Chapter 21
Shit …
I knew one taste would fuck me up. Again …
I took a bite from the forbidden fruit, knowing damn well I shouldn’t, knowing what it would do to me, and now I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop craving it.
I got carried away, sure, but how the fuck am I supposed to stand next to her now, pretending I’m not burning alive?
I need more. I need the way she breaks when she’s under my influence, the way she trusts me even when she shouldn’t, the way she looks at me like I’m something better than the thing crawling under my skin.
She’s the kind of temptation that makes you fall with a smile on your face and blood on your hands. The kind of sin that makes paradise look overrated.
Fuck … Damnation has never tasted so fucking divine.
She’s in danger …
Fuck, she’s in danger.
And instead of staying away, here I am, so far gone I can’t stop thinking about how she tastes, how she sounds, how she looks when she falls apart in my hands.
All I can think about is my own fucked-up hunger.
I should be better than this. I should be the one putting her first, stepping the fuck back, doing the right thing even if it rips me apart from the inside out.
But I’m not. I’m not a hero. I’m a selfish piece of shit who’d rather sink his teeth into something soft and pure just because of his fucking obsession.
It’s fucked up. I’m fucked up.
She’s walking down the entrance stairs, still in that deep purple silk dress that makes her look like my damnation. I step out of the black Cadillac, button my blazer, go around the car, and open the rear door for her.
The moment her eyes land on me, a faint and awkward smile adorns her face. She runs her fingers through her dark, wavy hair, and my eyes catch on the orchid pin. That cursed little thing … dressing her in innocence like a lie she wears too well.
“Hey.” She smiles softly.
“Get inside,” I grumble, forcing my eyes away.
I have to stay the fuck away from her. I will protect her with everything I’ve got.
Instantly, her expression hardens, but she enters the car anyway. I close the door, take my seat, and start the engine.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her eyes searching mine through the rearview mirror.
“Peachy.” My foot slams the pedal to the floor.
Traffic hasn’t moved in ages, and my sanity isn’t doing much better. I’m fighting the urge to look at her again. Fuck, that perfume … it’s addictive. She’s addictive.
I told Calvano I’d handle it alone.
Well … told isn’t the right word.
I pushed his thoughts in the direction I wanted and let him think the idea crawled out of his own brilliant mind.
A few well-placed pauses, a little concern in the right tone, a reminder about “exposure” and “optics.” Bosses crumble fast when they think they’re protecting their reputation or empire.
And he bought it, despite our differences the day before.
Why wouldn’t he? I’m very convincing … even without a knife, an axe, or a sniper rifle in my hands.
I don’t want anyone else near me. Near her.
She’s mine to watch. Mine to guard.
My responsibility, whether Calvano—or anyone else—understands that or not.
The radio’s full of crap. Same bullshit pop tracks. I’d kill for some metalcore right now. Ice Nine Kills or something loud enough to drown the noise in my head.
My thumbs tap the wheel like I’m behind a drum kit and not stuck in this goddamn car with the one person I should stay away from and can’t stop wanting. Like that’ll distract me from thinking about how she smells, how close she is, how sin tastes when it wears her face.
She huffs in boredom, sinking further into the leather seat.
Oh, I know many ways to occupy that pretty mouth of hers, but I need to keep my shit together and behave.
Hell, I have to push her away from me. Sure, good luck with that, Manson …
“Can’t we just go back? We’re late already anyway, and I want to go to sleep.” She sighs, her brows furrowing.
My eyes find hers from the rearview mirror. “And you’re gonna ghost your sexy, blind date? Shame on you.”
Of course I don’t mean that. Christ, I wish I did. That would be easier if I could just not care about her. But everything in me burns from the weight of this lie. It’s like acid under my skin.
How tempting it is to just take her … Just grab her, run, leave this fucked-up world behind and never look back. God, I’ve thought about it. A thousand times.
But that won’t fix it. That’s just putting a bandage on a bullet wound.
No, this shit has roots, and if I want her safe, if I want peace, I have to cut the head off the hydra.
And her father …
Oh, he’s the first fucking head that needs to roll.
