Page 23 of Matteo

His jaw clenches, that familiar fire of possession igniting in his gaze. "There is nothing I won't do to keep you both safe." His words are granite, unyielding, as if spoken by the goddamn devil himself.

"I know, and that's the issue." My own voice is a hiss, threading between us like barbed wire.

"Come on, I'll grab your bag so you can shower and change. You bloody stink you know," he chuckles, the sound grating against the tense air as he strides out, leaving me with the echo of madness that always trails in his wake.

I'm rooted to the spot for a heartbeat, then two, before the reality of my situation claws at my resolve. I shed my clothes right there, each piece discarded like a layer of past mistakes, until I'm bare, vulnerable. I step into the shower without hesitation, turn the knob, and let the icy cascade envelop me.

Fuck, the cold bites, but it’s nothing compared to the dread coiling in my gut. A shiver racks my body, not from the chill, but from the sheer fucked-up realization that Matteo Ricci—mafia boss, lover, madman—has just laid outmy gilded cage.

The water sluices over me, a pathetic attempt to wash away the filth of fear and regret. But it's no use; I'm inked with the stain of his world, our world, a tapestry of power plays and violence spun across Melbourne's grimy underbelly.

My thoughts scatter like rats in an alleyway. We will all be dead in a week. The mantra pounds in my skull, a drumbeat heralding doom.

So fucking screwed.

Chapter Twelve

Matteo Ricci

Istride out of the bathroom, my mind racing as much as my heart. I'm on a damn mission now—find Eleanor's bag. The leather thing is dumped on the library floor like it's nothing. Spike must've hauled it up here for her. Clever bastard.

I grip the strap and pivot back toward the bathroom, the sound of rushing water hitting me hard. The door's wide open, like a goddamn invitation. Or is it? My body tightens, caught between raging lust and a gnawing need for answers. Can I walk in there and face her naked truth? My cock's been twitching with anticipation since London, but my chest feels like it's caged in barbed wire. I don't just want her body—I want her secrets, the ones she bolted with to protect our kid. Could've done that together, right here in Sydney.

But fuck it, before I can piece it all together, my legs betray me, carrying me toward the steam and the siren call of her skin. "Holy shit!" The words rip from my throat as she whirls around, hands clutching at herself.

"What?" That sharp tongue snaps, eyes wide, defensive.

"Turn back around, Princess," I growl, and she obeys. My gaze devours the ink sprawling across her back—a fucking masterpiece. Castle, dragon, the final showdown of some wizard war she's obsessed with—Hogwarts, they call it. Ten years ago, I etched the dark mark on her, but this... this is something else. Quotes, symbols, tiny stories wrapping around her like armor.

"They are all from the books I love," she says, voice soft but fierce. "Every quote, every symbol is from a book that stole a part of my soul."

"It's beautiful," I admit, voice rough like gravel. I'm not one for fairy tales, but this... this is her soul laid bare.

"Turn around," I command again, and she does, dropping her hands. Her tits are perfect, but I ain't looking at them. It's the raw emotion flooding me, my vision blurring as I see her, really see her, for the first time in a decade.

"Fuck," I whisper, tears traitorous bastards streaking down my face. Never thought I'd be this guy, but here I am, undone by ink and skin and the fucking past that's clawed its way back.

I trace the ink on her skin, my finger skimming over the heart nestled between her breasts. Quotes and symbols snake along her ribs, a map of stories inked into her flesh, but the words within the heart seize my breath. “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” Her voice in my head, the echo of the past, fucking haunts me.

"Still got a piece of me, huh?" I mutter, my voice raw with emotion. The need to show her, to prove that we're cut fromthe same cloth, overwhelms me. Clothes—my armor against the world—fall away like they're nothing. My chest bare, I stand before her, vulnerable yet fierce.

Her gaze drops, a gasp slipping from those lips, and her eyes lock onto my heart. There it is, the exact goddamn quote, etched into my skin under a crown with her name. A permanent mark of what she means to me.

"You remembered..." Her whisper is a feather across my soul.

"Princess, I remember every fucking word you ever said," I growl, my voice thick with unspoken promises.

No more waiting, no more distance. I close the gap, yanking her into my arms, her wet skin against mine ignites a fire no shower can douse. "You belong here," I say, fingers gripping her chin, tilting her face to mine. "Right here with me." And then my lips crash down on hers, claiming, consuming, as though I can drink in her very essence.

She melts into me, her tongue tangling with mine, hungry and desperate. Her arms wind around my neck, pulling me closer, her body a beacon of heat against the chill of my soul. My hands roam, possessive, owning every curve and dip of her flesh, reacquainting myself with the territory that's always been mine.

"Fuck, Eleanor," I grunt as I scoop her up. Her legs circle my waist, her heat branding me. I carry her out of the steam, our bed a siren call we can't ignore. I lay her down, my hands worshiping every inch of her, teasing nipples until they peak, hard and begging for more.

A gasp, sharp and sweet, escapes her as I trail lower. Myhand finds her, neatly trimmed, the promise of what's to come. This isn't just lust; it's a fucking reclaiming. I graze her clit, drawing out a moan that could raise the dead. Urgent need courses through me, but I fight it back. Not yet. Not until she's shattering beneath me, screaming my name like a prayer.

"Matteo," she whimpers, and it's all the permission I need to reduce her to the quivering mess I know she loves to be. The dance of our bodies, a familiar rhythm, a song only we know the tune to. And I play her like the virtuoso I am, eliciting cries of pleasure that ring in the air, a symphony of desire that's music to my fucking ears.

"Shit, Princess, I need to close the door," I bark out as realization punches me in the gut. A kid's in the house now—our fucking kid. I stalk over and slam the door shut, the click of the lock a sharp note in the heated silence. When I spin back around, Eleanor's sprawled on the bed like sin waiting to be devoured. Her legs are parted, her fingers teasing herself, a clear fuck-me-now invitation. My blood roars.

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