Page 60 of Matteo

"Where the fuck is Eleanor?!" The words scratch their way out of my throat, raw and desperate. My gaze darts around the sterile gloom of the warehouse hospital room. No sign of her. Only shadows and silence answer back.

"She isn't here, boss, she was taken," Spike's voice cuts through the fog in my brain, sharp as a switchblade.

The room spins, my heart hammers against my chest like it's trying to break free. I can feel the darkness slithering up from the depths, threatening to drag me under. No. Not now.

"Boss, god dammit, don't you dare; I need you here to help me." Spike's grip on my arm is ironclad, hauling me back from the edge of oblivion. His snarl is inches from my face, hot breath searing my skin.

"Who took her?" I demand, each word a bullet fired point-blank.

"I don’t know, they turned up seconds after the crash, used the jaws of life on the car, grabbed her and left." He exhales long and hard, his frustration a tangible thing in the air between us. "I was pinned by the steering wheel; I couldn't get out to help her. I’m sorry, boss."

"Fuck, we gotta go get her." I try to rise, but pain lances through every inch of my body, a brutal reminder of my own mortality. It’s no use; I'm as weak as a newborn fawn, limbs trembling with the effort.

"Sorry boss, you’re not moving till the doctor has finished with the x-rays and tests," Spike's plea is laced with worry, his eyes begging me to understand.

"Fuck!" The scream tears from me, a primal sound of anguish and self-loathing. Tears carve tracks through the grime on my face. "I fucking didn't keep her safe! I promised her I would keep her safe. I kept her with me at all times to keep her safe, but by keeping her close I got her kidnapped!"

Every confession feels like a nail driven into my flesh, an indictment of my failure. "This is all my fault; she was safer in bloody London!"

"Boss," Spike's hand is heavy on my shoulder, grounding me, a lifeline in the tempest. "I honestly don't think she was safe anywhere."

His eyes hold mine, and in them, I see the echo of my own torment. Regret flickers there, a ghostly flame in the dark. But beneath it, there's something else—something unyielding.

Eleanor might be quick-witted and sharp, her tongue aweapon that could cut through steel, but right now she needs me, and I'll be damned if I let her down again. No matter what it takes, I will find her. I will bring her home. Because without Eleanor, this twisted empire I've built is nothing but a house of cards, ready to collapse at the slightest breath.

"Alright, Spike, what are you not telling me?" My voice is a gravelly growl, the edge of command still there despite the pain that laces every word. I can feel the weight of his hesitation before he even speaks.

Spike drags a chair across the concrete floor, its screech a bitter harmony to my thrumming pulse. He collapses into it like his bones are lead, running a hand over his stubbled face as if to wipe away the fatigue and fear etched into his skin. "Angel found out some info after we left," he begins, voice thick with unease. "All that digging he did into the camera footage, and the people living in the apartment building Eleanor lived in ten years ago pulled up a name we didn't realize was important until now."

"Whose?" The frown on my face feels like it's carved from stone.

"Patrick Murphy." The name hits the air like a bullet, and suddenly the room's too tight, too hot.

"Patrick fucking Murphy? The London snake?" I spit out the words, venom coating my tongue. "The one who helped to hide her and kept Niko a secret?" My volume's cranking up, heat rising in my chest, a beast awakening. "How the fuck did that cunt’s name come up?"

Spike won't meet my eyes; they're glued to the cracked floor, guilt written in the lines of his slumpedposture. "Well, he owned the apartment building. In fact, he even owned the apartment building Eleanor first lived in; the one over in Glebe. I don't know what it all means, but he’s been tied to her for as long as you have…"

"What the fuck?" I snarl, my brain trying to piece together this twisted puzzle, each revelation another jab to my gut. "This makes no sense."

"Angel's been smashing his head against it too," Spike says, his voice strained thin. "He's been scouring through his Australian bank statements and finances, but there's nothing out of place. Just rent from properties and money from sales of buildings...all clean. All after she left Australia."

"So, he bailed the same time she did, tailing her scent like a bloodhound?" The words tumble out, laced with confusion and a rising tide of fury. "You don't think he’s the bastard who had her raped?"

"Fuck knows," Spike mutters, looking about as lost as I feel. "He isn’t tied to any mob down under, or so Angel reckons. No strings, no connections."

"Christ." I press my palms into my eyes, willing away the darkness that threatens to swallow me whole. Who the hell is Patrick Murphy, really?

"Boss, we'll figure this shit out," Spike assures with a grim determination that mirrors my own. But deep down, the question gnaws at my insides: Who the fuck has my Eleanor?

Pain jolts through me as I shove the sheets away, every breath a goddamn knife in my side. "He isn't Irish Mafia, is he?" The question claws out of my throat, raw and ragged.

Spike's eyes are hard, his jaw set tight. "Not that Angelcan find." He's got that look, the one that says we're wading into deeper shit than we thought.

"Christ." My hand scrapes over my face, dragging along stubble that feels like sandpaper. "This isn't happening. Who the fuck is Patrick Murphy?"

"Still piecing it together," Spike huffs, frustration lining his face.

The door swings open with a creak that grates on my last nerve, and the doc strides in, all business and bullshit bedside manners. "Doc, I need to get this sorted out now," I growl at him, feeling like a caged animal.

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