Chapter 5
The ride drags on—long, maddening, and weirdly entertaining. These assholes think they’ve got some divine right to tell me how to ride. How fast, how close, how careful.
Sure, I hear them. Doesn’t mean I care.
I watch the road. I always do. I’m reckless, not suicidal. Especially now that she’s riding with me. Fuckers like them wouldn’t think twice about pointing a gun at her—probably quicker than they’d aim at me.
We don’t talk the whole ride. A few times, I twist the throttle harder just to feel her arms tighten around my waist. Damn good for my ego … and my cock.
I can tell she’s not used to riding. And yet, the whole damn time, all I can think about is how she’d look riding me instead.
I’m sick.
After about twenty minutes, we arrive outside a vast mansion, one of those with the huge railing double doors and a garden that looks more Eden than a house garden.
Bigger than I expected. Over-the-top, like most things funded by blood money.
Exactly the kind of place I’m used to turning into a graveyard for mafia scum.
The giant doors open automatically—or because everything is being watched here—and we enter the house’s garden.
When we arrive at the entrance, I turn off my bike, but she doesn’t unwrap her arms from me.
“I don’t mind staying like this, but they’re watching us,” I mock, taking off my gloves.
“I’m not doing this again,” she says with a quivering voice.
I turn my head. “Riding my bike or pulling me against you?”
“R-riding the bike.”
I don’t reply, but I can’t help that satisfied smirk that spreads across my face.
Then, there’s a pause.
“You know, if you want me off this thing, you’re gonna have to untangle yourself first. Or are you getting a little too comfortable back there?”
“Uhm …” She gets off it. “Sorry.”
I get off my bike too, casually scoping out the parade of testosterone. And look who’s here. That fucker Wes, radiating that “I suck” energy and begging to get punched.
They’re all talking to each other, throwing silent tantrums about the new guy who swooped in to steal their thunder.
“Uhm, Adam?” she says quietly, almost whispering.
It goes straight to my cock.
Her voice wrapping around my name is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard, and within just a second, I can’t stop picturing her moaning it, needy and breathless, pinned beneath me.
But I need to act like a good boy.
I look at her. She’s already removed my leather jacket, and she’s looking at me like a kitty waiting to be belly-scratched.
“Yes, little orchid?”
“Can you help with the helmet?”
She’s so infernally sexy just in a simple jeans and a simple top.
I pull the move I did before.
I trap her between me and the bike, grip the helmet strap, and pull her closer to me.
This time, she’s not avoiding eye contact. On the contrary, her big, blue eyes roam over my face, and of course, I still take my sweet time with unstrapping the helmet. Her breathing becomes forceful—I can hear it.
“Are you coming?”
“Yes, Colton,” she replies softly.
Her voice is calm. I bet she likes him.
She grabs my arm, her eyes penetrating mine. “Don’t go against my father. Don’t insult him. Don’t provoke him.”
I run my fingers through my hair. “Will he scold me?”
“I’m serious. You call yourself a monster, but you’re nothing compared to him.”
She walks past me, heading towards the circus, swaying her alluring hips. Maybe she doesn’t do it on purpose, but I can’t help but obsess over the way she moves.
Everyone parades behind her, all dressed in black, radiating peak bro energy. Typical mafia bodyguards.
“Keep your paws off her,” Colton says quietly.
“Excuse me?”
“If you wanna survive this place, just listen to me.”
I cross my arms. “What are you? Her nanny?”
He gives me a sidelong glance, right before he rolls his eyes. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He turns around and enters the mansion. I can tell he must be a nice man. He reminds me of Michael.
What’s he doing in a shithole like this?
As much as I hate being here, with a thousand creative ways of mass murder playing on repeat in my head so I can leave tomorrow and finish my little side quest of ending Leo’s miserable existence, I’m also disturbingly fascinated.
Inside the house, everything seems the way I pictured it. Modern, opulent as fuck, golden and beige.
His men are already lined up like obedient little statues, hands folded like they’re posing for a funeral portrait. Even his house staff is mirroring the same cult-worthy posture. It’s like they all rehearsed for this weirdly synchronized display of loyalty or fear. Or perhaps both. That’ll be fun.
