Page 70 of Matteo

Spike and Angel chuckle, their laughter echoing off sterile walls—a sound too alive for this place of healing and hurt. "Anything you say, boss," they chorus, and the mockery in their tone is clear as day. A good sign—they're not walking on eggshells around her. They get her humor; they respect her command, even if it's cloaked in a drugged-up demand.

"Sure you're alright, Princess?" My voice rumbles against her scalp, her hair brushing against my skin—soft, chaotic strands that defy her usual sleek look. It tickles, but it's the kind of irritation that reminds me she's real, she's here, and she's mine.

Her head tilts up, those golden eyes heavy but sharp as ever. "I'll be okay," she assures me, though her voice is a ghost of its usual fire. "But god, Matteo, I need sleep." Her words are slurred but fierce, like she's fighting through a fog made of lead.

"Love you," I whisper, laughter bubbling up despite theshitstorm we're in. Her spirit's a fucking beacon—even doped up and broken, she's got more fight than half the blokes I know.

"Love you too," she breathes out, her words fluttering over my chest, light as feathers and just as fragile.

As her breathing steadies into the rhythm of sleep, I let the darkness claim us both—for now. Rest, my queen. The world can wait.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Matteo Ricci

Igrunt, shifting in the goddamn chair that's become my temporary bed. Swear it's a medieval torture device masquerading as furniture. My shoulder's throbbing like a bastard, collarbone screaming every time I bloody well breathe. A lazy-boy, they call it. Must've been named by some sadistic prick who never took a bullet.

Eleanor's asleep, thank fuck, her chest rising and falling with that steady rhythm that keeps the darkness at bay. She's a tough one, but these days even she's got limits. Crutches stand sentinel by the bed, a reminder of battles still being fought.

The warehouse stint was a clusterfuck of stitches and antiseptics, but Angel hauled our asses back home—said it'd do us good. Seven days to unravel this mess before we're face-to-face with the other bosses. Enzo's dirty hands are all over this shit, just gotta prove it. And the two goons we nabbed might sing, given the right... persuasion.

Eleanor wanted to grill them herself, fire in her eyes eventhrough the pain. But three days of hell softened her resolve, and Spike's now playing interrogator. Five hours and counting, radio-fucking-silence from him. Angel, with his gadgets and wires, assures us he's on top of it. Says he'll feed us the intel soon. The waiting’s like a blade twisting in my gut, patience never my virtue.

I glance over at Eleanor again, watching for any sign of discomfort. The thought of her in pain twists something fierce inside me. I'm used to control, to power, but this—a fight where I can't just snap my fingers and fix everything—it chafes worse than the damn sling cutting into my skin.

Niko had taken to sleeping in our bed next to Eleanor every night, his little frame a protective shield around her delicate form. The fear of almost losing her had etched deep lines of worry on his face, his usually stoic expression now softened by the need to keep her within arm's reach. His once private dungeon downstairs now stood abandoned, he now hovered over Eleanor's every move, as if afraid she might vanish if he looked away for a moment.

Eleanor, on the other hand, seemed to bask in Niko's constant presence, her laughter ringing through the house whenever he was near. She welcomed his affection with open arms, finding solace in his unwavering devotion. Their bond was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to wrap around them both like a protective cloak. It was as though they were two halves of the same whole, inseparable and intertwined in a dance of love and loyalty.

As I observed them together, I couldn't help but feel like an outsider peering into their intimate world. The way they gravitated towards each other spoke volumes about thedepth of their connection, leaving me feeling like I was witnessing a rare and beautiful phenomenon unfold before my eyes.

"Spike is heading home now," Angel's voice cuts through the silence, gravelly and sure. He's hunched over his tech fortress at the dining table, screens giving his face an eerie glow.

Eleanor frowns, the crease in her brow deep enough to hide secrets in. "I always forget that man has a house of his own. Matteo, I wanna buy the neighbour’s houses and have Angel and Spike live closer," she declares, conviction lacing her voice despite the painkillers swimming in her system.

I can't help but smirk at her audacity, my heart a twisted mess of adoration and concern. "You planning to start a mafia commune?" I tease, trying to ignore the throb in my shoulder.

Then Angel laughs, a sound rich and full-bodied, echoing off the walls. Eleanor scowls at him. "What is so damn funny?"

"You do not want me living next door, Eleanor," he chortles, shaking his head.

"Why not?" She's got that look, arms crossed, ready to take on the world from her propped-up throne of pillows.

"It would make it easier to get to and from work, and I could keep an eye on you!" Her tone brooks no argument, but she's missing the point, as usual.

"That right there is exactly why!" Angel's still laughing, the bastard.

Eleanor's frown deepens, confusion playing across her features. "I’m confused…"

Angel leans back in his chair, the picture of self-assured sin. "You know how you love a form of voyeurism?" His grin's sharp, all cat and canary.

My chest rumbles with a suppressed chuckle.

“Well, it’s one of my favorite pastimes,” Angel chuckles.

"Fuck," Eleanor drawls, dragging the word out like it's got barbs on it. Her voice is a slow pour of honey over the tension in the room. "You're into that sort of shit too, Angel?"

Angel's grin goes wide, all teeth and no remorse. "More than you." He leans back, arms spread across the back of his chair, owning the space around him.

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