Page 69 of Matteo

"Hey," I rasp, my voice full of gravel, "I think you should stop hugging Angel and hug me instead." My attempt at levity feels like dragging a blade across my own throat, rough and painful.

Eleanor's head snaps toward me, her eyes wide, a sigh escaping her lips like she's been holding her breath waiting for me to speak. "Matteo..."

"Fuck off, boss, this is my hug, get your own," Angel throws back at me, a smirk in his voice.

I want to laugh, but it feels like I've got a chest full of broken glass. "That's what I’m trying to do." My heart's pounding, half from the effort of speaking, half from the need to have her close, to replace Angel's warmth with mine. Control—that's what it comes down to, and lying here, watching another man comfort Eleanor, it's slipping through my fingers like blood in water.

Spike's calloused hands grip the bed frame, wheels squealing like rats as he shoves my world closer to Eleanor. I stretch out a hand—every muscle screaming in protest—and our fingers lace together, a lifeline in this sterile hell. "Hey, Princess," I grunt, holding onto her like she's the only thing keeping me anchored.

"Hey, yourself," she shoots back, her voice steady but her eyes betraying the storm beneath. She glances down at thebandage swathing my chest, then back up to meet my gaze with that defiant spark I know all too well.

"You feeling okay?"

“I'll be fine; I wasn't the one shot," she quips, a smirk dancing on her lips even as her fingers tighten around mine.

"Seeing as I’m awake, I’m gonna assume I’ll be just fine too," I reply, mustering every ounce of bravado left in my battered body. My eyelid drops in an attempt at a wink, but it’s more of a twitch—painful and pathetic. It’s the thought that counts, right?

"Um, did you just try to wink, boss?" Spike's voice is full of mirth, his eyebrows shooting up like he's seen a ghost.

"Yep!" The word snaps out of me, the 'p' cracking like a whip.

"Ummm, well that wasn't a wink," he chuckles, shaking his head at my sorry state.

"Fuck off, cunt." The words are automatic, a reflex from a mouth that's used to spitting venom.

" You two need to rest," Angel’s voice cuts through the banter, all business now, reminding us there's a world beyond these walls—a world that won’t pause for our pain. "We have a lot to do."

"Please feel free to elaborate, Angel." I challenge him, needing to remember I'm still the one calling the shots, even flat on my back.

"It can all wait, boss," he counters, nodding towards Eleanor, his face etched with concern.

"You might wanna allow Eleanor some time to recover and let the new cast set on her leg." His tone brooks noargument, but it’s not like I'd give him one—not when it’s about her.

I exhale a cloud of frustration, each breath a reminder of the bullet's kiss—a dull ache in my chest. "Did the doctor put the correct cast on this time?"

Eleanor cocks an eyebrow, her confusion a perfect match for mine. "What do you mean 'correct cast'?"

Angel leans in, his voice steady despite the shitstorm we're living. "The doc slapped on a plaster last round, took ages to set—bought us time." He's got that look, the one that tells me he's holding back a cyclone of curses.

"Really?" Eleanor's voice sharpens, a blade ready to cut through lies. "I was begging the bastard while he worked on my leg. Not a damn peep from him."

Spike flicks his gaze away, shrugging like it's just another day in hell. "Patrick had a gun to his family's heads," he says, as if explaining why the sky's blue. "Made his SOS call to us only after securing their ticket outta Enzo's crosshairs."

"Worked for Enzo," Angel mutters, thumbing through his phone like it's a rosary.

Eleanor's smile is a twisted sonnet, all dark notes and deep chords. "He works for Matteo now?" Her eyes find mine, searching for a truth only I can spit.

"He works forus, Princess." My grip tightens on her hand, chains of iron will binding us. "Make no mistake—you're the queen of this fucked-up kingdom."

"Right, for us." Her grin is a streak of light in the murk, and her fingers thread through the bed bars, seeking thewarmth of my own again.

"Angel, these rails—" My growl is low, impatient. "Get them the fuck down."

With a grunt, Angel yanks at the pins, sending the metal crashing down. Freedom, or some twisted version of it, never sounded so sweet.

With the clatter of metal behind us, freedom tastes like morphine and rebellion. Eleanor shuffles closer, her body a mix of soft curves and hard edges—like she's sculpted from both heaven and hell. She grips my hand, her touch searing through the haze of painkillers.

"Thanks," she murmurs to Angel, her voice laced with a venom that could make a lesser man weep. "Now fuck off so I can nap."

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