Page 7 of Matteo

"Whiskey and gin in the car," Angel throws back, a smirk on his lips. It's the kind of care that keeps him alive, that forethought.

"Keep talking like that, Cock Face, and you'll be looking for a new job." I shoot back, the corner of my mouth twitching despite the roiling in my gut. His glare could cut glass, but I know there's respect there. We've been through too much shit for anything less.

"Lucky you pay my bills, Boss. Any other man would be laid out for a comment like that." He retorts, stepping beside me as we head toward the car.

"Fuck," I hiss under my breath, sucking in air that tastes like freedom and revenge. This city won't know what hit it. Neither will she.

The whiskey burns down my throat, a welcome fire against the London chill. I down another mouthful, feeling the liquid courage seeping into my veins. The car weaves through the city like it's threading a needle—smooth, precise. Angel's got the wheel, eyes sharp as a hawk's.

"Twenty minutes out," he says, voice steady.

I look at the passing lights, the city's shadows hiding her. Eleanor. El. Whatever she calls herself now, she can't change what she is to me—mine, always.

"Good," I grunt, clenching my jaw until it might crack. "Tomorrow can't come soon enough."

Angel nods, silent now, knowing when words are like gasoline on my fire. We've danced this dance before—he and Spike, my shadows, my fists when I need them. But right now, it's about her. About answers.

"Remember, we play it cool," Angel reminds me, his voice cutting through the engine's hum. "Can't spook her."

"Like a fucking ghost," I reply. Still, there's a tremor in my gut that says otherwise. There's nothing subtle about how I need her, the way I'm ready to tear this city apart brick by brick to get her back.

"Boss, you sure you're up for this?" Angel asks, glancing my way with that knowing look. The bastard can read me too well.

"Never been more fucking sure of anything," I snap, but the edge in my voice betrays the storm brewing inside.

"Alright. Just checking." He turns back to the road, no further questions asked. That's Angel—always poking, prodding, but knows when to let it lie. A good man to have at your back, a deadly one in your face.

"Keep your eyes peeled for any tails," I say, scanning the rearview mirror. Paranoia is a constant companion in our line of work.

"Always do," he replies with a grunt that carries all the weight of our world—a world of shadows, blood, and loyalty.

We roll up to the hotel, sleek and silent as a shark cruising through deep water. The place reeks of money and secrets, two things I've got in spades. Sweat prickles at thebase of my skull, anticipation mixed with something darker. I crack my knuckles and feel the tension coil in my muscles like a spring.

"Remember, Boss. Morning," Angel says, pulling the keys from the ignition.

"Right." A nod is all I manage. Because once I see her and lock eyes on Eleanor again, all bets are off. This game we're playing? It ends with her. With us. And I'll be damned if I let anyone else hold the cards.

"Let's get settled. We've got a big day ahead," Angel adds, stepping out into the night air. I follow, straightening my suit jacket, feeling the cold kiss of London against my skin.

"Tomorrow," I whisper to myself. "Tomorrow, she's mine again."

The concierge is quick on his feet, scurrying towards us like we're royalty. He grabs our bags without a word and throws them onto the trolley with practiced ease. Angel strides off, purpose in every step, to secure the keys to our temporary kingdom.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath as I scan the foyer. It's all marble and crystal, money dripping from the fucking chandeliers. But none of it does anything for the riot inside my skull. I need to see Eleanor to know she’s real, not just pixels on a screen or ink on paper. My heart's a relentless drum echoing in my ears—tomorrow, tomorrow.

"Come on, Boss, let's get up to the room," Spike whispers, nudging me towards the lift. His voice is low but cuts through the noise in my head.

"Right," I grunt, following his lead. The scent of leather and aftershave fills the small space of the elevator,mingling with the faint perfume of wealth that clings to the concierge. He's eyeing us, curiosity clear as day on his young face.

"You here for the fundraiser?" he asks, all innocence and polite interest.

Angel's head snaps towards him. "What fundraiser?"

"Down in the city tonight," the kid elaborates, looking between us, puzzled by our ignorance.

"And how would one get on the list for such an event?" Angel's voice is smooth, but there's steel beneath the velvet.

"Oh, it's invite-only," the concierge stammers, backpedaling fast enough to trip over his words. "Sorry, I thought you were going."

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