Page 8 of Matteo

"Where is the event?" Angel presses all casual curiosity now.

"Down at the Natural History Museum, off Cromwell Rd," the kid spills, eager to please.

"Thanks, mate." Angel's smile doesn't reach his eyes, but it’s enough to send the boy into a relieved nod.

The lift's doors glide open, and we step into the penthouse suite—a sprawling space that feels too clean, too pristine for us. The concierge, a scrawny kid who can’t be more than twenty, hustles our bags to the center of the room with hands shakier than a leaf in a storm. He darts glances at Angel, and I can see his instinct is screaming at him to bolt. Can't blame him; Angel's got that look that says he's one wrong word away from snapping necks.

“What’s with the obsession with fundraisers all of a sudden?” I question Angel, my voice a low growl as the concierge scurries out, practically tripping over his own feet to escape the tension coiling in the air.

"Eleanor attends them all with her boss when his wife cannot make them," he replies nonchalantly, eyes glued to his phone screen.

I feel my pulse quicken, a mix of anticipation and something darker winding through my veins. "Get me on that list, Angel, NOW!" There's an urgency that claws at my throat, demanding immediate action.

"Easy, easy..." Angel's voice is steady, but I can tell he's already on it, tapping into whatever network he needs to get shit done. "Guest list says Patrick and Aela, his wife."

I'm halfway to the mini-bar before he finishes his sentence, pouring myself a generous amount of whiskey. It burns down my throat, but the heat does nothing to soothe the restless beast. My fingers twitch, itching for action, for the moment I reclaim what's mine.

"Where are you bloody goin'?" My tone is sharp as I zero in on Spike, who's decked out like he's about to wage a war in the shadows, every inch of him strapped with enough blades to outfit a small army.

"Thought I’d scope out the place, maybe follow this Patrick back to his digs, see what he knows," Spike explains, testing the edge of a knife with a thumb encased in black leather.

"That’s not a bad idea, actually," Angel agrees, and a wicked gleam in his eyes tells me he's already calculating the risks and rewards.

"Shit, okay, hold on a sec." I'm unbuttoning my shirt, tossing it aside with a flick of my wrist. "Let me get changed into my secret ninja suit, Batman," I mutter, the words tasting like bile.

Angel and Spike chuckle, a dark sound that echoes off the high ceilings. This isn't a game to them, but they're damn sure going to enjoy it like one. They know the drill—get in, get what we want, get out—no matter the cost.

Pulling on the matte black gear feels like a second skin, a transformation from a high-powered mafia boss to a predator on the hunt. My movements are automatic, muscle memory guiding each strap, each buckle until I'm just as armed as Spike.

"Ready to dance with the devil?" Spike grins, his twisted version of reassurance.

"Always am," I shoot back, checking the knife's weight in my hand. London's glittering streets will learn what happens when they cross Matteo Ricci tonight. And God help anyone who stands in my way.

The night's got a chill that cuts right to the bone, the kind that makes you wanna do something warm or someone who is. I'm layered in black from head to toe, gear strapped tight against my body, weapons hidden but within easy reach. Spike's got enough knives on him to stock a goddamn cutlery store, and he looks like he's ready to sink a blade into any bastard who even blinks wrong.

"Come on, Boss, let's go," Spike urges with that shit-eating grin.

"Fuck off, Cunt. Stop looking at me like I'm a fucking fairy," I snap, feeling every inch of my skin crawl under this outfit. Recon isn't exactly my style—I prefer the direct approach—but tonight's about Eleanor, and I'd walk through hell in gasoline drawers for her.

"If the shoes fit, Boss," Spike teases, ducking just intime as Angel's hand whizzes past where his head was seconds ago.

"Leave the Boss alone, Fuck Face; his vagina is out; let him be a fucking girl," Angel chimes in, smirking at both of us.

"You’re both fucking fired," I growl, my voice low and dangerous as I shoulder-barge past them, leading the way to the lift. The tension between us is thick, a blend of adrenaline and loyalty, sharp as the blades we carry.

Angel arranges our exit, and a sleek car awaits us when we step off the private airstrip. We're dropped across from the museum, the building looming like a fortress against the London skyline. But we aren't here for the art but for the hunt.

"Let’s head in there," Angel suggests, nodding toward the casino with its warm glow spilling onto the cold street. "There’s a window seat we can sit at and watch them come in and out."

The casino's din hits us the second we step inside, a cacophony of clinking glasses and the desperate murmurs of gamblers praying for luck that ain't coming. We go to the window seat Angel mentioned, the perfect spot to play a waiting game I'm already sick of.

"Keep your eyes peeled," I mutter, scanning the crowd for any sign of the Patrick fucker. If he so much as breathed on Eleanor, I'd make him wish he'd never been born. Tonight, London's shadows are mine, and the darkness feels like an old friend whispering bloody promises.

I watch the frosted breaths of those outside, their figures distorted through the glass. Spike's back at our tablein no time, a tray of drinks balanced in his hand like he's done this a thousand times before.

"Angel," I growl, my voice low and rough, "show me a photo of that Patrick cunt so I know what to look out for, will ya?" He doesn't hesitate, shoving his phone in my direction with an image that ignites a firestorm in my chest.

There he is. The black Irish bastard with hair slick as oil spills and eyes like shards of sky. Towering over most, he'd be hard to miss. A protector type, the sort Eleanor would gravitate towards for safety. My fingers twitch, itching to wrap around his throat. Has he dared lay a finger on her? It’s enough to churn my stomach; the bile rises, hot and acidic.

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