Page 46 of Matteo

"Will do, boss," Spike whispers too close again, and I'm airborne, heart slamming against my ribs. "Fucking fuck! You're a cocksucker!" I bark out, fury lacing my words.

"Keeping you sharp, boss," he laughs, a sound that reverberates in the stillness of the room he just vacated.

"Enough!" I call out to the room, my voice echoing off the walls. "We're done here. Dinner time."

Niko pipes up from behind, a smirk tugging at his lips. "What's cooking, ol man?"

"Cut the crap," I snarl, though there's an edge of affection I can't mask. "Plain old dad work for you?"

"Really? I like ol man," he says, the shit-eating grin plastered on his face tells me all I need to know.

"Kid, don't push it," I warn, but inwardly, I'm chuckling. The little bastard's got spunk; reminds me of myself at his age. But he doesn't need to know that.

"Alright, let's rustle up something that doesn't taste like cardboard," I grumble, throwing a knowing glance back at Eleanor.

The stainless steel of the kitchen blade glints under theharsh light as I slice through the raw chicken, each cut clean and precise. My mind's a jumble of strategies and survival—cooking's just another battlefield.

"What for dinner?" Niko's voice cuts through my focus, as random as ever. Kid's got timing like a grenade with a faulty pin.

I glance over at him, eyes narrowed. "I’m so hungry I could eat an elephant," he declares, oblivious to the irony.

"Yeah, I'm sure we can arrange that with those feet of yours," I mumble under my breath, barely audible over the chop of the knife.

"What?" He cocks his head, brows furrowed. The kid's hearing is too sharp for his own good.

"Nothing, kid." I shake my head, tossing the chicken into a hot pan where it sizzles like rain on hot pavement. "Come on, let's get dinner started. I'm thinking chicken and mushroom risotto." I throw an arm around his shoulders, giving them a squeeze. Can't have the boy thinking the old man's gone soft.

"Ew, mushrooms!" He recoils as if I’d suggested we dine on rat poison.

"Hang on, you sure you're my kid?" I frown, turning to look at Eleanor over my shoulder. She meets my gaze with that half-amused, half-apologetic look that always manages to twist me up inside.

"Sorry Matteo, he hates them," she says, her shoulder lifting in a half shrug that somehow speaks volumes.

"Chicken and spinach risotto, then," I grunt, staring down at Niko with suspicion brewing in my gut. Kids these days don't know how good they've got it. If I had daredscrunch my nose at my mamma’s cooking, she'd have made sure I dreamt of nothing but the dish I despised until I learned to love it—or at least pretend to.

"See, you do like it, you ate it!"That would be her victory cry. And now, the thought of putting Niko through the same culinary boot camp tempts me something fierce.

The kitchen fills with the earthy scent of herbs and the sharp tang of garlic as I begin to craft the risotto, letting the familiar motions pull me back from the edge of those darker thoughts. Control—it's not just about power; it's about knowing when to wield it, and when to let the pot simmer.

"Matteo, I see that glint in your eye," Eleanor's whisper is like a blade sliding against the grain of my conscience. She's seen through me; she always does. I turn, catching the tail end of her retreat towards the dining room. The memory of my mother's culinary tyranny remains unspoken between us. How the hell did she know?

Minutes drag their feet before she reappears, two glasses of whiskey balanced in her hands, amber liquid promising the fire I need to simmer down. I'm fumbling with the freezer, cursing under my breath as I hunt for the spinach. "Here," I grunt, shoving the ice tray at her.

"Thanks." That single syllable from her is sharper than the edge of a knife, clean and precise.

"I hope one of them is mine," I say, dropping the ingredients on the counter with a thud before snatching the nearest glass. The whiskey smell hits me, raw and biting.

"Yep," she confirms, popping that 'p' like a gun going off in the quiet of our kitchen. Then she's turning on her heel,leaving me with the empty ice tray and the taste of spirits burning down my throat.

"I'm starting to feel like the bitch in this relationship," I mutter into the glass, the words bitter on my tongue.

"Well, one of us has to be," her voice floats back, taunting, trailing laughter from the stairs leading to our room.

"Dinner is in thirty minutes; will I need to wake you up?" My call chases her up the staircase, a challenge thrown into the space she's left behind.

"Nope, I’m showering," comes the clipped reply, and I imagine the steam rising around her, the water tracing the lines of her tattoos.

"Niko, go shower too; that way dinner will be ready for both of you when you get out," I bark over my shoulder, shifting into boss mode even in the comfort of my own home.

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