Page 61 of Matteo

"Okay, got it." He's flipping through papers clipped to a board, not looking at me. "I have your x-rays here. You have three cracked ribs, a fractured collarbone and cheekbone, you also had dislocated fingers, and you have a concussion."

Every injury cataloged is another reminder of how she's out there, alone. Vulnerable.

"Fuck's sake." It slips out, a hiss between clenched teeth.

"Given your condition, we should—" he starts, but I'm not having any of it.

"Skip the damn formalities," I cut him off. "MRI, now. Then I'm off to find Eleanor."

"Mr. Ricci, your injuries?—"

"Are nothing compared to what'll happen if I don't get her back." There's a promise in my voice, one laced with all the violence I've meted out before and will unleash again.

The doc'sverdict finally comes after an eternity. "No bleeding inside," he says, like it's a fucking consolation prizefor the agony lacing my collarbone. My arm's been up under my chin for hours now, numbed by pills that make my extremities feel like they're floating somewhere in the room but not attached to me.

I push through my front door, each step a jab of pain—or what I can still feel of it. Stairs creak under my boots as I head straight for my room. No way I'm letting this brace imprison me any longer than necessary.

With a grunt, I peel it off, freedom and a sharp twinge greeting me together. Gotta be careful now, only use it when there's no other choice. I slide into stretch jeans, pull a black top over my head—tight against my skin—and shove the pain back where it belongs.

Two floors down, the Niko’s lounge is a mess of tech and wires, whiteboards screaming with notes. A regular crime scene, minus the body bags. Niko's planted on the floor amidst it all, his eyes light up like flares when he spots me.

"Dad!" He launches himself at me, nearly crushing my already bruised ribs. His face buries in my chest, voice muffled. "I’m so glad you’re okay."

"Easy, tiger," I chuckle, wincing as his grip tightens. I cup his face, guide him back an inch. "Let's not snap me in half, huh?"

"Shit, sorry, Dad." His apology comes out quick, eyes dancing with mischief.

"Watch the language," I scold, tapping the back of his skull lightly.

He grins, all cheek. "Mum said I can swear as long as it's inside the house and not out in public."

I shake my head, trying not to smile. Kid's got guts, I'll give him that.

"Your mother..." My words stall in the thick air, lodged deep in my throat. Niko's eyes are shimmering pools, brimming with unshed tears that tug at something primal inside me. I swipe a hand over the tightness in my chest, the ache there nothing to do with broken bones. "She's got her own style," I manage, voice rough like gravel. "If she gives you the green light on swearing, then hell, it's gospel."

"Boss." Angel's voice cuts through the tension, stern as a slap across the face. He's standing—a sentinel by the pool table turned command center—eyebrows knitted like he's holding back a storm. "Sit the fuck down before you fall down!"

I can't sit; every fibre screams to keep moving, to tear the city apart brick by bloody brick until I find her. "I can't sit, I need to find her." The words are a growl, a challenge.

"Seriously cunt, put your fucking ass in a seat now before I make you," Angel snaps back, no hint of jest in his tone. His concern is as stifling as a chokehold, suffocating in its intensity. "We're on it, but you crashing to the floor won't help anyone."

Defiance simmers in my blood, but reason—or whatever twisted version of it I operate on—prevails. I slump into the nearest chair, the movement sending a jolt of pain shooting through my fractured collarbone. Gritting my teeth against the hurt, I lock eyes with Angel, who's all focus and fingers flying over his laptop keys.

"What have we got?" I demand, voice slicingthrough the hum of electronics and the scribble of markers on whiteboard.

Angel doesn't look up, but I can hear the click-clack of his determination, the hunt laid out in keystrokes. There's a war raging silent in this room, and we're right on the front lines, strategy our weapon of choice.

"Talk to me, Angel." It's not a request—it's an order, barked from a throat lined with desperation and the metallic taste of fear for Eleanor. Without her, the world's just shades of grey, and I'm a beast clawing through shadows.

Angel's fingers pause, hover above his keyboard like birds of prey ready to dive. "Okay," he starts, his voice rough as gravel, "we've been combing for everything to do with Patrick. All his properties, possible flight details..."

"Spit it out," I growl, my patience thinning like ice under a blowtorch.

He huffs, eyes still fixed on the screen. "Three in Sydney, two in Melbourne, one in Perth that he still owns. Used to be thirteen before he bailed ten years ago. Been selling them off..." His voice trails, but I'm already piecing the puzzle together, feeling that sick twist in my gut tightening with every word.

"Those renovations... always the same contractors, Murphys Contractors," Niko adds, looking up at me with Eleanor's sharp eyes. The kid's a genius, too damn smart for his own good—and mine. Eleanor's touch is all over him, her wit, her brains. Goddamn it, where is she?

"The last six properties are untouched, primo for flipping," Niko continues, snapping me back from the edge of my own spiraling thoughts.

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