“What is wrong with you?” She scoffs, annoyance in her tone.
“I told you, everything is fine.”
I don’t look at her, but I can feel her eyes stabbing into me, full of hate. I can almost taste it in the air.
“I’m just doing my job,” I add.
She freezes for a few seconds, oblivious of what to reply. “Of course you do.”
Yep, she does hate me.
She should hate me. Hell, I want her to. But she still couldn’t hate me half as much as I hate myself for having to do this to her now.
Not until I know she’s safe.
Safe from the mess I drag around.
Safe from me.
She looks away, lips all pouty and bruised from biting them—probably so she wouldn’t say the shit she’s dying to scream at me. She’s hurt, and I’m the asshole who did it.
Then the radio puts on a song I half recognize. It takes me a second before I realize it’s P!nk. “Trustfall.” Some sick joke from the universe.
Couldn’t have picked a better anthem for our situation.
That’s what trusting me gets you.
I turn the volume higher, just to catch her expression changing and see her face brighten. As expected, there’s a mild positive surprise on her face, and her eyes return to mine.
Fuck, I savor her innocence and the way she softens when something small catches her off guard.
“I thought you didn’t like her,” she says, her eyes fixated outside the window, her voice laced with sarcasm.
“I don’t.”
The scoff she lets out is sharp, almost a laugh strangled by disbelief. “I don’t understand you. One moment you look at me like you want to devour me, and the next you act like I mean nothing. Like I’m just part of your job.”
What I told her is true. I am a liar. A manipulator. Deception is the only language I know. It’s easy and effortless. But with her, every lie drags a piece of me down with it, and yet, I still do it. I have to do it.
“What you think you see is your problem, not mine.”
I keep my eyes forward, refusing to look at her, though I can feel her stare burning into me.
“Sei un porco di merda.” You’re a fucking pig.
She mutters it under her breath, her eyes snapping away like she can’t stand the sight of me. I don’t blame her. She’s probably cursing me.
Can’t blame her for that, either.
After a long, painfully awkward ride, we finally pull up to the pretentious place this fucking bastard picked out.
He chose the restaurant, the time, every damn detail.
As if that somehow gives him control over the night—over her.
And of course, her dear father nodded along like the spineless coward he is, eager to hand her off like a bargaining chip.
Isabella, caught in the middle, doesn’t even get a say. She’s just a pawn—offered between men who pretend this is about her. And I’m supposed to sit here and play nice while they circle around her like vultures.
Fuck them all.
I step out of the car, button my blazer like before, and make my way around to her side. But before I can even reach the handle, the door swings open and she steps out. She doesn’t look at me, just walks ahead like I’m not even there.
I can’t help but smirk to myself at her feisty side. This woman will be the death of me.
At the entrance, the hostess greets her with a smile so fake it belongs on a billboard.
“Welcome, Miss Calvano. Your date is already here,” she chirps, flashing a wide grin. Her oversized golden earrings sway with the effort, tugging at earlobes that are begging for mercy.
“Great,” Isabella drawls.
We both take a step forward, but then she moves, cutting me off. “She’s going in there alone.”
I let out a short, cold laugh. “I didn’t know they hired a clown for the night.” My smile fades, eyes narrowing. “Too bad you’re not even funny.”
“It’s Mr. Anderson’s orders.”
Fury boils inside me at the sound of it, and something in me turns rabid.
I lock my eyes on hers and move forward, making her step back. “You can tell Mr. Anderson he can take his orders and shove them right up his ass.” My head cocks to the side. “If she goes in, I go in.”
“I—” She clears her throat. “I have orders.”
“Adam, it’s okay.”
“So do I,” I growl, ignoring Isabella next to me. “She’s not going anywhere without me.”
She swallows hard and forces herself upright. Her eyes lock onto mine. “I’m afraid I’ll have to call security and have you removed, sir.”
“It’s okay.” Isabella grabs my wrist. “We’re leaving.”
The hostess grabs her wrist and pulls her back. “Mr. Anderson is waiting for you.”
All I see is black. How dare she touch her?
Slowly, I prowl closer to her and grab her wrist. “Take your fucking hands off her.”
