Page 21 of Matteo

Chapter Eleven

Eleanor Wang

What the ever-loving fuck? He actually went and did it. Bought the house. The one with the iron-wrought gates and the looming shadow of danger behind its walls—the one I dreamt of in a past life, the one meant for us. For a future that once flickered uncertain like a candle in the wind.

I'm trailing after Matteo, my feet thumping on the concrete, struggling to keep up with his long, determined strides. His back is a rigid line of authority, the cut of his ninja suit unable to hide the lethal force beneath. "Normally, I use the garage door to get in, but seeing as you haven't seen it before, let’s use the front door and give you the proper tour,” he says, a casualness to his tone that belies the surreal reality of the moment.

His finger meets the cold surface of the front door panel, pressing into the scanner with a confidence born from ownership. There's a click, an electronic sigh, and the door yields to him, as everything does. “I’ll get Angel to add youboth to the lock panels on the house; all you have to do is touch the panels with your fingerprint, and it will unlock for you. Every single door that leads inside and outside has to be unlocked with a fingerprint,” he informs me, voice flat—a fact, not an invitation.

"Bloody Fort Knox" escapes from me in a murmur, the words bouncing off the high walls and echoing back like a challenge.

“Yes, Eleanor, it is. And you will do well to remember that this is OUR safe haven. No one can touch you within these walls,” Matteo returns sharply, his glare slicing through me. It's a look that could command legions or make men weep—merciless and all-consuming.

"Sorry," I toss back at him, mustering my own defiance. It's rusty, dulled by years of distance, but I still know how to wield it.

"That’s okay, Princess, it’s been ten years. I’m sure we all need to remember a few things," he says, eyes narrowing into slits that hold dark secrets and darker promises.

Oh, I remember alright. Remember how every sweet word dripped with venom, how every tender touch concealed a bruise. Matteo Ricci, the man who loves like a strangling vine—suffocating, relentless, all-consuming. Underneath that polished exterior thrums the heart of a madman, chaos wrapped in silk ties and bespoke suits.

He's a storm dressed like a gentleman—the kind of insanity that's whispered about in the shadows of this city's underbelly. A dangerous enigma who rules with an iron fist sheathed in velvet gloves.

And here I stand, on the precipice of our twisted fairytale, wondering if this fortress will be my sanctuary or my tomb.

The door swings open to a shadowed realm that Matteo has conjured from the depths of my darkest fantasies. I step inside, the cool air whispering secrets across my skin, and for a moment—just one goddamn heartbeat—I'm ensnared by the past. A time when fire licked at my heels and I danced in its embers with reckless abandon.

"Jesus, Matteo," I breathe, the words catching in my throat as I take in the swathes of black paint that cloak the walls, hungry like the night sky. It's a macabre gallery, each painting a silent scream framed in darkness. The furniture—bold, unyielding antiques—stands guard like sentinels of a forgotten era, each piece chosen with meticulous care, a shrine to bygone decadence.

The floors are a contradiction—a rich, dark stain mirroring the ceiling, grounding me even as my head spins from the dizzying heights of Matteo's madness. Black and white cowhides sprawl beneath my feet, a twisted homage to innocence tainted.

My fingers ghost over the smooth back of a leather chair; it's cold and unyielding under my touch, much like the man watching me. A tear betrays me, slipping free, tracing a path down my cheek. I swipe it away, curse my own weakness.

Matteo's eyes lock onto mine, finding victory in that single, shining track. "I’m going to take that tear as a win and assume you love it Eleanor," he drawls, his voice a dangerous purr that vibrates through the cavernous space between us.

"Love?" The word tastes bitter on my tongue, a crueljoke. "Yeah, sure," I say, but the half-hearted quip dies in the air, suffocated by the enormity of what stands before me.

This was the dream, the godforsaken vision that once fueled our lust-filled nights—the promise of 'us' wrapped in a gilded nightmare. And now, here it stands, a monument to a love that was never meant to survive the bloody grips of the Ricci legacy.

"Welcome home, Princess," he murmurs, and the room seems to close in around us, a loving embrace or a chokehold—I can't decide which. But hell, isn't that just the way with us? Always dancing on the blade's edge, where love and insanity blur into one.

"Home," I echo, tasting the lie, knowing this place is nothing but a beautiful cage, tailor-made for a bird with clipped wings. And yet, despite it all, part of me yearns to surrender to the seduction of this darkness—to sink into the abyss and let the house of Ricci claim me once more.

The forest green of the kitchen walls slithers into my senses, a dark, living thing that pulses with an opulence so intense it's almost suffocating. Black cupboards and appliances gleam with a predatory sheen under the dim lights, promising culinary delights and whispered secrets in the same breath. "It’s very beautiful, Matteo," I say, but the words feel like ash in my mouth, a stark contrast to the vibrant room that's every inch a manifestation of my darkest dreams.

"Only the start, Eleanor." Matteo's voice is a velvet threat as he leads me through the house. Everywhere I look, art battles for wall space, each piece a silent sentinel in this shrine of excess and shadows. The furniture, scarce as it is,stands like dark sentinels against the black walls, their forms minimalistic yet imposing—a perfect reflection of the man who brought them here.

"Come on now, let’s move on to the rest of the house." His hand grips mine, calloused fingers a vise that says I'm his, whether I like it or not.

We reach the end of the hallway, where a massive door swings open at Matteo's touch to reveal a void. An empty room, vast and waiting, like an unspoken promise or a veiled threat. “This will be Niko’s room,” he announces, the darkness in his tone leaving no room for argument. "Angel will deck it out. It'll be ready before you know it. Otherwise i have others you can chose from?”

"Can I see the others too?" Niko's voice cuts through the heavy air, more statement than question. Kid's got guts; I'll give him that.

"Of course, you would," Matteo chuckles, the sound more akin to the growl of a beast amused by its prey's bravado. "Come on, let’s go."

The bay glitters beyond the balcony, a slice of tranquility amidst the chaos. But it's a lie, just like everything else in this house—a beautiful illusion to mask the blood-stained foundations beneath. Matteo talks of rooms and renovations, but all I hear is the clinking of chains as the Ricci empire tightens its grip around my throat, around my son's future.

"Angel will make it cool," Matteo assures, but the chill that runs down my spine has nothing to do with comfort. This isn't a home; it's a gilded cage, a fortress with walls thick enough to keep out danger—or keep it in. And standinghere, caught in the web of Matteo Ricci's making, I wonder if we'll ever indeed be free again.

Descending the shadow-veiled staircase behind Matteo, I trail into a more void space than a room. Void of furniture, void of warmth, a hollow echo of what might have been. "I never come down here," he mutters with a dismissive shrug, his eyes scanning the barren expanse.

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