Page 54 of Matteo

Eleanor Wang

My eyes scan over the pages spread out before me, but they're just blurs—blots of black on white that mean shit all to me right now. I can't shake the memory; the recoil of the gun still thrums through my veins like a second pulse.

I thought I wanted nothing to do with the Riccis' world, to keep my hands clean and my conscience clear. But fuck, was I naive. Watching Matteo, seeing the lengths he'd go for me... it's twisted, but it's got me feeling more alive than I've been in years. The sidelines were never gonna be enough.

Matteo isn't insane—no, he's calculated, cold as ice when he needs to be. But to me? He's something else entirely. He's fire and fury, sure, but also whispers and warmth. When his world bleeds into ours—at home—he's still mine. Still soft, even if his hands have done things that would make most stomachs churn.

"Princess?" His voice cuts through the fog in my head.There's a click of fingers, a snap close to my face, pulling me back.

"Shit sorry, what’s up?" My voice doesn't match the pounding of my heart. I'm not scared, not exactly. It's more like awe, maybe respect. Or something darker, something that whispers that I'm just like him.

"I called you three times Eleanor, you sure you’re okay?" His frown digs deep lines into otherwise youthful skin, concern shadowing those sharp, dangerous features.

He's worried about me—worried I'll see him as a monster. Little does he know, I'm starting to think we're cut from the same cloth. A killer's cloth. I killed a man and slept soundly, wrapped in dreams soaked in vengeance. Am I fucked up for that? Maybe. But Matteo, he gets it. He always has.

I want to laugh, to tell him he's got nothing to worry about, that I don't fear him. I respect the hell out of him. And despite—or maybe because of—the blood on his hands, I feel safe. Protected. Because I know, without a doubt, there's not a fucking thing in this world he wouldn't do for me.

"Fine, baby, just daydreaming," I assure him, forcing a smile. It's half true. Daydreams and nightmares are getting hard to tell apart these days. But this? This raw, violent life? It's our reality. And as fucked up as it is, I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Maybe I should've stayed ten years ago, I think, tracing the cold wood of the desk with a fingertip. But then the ghosts of those betrayers flicker through my mind. No, safety was never guaranteed, not even within the gilded cage of Matteo Ricci's world.

He arches an eyebrow, then he leans down, lips brushing mine—a gentle storm, a tender tempest. "I hope it's a nice daydream," he murmurs against my mouth.

"Baby, any daydream that consists of you is nice," I answer, tasting the truth in my words. His chuckle rumbles like distant gunfire, sending shivers down my spine. "Well, thank you, Mrs. Ricci."

"Still not your Mrs yet; stop counting your chickens before they've hatched," I tease back, half-hearted, because goddamn if the idea doesn't thrill me to the core.

"Just over two weeks left, Princess; close enough!" His voice holds a promise, one sealed in blood and whispered vows.

I mimic chicken wings with my arms, a playful threat in the midst of our dangerous ballet. "Don't make me turn your ass pink again!"

"As appealing as that sounds, Matteo, I have a mountain of paperwork to do thanks to you and your paperwork allergies," I retort, cocking an eyebrow in challenge.

"That shit gives me hives," he groans, scratching his arm in mock agony. It's almost endearing—almost.

"Thankfully, you're rich enough to pay me double to do it. I need mental health pay too for the amount of stress you're putting me through." My voice is half-joking, but the edge is real.

"Sorry, Princess, I’ve never been good at the whole paperwork side of it all; I prefer to be out on my feet than in here on my ass," he admits with a shrug that speaks volumes of his restlessness.

"Plus, you're a billionaire now, I think that's good enoughcompensation for mental health pay." His gaze holds mine, both challenge and jest.

"Fuck off, cunt." I lob a pen at him, an ineffectual weapon that bounces harmlessly off his chest as he takes his seat by my side. Chairs matching, like some twisted domestic fantasy—courtesy of Angel, no doubt.

"Should've asked for my own desk," I mutter under my breath, remembering how Matteo shot down the idea, claiming we'd just end up knocking elbows all day long. The thought irks me—his constant nearness a smothering heat.

The chair creaks as I shift, trying to carve out a sliver of personal space between us. His presence is an enveloping shadow, his warmth a constant pressure against my side. Fucking annoying.

"Need room to breathe, Matteo," I mutter, nudging him with my elbow. He just grins that maddening grin and taps away on his laptop, oblivious to the claustrophobia creeping up my throat.

"I have a few things I need to set up for the four-seat meeting next week," he announces, eyes not leaving the screen. "And I need to find a new receptionist as well."

My brow arches involuntarily. "Why a new receptionist? Is one of the girls leaving?"

He pops the 'p' like a gunshot. "Nope. I want to fire Becky."

"Fire her?" I frown, puzzled and a tad annoyed—another thing to deal with. "Why?”

"Since she found out about you, her advances have gotten worse," he sighs heavily, a rare note of wearinessthreading his voice. "I don't like the way she acts towards me."

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