Page 75 of Matteo

"Rocks for me," Antoni shoots back, his relaxed demeanor belying the steel trap of his mind.

"Ancora un Colorado, video," Luca ribs him, the tension breaking like bones under a boot heel.Still a pussy, I see.

"Someone's gotta have taste buds left," Antoni retorts,and we share a laugh, dark and knowing. We're not just aging; we're surviving, thriving in a world that chews up saints and spits out sinners.

There was a crackle in my ear. Angel's voice was low and steady. "He's heading up in the lift now."

The words settle in my gut like a round-chambered, ready to fire. Enzo's last ride up, and he doesn't even know it. The four seats are about to be three because in this game when you fuck with one of us, you sign your death warrant.

"Right then," I say, the edge of my voice sharp enough to draw blood, "let the fucking games begin."

The lift dings like a damn funeral bell, and the weight of the silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. I lean back in my leather chair, its creak almost deafening in the stillness. We're all sipping whiskey like we ain't moments away from death, doing a waltz into the room.

Luca's grin slices through the tension, sharp as a razor. His eyes are alight with that familiar brand of madness that says he's ready for blood. Mine pulse in response, the craving for chaos never far beneath my skin.

Footsteps echo, a slow march down the hall. My heart don't race—it's steady, like the drumbeat of war. Enzo's about to walk into his damn requiem, and the bastard doesn't even know it.

The door swings open. Enzo struts in, cocksure as ever, and heads straight for the whiskey. "Evening," he drawls, pouring himself a drink like he's got all the time in the world.

"Evening," we echo, a choir of ghosts waiting to drag him to hell.

"Look at you lot. Why are there all the long faces?" Enzolaughs, eyes darting around, looking for the joke he's not privy to.

I can't help myself; I lean in, feeding off the suspense. "I wouldn't say the Pope," I start, voice low and smooth as poisoned silk, "but Patrick did."

The glass pauses halfway to his lips. The liquid trembles, a prelude to the quake about to hit. He chokes on the amber nectar, coughing, spluttering, eyes wide as they snap to mine.

"Patrick..." he gasps out, the name a fragile lifeline he's clinging to.

"Dead," I confirm with a smile that could cut glass. It's all teeth and no joy.

Enzo goes paper-white, shock rooting him to the spot before he lurches up to his full height. "What the fuck is this," he snarls, but the fear's there, creeping into his tone.

"Missing someone?" I prod, twisting the knife. "Your right-hand man?"

"Tino?" Confusion slithers across his features, and a snake in the grass finally senses the hawk above.

"Yep, Tino." I watch the realisation hit and see it shatter his composure.

He gets it now. Tino's gone, his boy's gone. And him? He's a rat in a trap, surrounded by predators playing the long game.

Enzo scrambles for some thread of hope, his voice reeking of desperation. "He's away in London," he stammers, clinging to the lies Angel crafted.

"Wrong," I sneer, my smirk a jagged knife edge. "Your precious boy's chumming the waters in the harbour." Thetruth hits him like a freight train, derailing whatever bullshit he'd constructed in his head.

"Fuck," he breathes, all bluster gone as he sinks back into his seat, defeated. His eyes, those pitiful wells of despair, dart up to me. "How did you find out?"

"Kidnapping Eleanor was a dumb fuck move," I say, lounging back casually. "Tracked the bastard down by the shit he owned. Found out he's been obsessed with her since before she could even spell 'stalker.'"

The older man's face twists, something dark and ugly surfacing. "He loved her."

"Love?" I spit the word out like venom. "She was a kid, Enzo." Disgust coats my tongue, thick and sour.

"Details," he dismisses with a careless shrug. That's when I know he's beyond fucked up, beyond saving.

I slowly sip my whiskey, letting the silence stretch before I drop the next bomb. "And who do we find holding the leash? Tino."

"Seems that way," he admits, his voice empty of fight.

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