One more second, and I’m not responsible for what happens next.
“Do we have a situation here?”
A man walks toward me, puffed up and trying his best “apex predator” strut.
Definitely one of the place’s bodyguards.
I look at him, dead in the eye.
“That depends,” I say. “This lovely lady just informed me I’m not welcome in your squeaky-clean little palace of fine dining.
So here’s what’s going to happen.” I release her wrist and face him fully.
“Either I ignore your boss’s little tantrum and walk in with mine, or we leave, and let him stew in silence.
” I flash a fake smile. “Which, honestly, I’d prefer. ”
His brows furrow, eyes flicking between me and the hostess. “I suppose Mr. Anderson won’t have a problem bringing him in.”
I take a step back, getting closer to Isabella, and fold my hands in front of me.
“I need someone outside,” he says into his earpiece, eyes locked on me.
“What’s happening?” Isabella whispers quietly.
I can hear the tension in her voice. She’s stressed, trying to hold it together. However, I don’t respond. I keep my focus on what’s coming.
Then another guy steps out, thinner than the first.
“Search him,” the first orders.
A low, jagged chuckle scrapes from my throat before I bow my head again as they circle me, rifling through my pockets.
“Is that necessary?” Isabella asks.
No one responds. They just start digging—first the gun from my shoulder holster, then the knife I made her moan with not so long ago.
The iron knuckles from the blazer pocket, my boot knife, the two throwing blades hidden in my sleeves, and the backup piece tucked low on my spine.
One of them even finds the razor strip sewn into my tie.
I give Isabella a side glance and smirk.
Her eyes widen in disbelief. “Where did you have all these?”
“We’re clear, boss,” the second attests.
“Actually, you missed a spot,” I say, grinning as I shove a hand down my boxers.
Both clowns look at me like I’m about to pull a bazooka out my waistband and raise their guns. I just shrug, fish the jackknife, and hand it to him like I’m passing a lighter. Calm as church.
“Such a gentleman,” I add.
He looks at me like I just crawled out of a sewer, lip curled, and lowers his gun.
“Come on, big boy,” I purr. “I can still open a few necks with this toothpick if you don’t hurry up and take it from me.”
He sighs, but in the end, he takes it from my hand.
“The girl’s coming in with her bodyguard,” the first one says into his earpiece, his eyes still on me, trying to size me up. I do him a favor. I meet that stare dead-on, just to watch the animal rules play out again.
He holds for a second too long, then blinks and drops his gaze.
“You can go in,” he mutters.
“So.” I clap once. “Time to join the circus. Let’s go dance with the freaks, shall we?”
Isabella lets out a quiet chuckle. I offer her my elbow, and she loops her arm through mine. We step forward together as the first guard swings open the glass doors.
The place is exactly what you’d expect—stuffed with well-dressed, hilariously rich people, women sporting fake smiles, faker nails, and teeth that probably cost more than a car. Every corner’s dripping with opulence.
“Thank you for before,” she mutters quietly.
“I told you, little orchid,” I say, my eyes scanning around the place. “I’m just doing my job.”
She doesn’t answer—and that’s not like her. Normally, she’d snap back with something sharp just to prove a point. I turn to look at her. Her eyes are darting, unfocused, scanning the room. Her chest is rising fast.
She’s not fine.
I lean in closer, my eyes on the crowd. “Remember what I told you in your room a while ago?”
“Not at the moment,” she pants.
“I won’t let anyone touch you.”
Her eyes snap back to me. “Promise?”
I look back at her. Something in me stirs—sharp, sudden, and completely unpredictable. I don’t know what the hell it is. I just know I mean it.
“I promise.”
“Your table is ready. Mr. Anderson is waiting for you,” the waitress says, waiting for us to follow her.
We stroll behind her as she leads us toward the VIP area. Then I spot someone near the entrance—someone I recognize.
Michael?
His brows pinch in confusion, but he doesn’t move—like a soldier waiting for orders.
As we get closer to the table, some fucker—probably her date—stands up and wipes his shit-face with a white towel.
Is that …
Leo fucking Anderson?