Page 31 of Matteo

"Tomato, tomato," she grumbles, her voice raspy with fatigue. I can almost see her rolling her eyes, even in the pitch-black room. The exhaustion is scraping away the sweetness from her tongue, leaving sharp edges I've come to love and fear.

"Eleanor, what are you using for birth control at the moment?" I watch, feeling more than seeing her stiffen, her movements halting as she half-climbs back into our bed.

"Fuck, shit, goddamnit!" The curses fly from her lips, unfiltered and raw. She's panicked, I can tell.

"I don’t use anything and didn’t even think of it. Shit, sorry Matteo, I’ll get Angel to take me to the docs tomorrow and grab the pill," she rambles, climbing back under the sheets, her voice tremulous with the sudden twist of fate.

"No need," I say, pulling her back against my chest, my hand possessive over her abdomen. "I want you pregnant again." I feel her muscles tense, her resolve hardening like concrete.

"Not a chance, Matteo; one and done, this shop is closed. I’m not going through that again," she states firm as a fucking bulletproof vest.

Her words sting, but they're not enough to douse the fire she's ignited in me—one that's been burning since she left, since before I knew about Niko. It's an inferno that her stubbornness or fears won't snuff out.

We've got unfinished business, Eleanor and I. And no matter how much she resists, I know this dance of ours—it's far from over.

I chuckle, low and dark—a sound that rumbles through the quiet room like a threat dressed as amusement. "Okay, Princess, let's shelve this conversation for later." It’s a promise wrapped in velvet, but we both know there's steel beneath it.

She thinks she can shut down the prospect of another kid and seal it off like some condemned part of her past, but I'm not a man who takes no for an answer. Not when it comes to Eleanor. Not when it comes to anything that's mine. The shop might be closed in her mind, but I've got the master key and plan to use it.

"Go to sleep," I whisper against the soft silk of her hair, my lips brushing the top of her head. "We'll talk more tomorrow."

It's all the tenderness I can afford right now. We'll battle it out tomorrow, trade barbs and maybe bodies, but tonight, I let her believe she's won this round.

The room's darkness feels thick and heavy with unsaid words and unmade decisions. But for now, I let the silence take over, breathing in her familiar scent and letting the shadows cloak us both.

Chapter Sixteen

Eleanor Wang

The sun hasn't even cracked the horizon, and I'm already up, the taste of espresso bitter on my tongue as I rifle through the latest stack of papers: same shit, different day. Matteo left a ghostly impression on the bed; the sheets were still warm where his body had been. It's like living with a phantom, one that fucks you senseless in the dead of night and then vanishes come morning.

Every click of the keyboard is a calculated risk. Patrick's on the other end of these emails, his threats to involve the cops hanging heavy over my head. But it's Matteo's wrath I fear more - the man's possessiveness knows no bounds, and if he catches wind of this, someone's blood will paint the walls.

Matteo's been scarce since returning to his empire of crime and concrete. He comes home to remind me I'm his, with rough hands and insatiable hunger. But there are no words, no tender kisses—just carnal claiming and then thesilence of his absence. I’m not just some doll to be played with, only to be shelved when the game's done.

Tonight's the night. I'll wait for him and force the confrontation. There’s a story curled tight in my chest, one about running and fear and life growing inside me. Niko needs safety and a father who understands the shadows we're wrapped in. And Matteo... he needs the truth, raw and cutting.

I check the clock. Hours until he returns, hours to fortify my resolve. My heart's a drumbeat, rapid and panicked, but I push it down. Nothing gets done on knees weak with worry. I'm the queen of this darkened chessboard, and it's time to move.

The leatherof the library chair creases under me as I jolt awake, the scent of ink and old paper replaced by the musky tang of Matteo's cologne. His arms are a vice around me, lifting me from my makeshift vigil with an ease that speaks of his strength and control—the room swims, disoriented from sleep. I blink back the fog.

"Hey, Princess, let's get you into bed," he murmurs, voices a soft growl that vibrates through me.

"Matteo?" My voice is a croak, dry and sleepy.

"Yes, Princess?"

"Are you avoiding me?" I can barely get the words past my yawn, but they feel like knives, sharp and necessary.

"Why do you think that?" His face is shadowed, unreadable.

"Because you get home when you know I’m asleep, andyou’re gone when I wake up." My accusation hangs in the air as he lowers me onto the bed; our sanctuary turned battleground.

"Princess, if I were avoiding you, I wouldn’t come home at night." He sheds his suit jacket, movements precise and deliberate. "I got some drama with the four seats going on, and I’ve been trying to deal with it. I only come home 'cause you're here; otherwise, I would stay at the office."

His confession slices through the silence. Every word he says is laced with that darkness he commands, the kind that seeps into the very walls of this house, into the marrow of my bones.

"I tried to stay awake so I could talk to you," I admit, pouting up at him, the frustration gnawing at my insides. Since Niko, since coming back, every part of me feels like it’s betraying me, even my goddamn stamina. "But I can never seem to make it past 9 pm anymore. I’m only thirty, for Christ's sake, but 9 pm seems to be the magical number."

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