Page 63 of Matteo

"Love you too, Dad," Niko's voice cuts through the tension like a knife, his words quick and sure. That hits me harder than any bullet could. There's no damn way I thought I could stay standing without Eleanor by my side, but looking at him—my boy—it's clear he's the anchor that's keeping my feet planted on this blood-stained earth right now.

He hasn't been mine for long, but shit, the love I've got for him is wild, fierce, like an infernoin my chest. A perfect blend of me and Eleanor, he's the best goddamn thing I've ever had a hand in making. I stare at him, my heart hammering behind my ribs, wondering if my own folks ever felt a shred of what I feel for Niko. Doubt it. They weren't in the business of coddling—I was moulded to be a king of shadows, not a kid dreaming of sunshine.

My old man's brand of love was cold steel and whispered threats. But Eleanor, she's something else. She treats Niko with a kindness that's foreign in our world, raises him to be human, not just another pawn in the game. And fuck me if that isn't something I respect more than anything.

"Go on, get to the room," I grunt, pushing past the ache in my collarbone to give him a shove toward safety. "We've got a war to wage."

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Eleanor Wang

The bastard doctor's fingers twist and prod at my shattered leg, grinding bone against bone. Sweat beads on my forehead as I fight back curses, the painkillers barely dulling the agony coursing through me.

"Nearly all done, just adding the last layers. Then it needs one to two days to set. She cannot be moved till then," he says, flashing a conspiratorial wink that sends my insides into a tailspin. Is this quack actually in my corner, or is he getting his kicks from my misery?

Patrick's voice cuts through the haze of pain like a knife. "One to two days?!" he bellows, the veins in his neck bulging with impatience. "For fucks sake."

Desperation creeps across Patrick's face, but the doc is already moving on to the next issue, pointing to the Endone on the counter with a grimace. "These will make her stomach turn. I’ll go and collect something that is a lot gentler on her stomach; we cannot have her vomiting all over the new cast and setting you back further,” he warns.

"Fine, do whatever is needed," Patrick snaps, raking a hand through his dark hair. His eyes linger on me for a fraction too long, revealing a glint of something like concern before it's quickly shuttered away. "But I want to be back in London as soon as possible."

"Understood," replies the doctor, already shrugging into his coat. "Do I need a driver?"

Patrick's response is ice-cold, his glare enough to freeze hell over. "No, take my car, but be back in forty minutes."

"Of course. I’ll wash my hands and be on my way." The doc exits, leaving the stench of antiseptic and unspoken threats hanging heavy in the air.

I'm left there, a broken doll in the clutches of a man whose obsession runs as deep as the criminal empire he controls. And I can't shake the feeling that time is running out—every second ticking away is another moment lost, another inch I drift from the life I once knew. Matteo, are you alive?

Patrick's gaze pierces through me like a sharpened blade, his question hanging in the air as I struggle to find even footing in this twisted reality. "How are you feeling?" he probes.

"Like my whole life is a lie, and no one is telling me a thing!" The words claw their way out of my throat, anger seething with every syllable.

"Right," Patrick mutters, rising from the chair beside my bed. "Hold on, I'll get us some tea and food if we're about to talk shop." He strides out, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me alone with the thumping of my own heart.

The minutes drag, each one a lifetime as I stew in myown tangled thoughts. When Patrick returns, it's with the domesticity of a hot bowl of soup and two cups of tea.

"Okay El, what did you want to know first?" His voice is casual, as if we're discussing the weather rather than my captive existence.

"Can you please explain to me how exactly I belong to you?" I demand, the urgency gnawing at my insides. There's an escape plan brewing, a desperate need to flee before Matteo's absence becomes permanent. He has to be alive. He must be.

Patrick sets down the tray, his eyes locking onto mine. "Do you remember your first apartment in Glebe? The one next to the park?"

A chill runs down my spine. "Yes, of course, I do; it was the first apartment I lived in after I moved out of home."

He leans forward, his smile cold and calculating. "Well, I owned that building. Bought it when I heard you moved into it." His confession sends my mind reeling deeper into the abyss.

"But why?" My voice is barely above a whisper, dread laced with every word.

"Mrs Tinsdale," he says, and I feel the trap snapping shut. "Remember her?"

The memory of my childhood nanny surfaces reluctantly. "Yes, she was my nanny for about two years when I was little."

"Mine too. But for a lot longer than yours," he confesses, warmth in his expression that doesn't reach his eyes. "She showed me a photo of you in the Sydney Telegraph. It was love at first sight for me. I knew you would be mine."

I recoil, my hands flailing as if they could bat away his sickening revelation. "I was ten when i was in that, my mum won the award for the children's hospital! You would have been, what, 18?" Disbelief wraps around my voice, holding it hostage as I confront the monster masquerading as a man.

Patrick just watches me, his twisted sense of possession laid bare beneath the fluorescent lights. And in that moment, I understand the depths of his darkness, the lengths he'd go to claim what he believes is his.

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