our nicknames, drawn from some vampire slayer show. Eleanor saw right through us, though—saw the demons we wrestle with, the darkness that clings to our souls. She named us, and the names stuck like blood under fingernails.

She was always like that—sharp, seeing things others missed. A laugh in the dark, an ember of defiance. Her absence now scrapes at me, a constant itch under my skin. And as much as I want to find her, part of me fears what I'll do when I do. What it'll mean for my empire, for the fragile peace I've carved out in this cesspit of a city.

The door clicks open, and Spike reappears, trailing the scent of treachery that always seems to hang around Morelli like cheap cologne. It's time to dance with the devil again and play the game of smiles and lies. But I'm ready. Always fucking ready.

"Matteo, it’s a pleasure.” Enzo Morelli's voice oozes into the room like oil spilling over pristine marble, tainting everything it touches.

I don't rise from my chair or give him satisfaction. "Pleasure as always, Enzo." The words taste like acid on my tongue. His presence alone is enough to send a shiver of disgust down my spine, raising the fine hairs on my neck in silent revolt.

He steps into the room—a fucking peacock, all flashy suit and smug grin. He thinks he owns the place, or worse, that he can play me. Not in this lifetime.

"Have a seat," I say, though it's not an offer. It's a command, my tone brooking no argument. Control—it's the game we play, and I'll be damned if I let him think he has even an ounce of it here.

Spike hovers in the doorway, a silent sentinel. His slight frame belies the cold killer beneath, a deceptive calm before the storm. I give him a curt nod, and he vanishes, leaving me with the serpent that is Enzo Morelli.

I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under my weight, and steeple my fingers, eyes locked on Enzo. The room's thick with tension, like the calm before a storm that’s sure to wreck everything in its path.

"What can I do for you today?" My voice is steady, cold as steel sliding into flesh.

Enzo takes his sweet time settling into the chair opposite me, the shit-eating grin never leaving his face. He knows he's got something, something that'll rattle my cage.

"I wanted to inform you that Eleanor has been sighted." His words slither across the desk, a poisonous offering meant to unnerve.

Fuck. My heart hammers against my ribs, but I keep my face a mask of indifference. It's not the first time Enzo's come around peddling hope like a street corner dealer. And every damn time, it's nothing but smoke—no fire.

"Is that so?" My voice scrapes out, rough with suppressed urgency. The ghost of Eleanor, always hovering at the edge of my mind, flares bright and hot. But I can't let Enzo see the turmoil beneath. I can't give him the satisfaction.

He leans back, a predator assured of his prey, a greasy smile plastered on his face like he's already won. "My sources say they saw her in London on the tube heading into the city center."

Bile rises in my throat, acid and suspicion churning together. My pulse kicks its pace, thudding in my ears like war drums. If he's playing me, if this is another dead-end chase, I'll make sure he pays with more than just his pride. I'll make his nightmares look like fairytales.

"Your sources better be fucking gold, Enzo," I growl, leaning forward, my hands clenched so tight my knuckles blanch.

"I can prove it." The words slither off Enzo's tongue like a serpent's hiss as he flings a stack of glossy prints across thepolished surface of my mahogany desk. They scatter like fallen leaves in autumn, each a potential harbinger of hope or despair.

I snatch them up, my fingers working hastily through the pile. Each photo feels like a shard of glass cutting into my calloused hands—sharp with possibility, yet likely to draw blood. Images blur past: tall, slender figure; long black hair; Asian features. It could be her. Could be any dime-a-dozen wannabe lost in the sprawling labyrinth of London.

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