Page 36 of Matteo

The lift surges upward, and I lean back against the cool metal wall, sipping my latte. Matteo stands close, exuding control and commanding space even in this confined box, hurtling us towards the twentieth floor. There's a tension between us, a silent acknowledgment of the ring on my finger, the symbol of ownership and protection in our twisted world.

"Give me that coffee," Matteo demands, his voice a low rumble in the confines of the lift. I clutch the paper cup closer to my chest, a wicked grin tugging at my lips. "Nope," I retort, the 'p' popping with playful defiance.

He swivels towards me, dark brows raised in challenge, full lips curving into a pout that would have lesser women swooning. It's almost comical to see the underworld's feared boss reduced to this child-like plea. His reflection bounces off the mirrored walls, doubling my view of his ridiculous yetadorable expression. "Please?" he implores, and damn it all, he looks cute right now.

"Fuck," I mutter, unable to resist, and hand him the cup. Matteo takes a hearty gulp, then immediately recoils as if struck. "What the ever-loving fuck is that?" Disgust paints his rugged features, a stark contrast to the smooth caramel of his skin.

"Pumpkin Spice Latte with two sugars," I declare, snatching back my precious cargo and taking a defiant sip. The warmth of the spiced drink slides down my throat, a little bit of heaven amidst the tumult of our lives.

Matteo shakes his head, still grimacing. "No, I know what you ordered, but that is gross." He waves a dismissive hand as if banishing the taste from his palate. "It smelt amazing from over here, but that tastes horrible."

"Good," I crow triumphantly. "Means I don't have to share it with you ever!" My tongue sticks out in mock taunt as I spin on my heel, exiting the lift into the grandeur of Ricci headquarters. The space stretches before us, open-plan and opulent, all white and glass-like some modern-day palace.

The receptionist's desk looms ahead, massive and foreboding. Three girls crew the station, their fingers flying over keyboards, headsets in place like they're ready for battle rather than simple phone calls. They don't need to glance up to know who's entered their domain. "Good morning, Mr Ricci," their voices chime together, a well-rehearsed choir of subservience. Then, just like that, they're back to their screens, the momentary acknowledgment of their boss's presence gone as quickly as it arrived.

I bite the inside of my cheek, laughter threatening toburst free at the absurdity of it all. Spike, ever the instigator, nudges me with an elbow, leaning in close. "Good morning, Angels," he mimics, a devilish glint in his eye. He shifts to my other ear, barely containing his mirth. "Good morning, Charlie." That does it; giggles erupt from me, uncontrollable and infectious.

Matteo throws a questioning look over his shoulder, eyes narrowed in suspicion and amusement. "What are you two laughing about?"

"Nothing!" I shoot back, too quick, too breathless with laughter. Spike's chuckle rumbles through the air, a clear indication he's not done stirring shit.

With a shake of his head but a smirk playing on his lips, Matteo strides ahead, commanding his territory with the ease of a predator ruling its kingdom. I trail after him, still sipping on my latte, the bitter taste of pumpkin spice mingling with the sweet victory of having one over on Matteo Ricci, if only for a fleeting moment.

The door groans on its hinges, a low, ominous sound that heralds our entry into the heart of Matteo Ricci's dominion. Dark mahogany bookshelves loom like sentinels against stark white walls, and the scent of leather and power hangs heavy in the air. But it’s the giant photograph behind his desk that sucks the breath from my lungs.

It’s us—frozen in grayscale, a moment trapped in time. The Wollongong lighthouse stands stoic in the background, oblivious to the reckless joy of two souls defiantly dancing in the rain. I can almost feel the cold droplets on my skin, hear the squelch of wet grass beneath my feet, and taste the saltytang of ocean spray mixed with the soggy fish and chips batter.

"Fuck," I whisper, the memory sharp as a blade.

"What have I gotten myself into?" Matteo's voice is a soft mutter, barely audible. Yet, it cuts through the silence, dragging me back to the present, where only ghosts of the past remain.

A sudden splash jolts me, water stinging my face. Spike, the bastard, flicks the last remnants from his fingers at me, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Thought you might want the full experience," he chortles, eyes alight with mischief and malice.

"What the fuck was that for, dickhead?" I snarl, fury flaring hot and quick. My words are venom, but they can't touch Spike's amusement.

"Can you believe this cunt?" I appeal to Matteo, who's trying—and failing—to mask his laughter behind a hand that's supposed to be stern.

"Both of you," I growl, seizing control of the moment, "are complete dickheads."

I stake my claim on Matteo's chair, sinking into the supple leather before he can take his rightful place. It's bold, asserting dominance in a world ruled by men like him. But there's a fire within me, a blaze fueled by old photographs and unwanted nostalgia—a desire to reclaim what was once mine, even if it's just the throne of a kingpin for a fleeting second.

"Princess in the boss's seat," I say, a smirk curling my lips. "Feels fucking right."

"Princess, what are you doing?" Matteo's voice slicesthrough the air, a mix of bemusement and that ever-present command he weaves into every syllable.

I swivel in his leather and power chair and flick my gaze up to him. "Oh, Matteo, sorry I didn't see you there," I say with a grin sharp as a shiv, gesturing to the seat across from me. "Please, take a seat. I'm glad you can join me."

He studies me for a heartbeat, those dark eyes trying to read the play before strolling over to sit where I dictate. "Why, thank you," he says, the edges of his mouth twitching in a smirk that matches my own.

"Seeing as you're in my seat today," Matteo starts, settling into the role reversal with an ease that’s unsettling. Would you mind starting up my computer and pulling up the calendar so I know what is planned?"

"Sure." The word rolls off my tongue like a loaded dice as I lean forward, fingers dancing across the keyboard. "What's the password?" This is new territory; his inner sanctum is permanently locked away.

Matteo doesn't hesitate, doesn't even blink. "Wicket," he throws down, all cards face-up on the table.

I type it in; my fingers pause, waiting for him to yank back control, but nothing comes. The screen blinks to life, and there it is, another punch to the gut—us, immortalized in ink and pixels.

The wallpaper is a ghost of a different time, a snapshot of Matteo etching his mark onto my skin in that tattoo shop where it all began. Passion and pain intertwined, just like us. The image hasn't seen the light of day in ten years, locked away like all the other memories I left behind when I bolted.

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