Page 65 of Matteo

"Boss, it's Nick here from night security," comes the hasty reply, words tripping over themselves in urgency. "I have a doctor here who desperately needs to talk to you. Says it’s about Eleanor."

My heart clenches, and I feel the blood in my veins turn to ice. "Put him on the line."

"Mr. Ricci, Sir," stammers the voice, thick with fear and something else—hope, maybe, or just the relief of a man unburdening his soul to the devil himself.

"Tell me where Eleanor is," I demand, the command laced with a threat that could freeze fire.

"If you can promise me the safety of my family, I will," he rushes out, nearly tripping over his own words.

"Give Nick the details of your family and I’ll send a team to them the second I hang up," I say, the words coming out like a vow carved in stone. Protection in exchange for information—it's the currency of our world.

"Thank you, Sir," he says, and I can hear the quiver of tears in his voice as he recites names and an address to Nick.

The doc's words hitch in his throat, gasping like he's running from the devil himself. "Patrick Murphy has her holed up in his old nanny place down in Botany. She has abroken leg and broken ribs," he spills out in a rush that tastes like desperation.

My fists clench so tight I feel my nails biting into my palms. "I placed a cast on her leg that takes longer than one day to set with the hope that you can get there before he moves her." His voice is a shaky mess, the fear palpable even through the fucking phone line. "You will need to hurry. I won't be back in the allocated time. And I think the car that he gave me has a tracker."

"Fuck!" The curse slices through the tension in the car, sharp as a switchblade. "Wouldn't surprise me if he already knows where I am. You need to get there now," he says, panic edging every word.

"What's the address?" My heart hammers against my chest, blood roaring in my ears like it's ready for war.

"58 Serpentine Street in Botany. It's a little red brick house with a brick fence." There's a tremble in his thank you, like he knows he just sold his soul for a lifeline.

"Thank you," I grit out, each word a promise of retribution. "I owe you."

"Just so you know, she cannot be moved. She has a nasty break in her leg. The moment you pick her up the leg will no longer be set in place, and she will be in immense pain." His voice is like a hammer to my skull, pounding home the reality of Eleanor's agony.

"Fuck, how do we get her out, then?" I snarl, throwing a glance to Angel and Spike who are all business, eyes hard, ready to rain hell.

"She can be wheeled out on the bed she is in," the doctor’s quick to offer a solution, some semblance of hope inthis fucked-up scenario. "It’s one of those hospital beds that is used in nursing homes."

"Boss, I’ll arrange a van to come to the house so we can wheel her out," Angel says, fingers already dancing over his phone, orchestrating our next move.

"How long have you worked for Patrick?" I ask, needing to know the measure of the man who dares cross me.

"I don't work for Patrick; I work for Enzo Morelli," he replies, and the car plunges into a silence that's louder than a fucking bomb blast. Enzo Morelli—the name rings like a death knell, a reminder that this game is bigger than one rat in a nest of vipers.

Chapter Thirty

Eleanor Wang

The door slams open with a force that sends a shiver down my spine. Patrick storms in, eyes wild with urgency, clutching a small key like it's salvation itself. "We gotta go, El," he barks, striding toward me with purpose etched into every line of his weathered face.

"What? Where? What happened?" My words tumble out in a frantic mess, the pain in my leg throbbing in time with my pounding heart. "The doctor said I can't move!"

"I don't care what the doctor said, the doctor is gone. We gotta go, love," he snaps, fingers deftly undoing the cuffs that bind my wrist to the bed—cold metal clinking against cold metal.

"Patrick, we can't. The doctor said I cannot move!" Desperation laces my voice as I gesture helplessly to the damaged limb, feeling every bit the trapped animal I am in this godforsaken place.

"I don't give a shit what the doctor said," he growls, his arms sliding under my legs and around my back—a preludeto agony. "Fuck, Patrick!" The scream rips from my throat, raw and ragged, as even his gentlest touch feels like knives dancing across my skin.

"I’m sorry El, but this is going to hurt." There's a twisted apology in his eyes before he hoists me up into his arms. Holy fuck tards baking in the summer sun! That hurts! My mind screams obscenities as the room spins, black dots encroaching on my vision like vultures circling their dying prey.

"Argh!" It's all I can manage as the pain crescendos, a symphony of suffering conducted by the cruel maestro that is my shattered leg. "Patrick, stop!" But my pleas are swept away by the tide of necessity—he's not stopping, and neither is the relentless grip of darkness threatening to claim me.

The room blurs into a nightmare as Patrick drags me from the bed. His hand now, ironclad around my mouth, stifles the screams clawing their way up my throat. "Seriously El, shut the fuck up," he snarls, breath hot and heavy against my ear. The TV's drone slices through the tension in the hall—some crime show playing judge and jury, as my legs hit the ground so Patrick and keep a hand over my mouth.

A thunderous crash echoes from the front door, splintering wood, shattering calm. Matteo. My heart leaps, fierce and frantic as his voice barrels down the hallway. "Eleanor!"

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