Page 5 of Matteo

"Who knows what Enzo’s real motive for the information was." The name leaves a sour taste in my mouth, a potent reminder that trust is just another word for target in this game.

"Got it, Boss." Spike’s voice is a low rumble, ready for war. His silhouette lingers in the doorway, a shadow against shadows, before disappearing to carry out my orders.

The thought of leaving my territory unguarded gnaws at me, but Eleanor... she's the game changer, the wild card that could bring this house of cards crashing down.

"Oh, and Spike..." My voice trails off momentarily as I run a hand over the stubble shadowing my jaw. The following words are crucial: strategy is everything in this murky world we navigate.

Spike pauses, half-in, half-out of the doorway, an expectant silhouette against the dim hallway. He seems patient, with a stillness that belies the lethal potential coiled beneath his slender frame.

"Keep your ear to the ground. If Enzo so much as farts in my direction, I want to smell it before he does." My eyes lock onto his, ensuring the gravity of my command sinks in.

"Understood, Boss," he replies, his tone stripped of emotion, a perfect mirror of the cold detachment I strive to maintain.

"Travel light," I grunt, eyes locked on the city sprawling beneath us like a kingdom of shadows. "I don’t wanna carry fifty bags of crap!"

"Got it," he nods, his figure swallowed up by thedimness as he retreats to do my bidding. I don't have the fucking patience for this shit. Not when Eleanor's face is plastered across every inch of my mind, and Enzo's slimeball voice is still echoing in my skull like a bad omen.

Fuck Spike and his ever-growing knife collection. It's gonna be a minimum of ten bags of weapons. I'd bet my last bullet on it. Each one is a testament to the blood we've spilled and the lives we've carved open. In this city, violence is just another currency, and Spike's a fucking miser with his knives.

We're heading into the belly of the beast, and my guts coiled tight with anticipation and dread. London could be Eleanor's purgatory or my hell—I haven't decided yet.

"Time to bring my girl home," I mutter to myself.

Chapter Three

Eleanor Wang

The clack of my heels against polished marble echoes like a damn gunshot as I barrel through the office doors. It's pushing 9 am, and London's heartbeat throbs in my ears—every thump is another reminder that I'm late. The Tube, that metal serpent gliding beneath the city's skin, decided to screw me over with a five-minute delay. Five minutes spiraled into thirty, turning my morning ritual into a frantic dash.

I'm Eleanor Wang, punctuality personified—until today. It has been ten years, and my record has no tardy mark. I can't afford slip-ups as Patrick Murphy's PA—the real estate kingpin whose name is whispered with reverence and fear across London.

That bastard Matteo, with his love that chokes and pulls you under, forced my hand once. Made me jump ship to New Zealand, clutching freedom like a lifeline. Paid a fortune to breathe, to hide in the belly of a cargo vessel, steering metoward anonymity. That's how I landed here, in this city of fog and shadows, where I became Patrick's right hand.

I flashback to our first encounter, the accidental collision outside a Soho pub. Me, spewing apologies like a busted faucet; him, all charisma and tailored suit, offering solace in the shape of a glass. My sob story poured out more accessible than the liquor, and before my buzz wore off, I was hired. Cash is under the table, and there are no trails for prying eyes.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry." My voice is ragged as I skid into Patrick's lion's den, his sanctuary of steel and leather. "Tube was a mess, coffee shop crammed to the rafters. Here's your bloody coffee."

His grip fastens around my wrist, stopping me cold. "El, chill out. You know I'm not bothered by this."

"I know," I snap back, guilt gnawing at my insides. I'm about to bolt when he reels me back in.

"El." His voice is a velvet command. "Sit. Drink with me. We need to talk."

Oh, hell. Anxiety coils tight in my gut, a familiar serpent. What have I cocked up now? Panic claws at my chest, fingernails dipped in dread. Maybe he's finally pissed about the lateness?

"Alright," I say, heart thudding a riotous beat. I drop onto the chair, my armor cracking. In this concrete jungle, you're either predator or prey, and I'll be damned if I show weakness—even to Patrick. But when the top dog wants a chat, you don't bare your fangs; you sit and listen.

Slouched in the leather that's molded to my form over years of crises and confessions, I eye Patrick across theexpanse of his desk. It's an altar where he sacrifices sanity for success, and today, he looks ready to plead for mercy.

"What's up?" My voice cracks the silence between us like a whip. He squirms, and it's almost comical, this titan of London's skyline brought low by the mere thought of social schmoozing without his queen.

"El, I need you tonight." His plea is raw, etched with an urgency that sets my nerves alight. "Fundraiser. Aela's down with the flu; going stag is like chumming the waters."

I can't help but chuckle at the sheer horror sketched on his face. Poor bloke hates these dos more than a hangover on Monday. But I've been his shadow for years, stepping in when Aela can't. And he's spot-on—without her, he's fresh meat for the circling vultures in heels.

"Alright," I concede, already plotting the call to Yvonne. "How's Aela holding up?"

"Sniffles and pride. She won't be seen as anything less than the iron lady she is," he says, relief bleeding into his features now that I've agreed.

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