Page 73 of Matteo

"His dad," Niko finishes for her. A chill runs down my spine at the implication. "Dude's the same age as your old man would've been."

"Enzo never had kids, didn't even fucking marry." I glance at Angel for backup.

"Nothing on record," he confirms, tapping keys on his laptop to punctuate the sentence. The silence that follows echoes with unspoken fears and questions.

I stand abruptly, the movement sharp, a knife thrust into the quiet. "I need something solid. You can't walk into the lion's den unarmed. If I go in blind to meet Enzo..." My fists clench and unclench, aching for the satisfaction of Enzo's blood on my hands.

"Matteo," Eleanor's voice is a tightrope, stretched thin with worry, "we'll figure this out."

"Better be bloody fast." The words are a growl, torn from somewhere deep inside where the darkness lives. "Because if I don't kill him, one way or another, he's going to kill us."

I pace the room like a caged animal, my thoughts racing faster than my feet over the cold tile. The tension's thick enough to choke on. I can almost taste the iron tang of blood in the air, anticipation of violence simmering under my skin.

Niko breaks into my circling, "How old is Patrick?"

"Thirty-eight this year." Eleanor's voice cuts through, sharp as a shiv. I wouldn't say I like the surety in her words, the closeness they imply.

"Teenage dad then, was he?" Spike's trying to lighten the mood, but his humor lands dead as a body in the river.

"Patrick claimed Irish soil birthed him," Eleanor pipes up, flipping her hair back with a flick of her wrist. "But that's worth shit all now."

I stop pacing; fists knotted at my sides. My mind conjures up images of Patrick, smug and breathing, and the urge to tear him apart blooms hot and vicious. "If only I could kill that bastard twice."

Angel's fingers fly over keys, the rapid-fire clicking a staccato beat to our fucked-up symphony. He's hunting ghosts in the wires, digital specters that might give us the edge we need.

"Wasn't his old man Conner Murphy?" Spike’s question hangs heavy, a lead balloon in the stifling room.

"Yeah, Conner and Caitlin," Eleanor confirms, face lit by the blue glow of Angel's screen. "Kicked it in a building collapse, left their golden boy a nice stash."

"Convenient," I mutter, sarcasm dripping like acid from my tongue.

"Too bloody convenient," Eleanor agrees, eyes flinty and sharp.

"Okay, so Enzo has never left Australia," Angel grumbles, frustration lacing his voice.

"You joking!" Spike's laughter is like a bark, a quick, disbelieving sound that echoes off the walls.

Eleanor leans forward, tattoos shifting with the grace of a panther. "What about Patrick’s parents?" she asks, voice cutting through the bullshit.

Angel gives her a look that could curdle milk. "What about them?"

"Have they been to Australia? And when and what date?" Her fingers tap an impatient rhythm on the arm of her chair.

"Meaning, if the bastards planted roots here before Patrick popped out or after," I add, my curiosity clawing its way up my throat.

"Good question, I’ll check." Angel's fingers are back at it, dancing across the keyboard like he's playing some twisted concerto.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Matteo Ricci

Six days bleed by, a blur of shadows and whispers in my world. I shoulder open the door to my office. Eleanor's perched at the edge of the room, her eyes slicing through the silence. "Found this," she says, flicking a tiny mic taped under the desk with a manicured nail.

"Fuck." The single word is a grenade in the stillness.

Angel's already on it, fingers dancing over his phone like he's playing a damn piano. "It's Becky's," he grunts, and that's all the confirmation I need. That little rat had been scuttling here, laying her traps before every meeting.

"Anything else?" My voice scrapes out, a blade drawn across the quiet.

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