Page 55 of Matteo

I roll my eyes. "Well, she pisses me off too, Matteo," I admit, crossing my arms over my chest. "But she's good at her job, isn't she? And I trust you enough to know nothing will happen. So I'm not fussed if she stays or goes." I shrug, trying to mask the twinge of jealousy.

Matteo leans back in his chair, lips curling into a smirk that's all dark promise and danger. "Oh, I know Princess, but she pisses me off," he growls, the words heavy with unspoken threats. "Most people who piss me off get a bullet between their eyes. And she is heading that way if she doesn't back off, hence why I need to fire her."

"Okay, but maybe we can put it off for another couple of weeks? Maybe after this meeting?" I say, trying to sound reasonable amidst the chaos that seems to follow him like a shadow. "I have enough paperwork to keep me employed for the next six years so I can’t really help you just yet anyway. And you have enough work and the meeting. Let’s just worry about it after?"

He frowns, the gesture foreign on his usually impassive face. "Yeah, I think that’s actually a good idea." But his eyes darken, and I know he's imagining Becky's face when he tells her she's done. "But it doesn't make seeing her face every day any easier."

I let out a belly laugh that ricochets off the walls. "And this is why I love you," I tell him. "Any other man would love the attention, yet you're acting like she has COVID!" My heart thrums, not just from the adrenaline that comes withbeing near him, but from something deeper, more dangerous.

"Princess, even after you left, I still didn't see any other women." His voice has dropped to a whisper now, the confession slipping out like a silver blade glinting in the dark. "You broke that part of me."

"Broke that part?" I echo, my pulse racing.

"Yep, you came in and smashed it. Every time I looked at other women, all I could see was how different they were from you." He admits it sheepishly, and it's so fucking endearing I can barely stand it.

Fuck, this guy makes my knees weak and my mouth water. I wanna suck his dick for those sweet words. "Dude, you can't say shit like that," I scold him, pointing a finger at him, then jabbing it toward the laptop screen piled with digital mayhem. "I'm never going to get any work done if you keep making my undies wet and wanting to jump your bones," I sigh, frustration knotting in my throat.

"I can always hire an admin lady," he teases with a wink that's pure sin.

"Then what would happen to my job?" I snap back, the challenge clear in my tone.

He wiggles his eyebrows, a wolfish grin splitting his face. "I can pay you to sit there and look pretty."

"Fuck off, cunt," I bark, chucking another pen at him—it sails past his head and clatters against the wall. I'm running low on ammo here. "This is why I need my own desk. You're too distracting!"

He leans over, presses a kiss to my cheek that sizzlesagainst my skin. "Get back to work before I have to fire you," he murmurs, the threat playful but edged with steel.

As he stands and strides toward the door, confidence rolling off him in waves, I can't help but call out, "Where are you going?"

"To make sure the office is empty and ready for the date I need," he throws back over his shoulder, his voice trailing off like the tail end of a storm.

The door clicks shut behind Matteo, his presence lingering like the echo of a gunshot. My chest tightens; freedom tastes bittersweet on my tongue. I need space like I need air, yet the silence without him screams too loud. Fucking paradox.

I slump deeper in my chair, alone in the sprawling office that's more a battlefield than a sanctuary. My gaze flits to the laptop, where the blinking notification light mocks me. Two new emails. Aela and Patrick, their names weaving through my thoughts like ghosts.

"Fuck it," I mutter and click open the first email. "Miss you" stares back at me. My heart does a traitorous leap—damn emotions.

"Hey sexy lady," the email starts, and I can practically hear Aela's laughter ringing through the words. Her concern bleeds through the screen, asking if they can visit. Patrick chimes in with his own brand of affectionate grumbling. They miss me. The thought warms and stings all at once.

"Miss you too, you crazy fucks," I whisper, feeling the pull of old ties, memories tugging like chains.

Dragging my thoughts back from London, I shake myhead. It's been only four weeks since I left, but each day has stretched, contorted into an eternity of change.

My belongings are adrift somewhere on the ocean, heading this way. I picture the crates, wondering if they're crammed with more than just clothes and books. Knowing my luck, I'll be drowning in furniture too. As if I don't have enough shit to sift through. Old life, new life—all cluttered together in storage units I've yet to see.

"Get your head in the game, Eleanor," I scold myself. The past is a distraction, a siren call to a ship already wrecked on these rugged shores.

The second email glares up at me, "Visiting" demanding attention. Matteo would have a field day with this. Hell, he'd probably set the docks on fire just to keep unwanted guests at bay.

"Too much drama, not enough booze," I groan. Alone with my swirling thoughts and the whispers of emails unanswered, I feel the void Matteo left behind. The man's like a fucking drug—addictive, dangerous, and impossible to quit.

"Stockholm Syndrome," I mutter under my breath, the words tasting like iron on my tongue. This isn't love; it's a goddamn hostage situation, and I'm both captor and captive. Welcome to the family, Eleanor. Welcome to the goddamn Ricci madness.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, a deep breath steadying my nerves. The cursor blinks, relentless. Patrick's words glare up at me from the screen, a demand hidden beneath the veneer of concern. A visit. I can't have that—not yet. Too many pieces still in play, too much blood still fresh on the floor.

"Fuck," I mutter, typing out a response with more force than necessary. The keys click like gunshots in the silence of Matteo's absence.

Subject: Cannot wait

---