Page 3 of Matteo

But then, the last one stops me dead. My breath lodges in my throat, a chokehold tightening around it. There she is, close enough for me to count the damn mascara-laced lashes framing those eyes—an amber blaze set against perfect skin. That beauty mark, a signature etched by nature's hand just above her lip on the left, was unmistakable as my inked skin. It fucking screams Eleanor.

She's clad in a tight black business dress that hugs every curve—a second skin concealing the map of tattoos I know and my treacherous heart. Not a single inked line in sight, but I don't need them to recognize her. It's her. It's got to be.

The desire to see her, to confirm it's Eleanor and not some cruel trick of fate, claws at me with razor-sharp urgency. I've got to lay eyes on her myself, witness the fire I know will be burning in her gaze, feel the pulse of life beneath the flesh—the very beat of her heart that I've been missing like a severed limb.

My fingers twitch, the glossy prints cold and slick between them. I lift my gaze, locking it with Enzo's smug expression. "When were these taken?" The words are a controlled growl, each laced with a barbed wire of suspicion.

"Yesterday." He leans back, the smirk curling like smoke around his lips. It's a look that says he's got the upper hand, that he knows it, and loves every goddamn second of it.

I stare at the photo—her face, mark—it's a punch straight to the gut, winding me. My jaw clenches hard enough to grind teeth into powder. Yesterday. She was breathing city air, walking those filthy London streets, alive, just yesterday. So fucking close yet a world away.

The photo's still burning a hole in my hand, Eleanor's eyes drilling into mine from glossy paper. It's like she's looking right through me, daring me to find her.

"What do you want for the information, Enzo?" My voice is flat, with a blade on the table between us. This prick knows how to play his cards, and he plays them fucking well. Money's no object for either of us; this is about power, the kind that has Sydney by the balls and Melbourne kissing our rings. Information is his currency, and I'm ready to bleed for it.

Enzo reclines, one arm draped over the back of the chair with the ease of a man who owns the world—or thinks he does. "Nothing," he smirks, and the word slices through the air like a threat wrapped in velvet.

"Nothing," I echo, skeptical as hell. Enzo's smirk tells a different story, one where he's holding a royal flush while I'm bluffing with a pair of twos. But I can't call his bluff, not with Eleanor on the line. This game, this filthy dance of mafia lords—it's all just ash in the wind compared to getting her back.

"Nothing," I repeat the word, leaving a sour taste. If there's one thing I know, nothing comes without a cost. Andwhatever price Enzo's hiding up, his tailored sleeve will be steep. But fuck it—I'll pay it. For Eleanor, I'll burn the world to the ground.

I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under my weight. My fingers drum a steady, impatient rhythm on the dark mahogany of my desk.

"Oh, I find that hard to believe, Enzo; you don’t give out information for free." My voice cuts through the stillness, razor-sharp. My gut twists; this fucker's playing games. But what's his goddamn angle?

Enzo's smirk doesn't reach those cold eyes. "You’re right, I don’t," he admits, casually as if discussing the weather. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "But think of this as a gift. You have been searching for this girl for over ten years now." His gaze finally meets mine. "We need you to take your seat seriously. So be it if that means helping you find the girl."

The audacity of this prick. A gift? Since when does the devil hand out favors without wanting a soul in return? There's a price tag hanging off this 'gift'—I can almost see it fluttering in the murky shadows of his intentions. And yet, the thought of Eleanor, somewhere out there, possibly within my grasp again... It's enough to make me consider dancing with the devil.

I slam my fist onto the desk, a thunderclap in the charged silence. "What do you mean to take my seat seriously? I’ve been sitting in it for ten years now!" My voice is a growl, a low rumble of barely contained fury. Each word is a bullet, and Enzo's smug face is the target. "I see that as taking it pretty seriously."

Enzo leans back, his chair creaking under the strain of his arrogance. His lips peel back in a semblance of a smile, but his eyes... they're ice-cold, calculating. "That’s not what I mean, and you know it." He spits out the words like they're poison, venom in his voice. "We need to run more drugs and more girls, but without you on board, that’s not going to happen."

I slam my hands on the desk, standing so fast the chair crashes behind me. The sound echoes like a gunshot in the tense silence of the office. "I'm not going to traffic girls through Sydney, Enzo. Not a chance; it's not happening. Leave that shit down in Gallo's territory."

Enzo's smug expression doesn't falter, but I can see the flicker of irritation in his dead eyes. "I’m a sadist, Enzo," I say, leaning over the desk, invading his space, making him feel my presence, my threat. "But not a psychopath. We already run enough drugs through the city. How much more do we need to push?"

"More," he spits out like venom. "Always more." He stands up, mirroring my aggression, a twisted smirk playing on his lips. "We need the girls, Matteo! Think of the cash we could push through the city if we had girls to sell?" His eyes gleam with a mix of greed and malice.

I stare him down, feeling the darkness churn inside me, a beast restrained by thin chains of self-control. But even beasts have their limits, and mine is trading flesh like it’s just another commodity. My knuckles are white, itching for the feel of his throat beneath them. But I don't move; I don’t give him that satisfaction.

"Money isn't everything, Enzo. Remember that," I growl,the words low and dangerous. My tattoos itch under my tailored sleeves, reminders of a life drenched in sin, but even I have lines I won't cross. Girls aren't currency. Not on my watch. "You are a psychopath, aren't you, Enzo?"

"Ha ha ha," he laughs, and the sound grates against my skull like sandpaper. Suit stretching over his slimy frame. "Nope, not even close; I like money more than people." His smirk is a slap to my face as he tosses a USB onto my desk. It skitters across the polished surface, coming to rest at the edge, a physical manifestation of how close we are to crossing lines that should never be blurred.

The room feels colder, darker, as if his presence sucks out all the warmth. I stare at the USB, a small piece of heavy plastic with implications. It's the link between finding Eleanor and sinking further into this cesspool of depravity. Every fiber in me wants to snap the damn thing in two, but every beat of my heart screams her name.

"Here is the information we managed to grab. Think about expanding our trade." Enzo's words slither through the air, rife with a venom that chokes the room. He doesn't even bother with pretense, his gaze fixed on me like he's already measuring my fucking coffin.

I don't need to look at the USB; it's bait, a hook with Eleanor as the lure, and this motherfucker knows I'll bite. Because she's the pulse in my veins, the one itch in my brain I can't scratch away.

"Expanding trade" – code for peddling flesh and souls. Over my goddamn dead body. But I nod, just a tilt, giving nothing away. "Will do," I lie through my teeth, the taste of bullshit bitter on my tongue.

Enzo smirked and probably thought the balls would get him me. But he'll learn. Ricci's balls are made of steel, so they are not to be squeezed by his likes.

With a last glance that tries to drill into my skull, Enzo turns and strides out. His steps are quiet, but they might as well be fucking thunderclaps for the storm that's brewing in my gut.

I watch Spike shadow him, lean from gliding silent and deadly. Spike may look like a breeze could take him, but he's a hurricane in a fight, knives dancing like extensions of his twisted soul.

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