Isabella is also there, swallowed behind the black leather jackets and well-sewn suits. She doesn’t seem like she’s his daughter. She seems as if she’s his pet, bracing for a whipping to punish her disobedience.
The dead silence is finally shattered by the obnoxiously slow, theatrical footsteps, each one dragging more than the previous. Add in the loud thuds of that stupid cane … because God forbid anyone misses the grand entrance of big, bad Daddy. What a wuss.
He doesn’t come off nearly as terrifying as he’s clearly dying to be. Honestly, he looks like he’s trying too hard. Midlife crisis in a tailored suit. Probably around fifty, black hair slicked back like he’s in some noir film, gray at the temples for that “wise but dangerous” aesthetic.
“I see you came willingly,” he says, his voice hoarse and dominant.
“If by ‘willingly,’ you mean I was basically dragged here, sure.”
He hums with a stupid side smile. “You’ve got a spine. I like that.”
His accent is noticeably heavier than hers, thick with that deep Italian drawl, just enough to feel like he wants it to add weight and make him seem more dangerous.
“Rest tonight. Tomorrow, you stop being a person.”
I let out a scornful chuckle. “You’ll turn me into a pumpkin?”
“My daughter brought you to my house,” he hisses, prowling closer to me. “My house, my rules.”
“I thought I came here to protect her.”
“Correct. Now leave. Nora set up your room. Don’t make her waste the effort.”
“Wait … you don’t expect me to live here? What, so you can play God with better access?” I walk closer to him. “Maybe you’re just a lonely old freak playing puppet master because no one ever stayed unless you bought them.”
All of his men grab their guns, almost in sync.
Isabella’s eyes glisten under the warm light of the room and turn red, almost as if she’s ready to cry.
She shakes her head, her lower lip trembling. “No,” she mouths.
“I don’t play God, boy.” He smirks. “I am God.”
“Yeah, right … I’m not doing it.”
In an instant, he takes out his gun and shoots … his fucking daughter! What the fuck?!
She groans and presses her hand to her bleeding side.
“What the fuck are you doing?! She’s your fucking daughter!”
“You failed her,” he says without looking, tossing the gun on the ground. “You’ve got fewer chances left than you think.”
He turns his back and walks away.
Isabella’s eyes are soft and fearful, nailed on mine, while no one tries to help her.
Son of a fucking bitch! I’m gonna rip his goddamn throat out and make him choke on his own blood.
Everyone is dead serious, some of them turning their backs to go wherever the fuck they want. Wes has a sadistic and stupid smirk on his face, and that only makes me want to punch him more.
Eventually, he leaves the room too, leaving me alone with her.
I march up to her and grab her hand on the wound.
“Are you okay?”
“I told you to be careful,” she whispers shakily. “I told you not to go against him.”
I push her back against the glass table, grip her waist, and lift her up onto it. I slide between her legs and reach for her wound.
“Let me go,” she says, pushing me back.
“Let me see it,” I say, shoving her hands away. Carefully, I raise her bloody top and take a look at the wound. “It’s just a scratch.”
“But he did it,” she says quietly, her feline eyes softening as they search mine. “He’s more willing to kill me than he is to protect me.”
I shake my head. “Nah, he’s just a control freak, desperate for attention.”
She grabs my hand, and time seems to stop as her gaze captivates me and everything else fades to silence.
“Stay,” she breathes, almost pleading.
My eyes drop to the ground. “I’m not who you think I am, little orchid. I’m not a good person. Besides, you just met me.”
“Yet I feel safer with a stranger than with my own family,” she says as a tear runs down her cheek.
My heart is hammering against my ribs. What am I supposed to do? Stay here and doom us both, or walk away and doom her alone? Since when do I care about anyone else other than me?
“Please. Just stay,” she repeats as more tears run down her face.
I raise my hand and wipe the tears from her cheek.
“You need to find someone else, Isabella.”
“No,” she mutters, giving into her tears.
“I’m not your hero here.”
I turn around and walk away without looking back.