Page 34 of Matteo

They're Italian, those bastards who did this to her. It could be my men, or it could be Enzo's. Doesn't fucking matter. Blood will be answered with blood; it's the code welive and die by. Ten years have passed, but time doesn't erase debts and doesn't dull the need for retribution.

I'll find them. If they're breathing, they'll wish they weren’t. And if they're dead, I'll spit on their graves. The night wraps around us, a shroud of secrets and silent vows. This is my world of darkness and vengeance—and I am its relentless master.

Chapter Eighteen

Eleanor Wang

Iwake to the cold emptiness of the bed and a sticky mess between my thighs. Shit. I didn't wash up last night, lost in the haze of Matteo's arms. The bastard should've stayed. Waking up alone is a cruelty I don't deserve.

The water hits me in the shower, but it's not enough. My romance novels never got this right—the next day's residue. Cum doesn't just rinse off; it turns into a stubborn paste. I scrub with soap until it stings, cursing under my breath. If I get thrush or a UTI from this, someone's gonna pay.

Dressed and half-dry, I glance at the clock. It's nearly 10 fucking am. This isn't me. I'm the girl who battles with the snooze button, not the one who sleeps through alarms. And where the hell is Niko? He's usually on my case by now.

Racing downstairs, I stop short. There's Matteo at the kitchen table, sipping his coffee like he owns time itself. Niko and Angel huddle over some tech crap, whispering conspiracies into their screens. And Spike—of all things—is perchedby the window nursing a teacup with a saucer. Real proper-like. I almost laugh. The world's gone mad, and outside, the sky agrees, heavy with clouds ready to burst.

"Morning," I mutter, still grappling with the disarray before me. Matteo glances up, a predator’s smile playing on his lips. Everything about him screams danger, from his inked skin to those tailored clothes that cling to him like sin.

"Sleep well, Princess?" he asks, voice smooth as the silk sheets I've just left.

"Would've been better with the company," I shoot back, eyeing the space beside him. Control. Power. It's all part of this twisted game we play.

He smirks, the king of his concrete jungle, while I stand here, trying to remember if I'm more pissed about the unwashed stickiness or his absence. Maybe both. But then again, this is our dance—one step forward, two steps back into the darkness we call love.

My voice rasps with confusion. "Um, what's going on here? I thought you would have been at work," I say, my gaze fixed on Matteo.

He doesn't miss a beat, his eyes locking onto mine with that manic intensity that both thrills and terrifies. "Princess, every time I leave the house from now on, you will be with me. I'm not leaving here anymore without you by my side." His declaration slams into me like a freight train. "If that means I have to wait every morning till you wake up, then so be it."

I frown, my mind racing to understand his sudden shift. "I’m confused; why do I have to come?" The question hangs between us, thick as the tension.

Matteo leans back in his chair, a king surveying his empire, and his voice is absolute, brooking no argument. "After last night, I realised if I had kept you with me at all times, none of this would have happened, so I’m not leaving you alone from now on." His words are simple, but they cut through the air, sharp as a blade.

"Christ," I mutter under my breath. "Well, I think that might be a little bit impractical, and I don’t think it is something that can be established for a long period of time, but hey, I do need to get out of the house before I get cabin fever, so fuck it, why not?" It's half-hearted, the defiance diluted by the reality of his presence, the inevitability of his will.

A chuckle escapes me, edged with self-deprecation. "Lemme me go get changed; I can’t be seen wearing sweats and a t-shirt," I say, trying to inject some levity into the charged atmosphere.

Matteo's laughter is a rich, dark sound that fills the room. "Of course, you can’t. I cannot imagine you in anything less than a power suit out of the house." It's a challenge wrapped in a compliment, and I rise to it effortlessly.

"Matteo, you think you’re whipped now? Just wait till you see me in the power suit," I shoot back, a grin tugging at my lips despite the insanity of it all. There's a dance here, one of danger and desire, and we both know the steps by heart.

His smile widens, and there's pride in his eyes—pride and something fiercer. He sees me not just as a lover but as an equal adversary in this game of shadows and power plays. And, God help me; it turns me on more than it should.

Muscles protesting,I contort into the power suit—a second skin that screams business and bullshit in equal measure. The mirror reflects a woman ready to wage war in boardrooms or back alleys. A quick smear of lipstick and a dash of mascara, and I'm as armed as I'll ever be.

New heels are traitorous bastards, their pinch promising an afternoon of agony. I’ll need Band-Aids before I can play Matteo's twisted game of mob queen and consort. My reflection gives a nod—let’s do this, it says, even if it means hobbling on blades disguised as stilettos.

I stride back into the kitchen, every step a declaration of my reluctant readiness, but the sight before me is a fucking curveball. Matteo, Mr. Dark-and-Dangerous himself, is down on one knee. His inked hand cradles an open box, its contents glinting with a promise as binding as handcuffs.

"I told you I was going to marry you, Princess. So, I think it’s about time to adorn that ring," he smirks, his voice threaded with a possessive lilt that both irks and ignites me.

"Shit!" The word slips out like a bullet from a silenced gun. My facade cracks, surprise etched across my face. "Alright, give it here." My fingers curl in a ‘give me, give me’ gesture, impatience overruling romance.

His grin splits wider, all shark-like charm and lethal intent. He snatches up my hand. "Hay, at least let me do the honors, Princess," he chides, his laugh a low rumble that resonates through the charged air between us.

The ring—an unyielding band of cool metal—slips onto my finger with an ease that feels like destiny. Or a trap. "Let me guess—you magically knew the right size to buy?" I arch an eyebrow, more in challenge than curiosity.

Matteo taps his nose, still wearing that self-satisfied smirk. "Nope. I put a string around your finger while you were sleeping." It's invasive, intimate, so fucking Matteo.

"It was my idea," Niko chimes in without glancing away from his tech toys. "Matteo was wondering how to get it right, so I googled. And Google always has the answer."

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