Chapter Eight #3
Being reckless can kill you in this world, Jack Enzino’s son should know that.
And if anyone is going to hurt him, it’ll be me.
No one else is allowed. I called dibs a long time ago.
A surge of possession fills me, and I let it grow.
He is part of my vendetta after all. He is an Enzino. I could never forget that.
“There are a couple of loose ends I’d like to talk to first,” I tell Seb.
“Alright. You have four more days. Then Arturo Enzino goes back home.” His words have never sounded more final.
“How about the two-timing dirty cop who bled all over your necktie? Get anything from him?”
I nod. “Nothing about the pendant, but the way Doppi’s son was tortured and killed reminded him of two other murders from last year.
They made the news. I asked Detective Casper to look into it, and he discovered three more similar cases.
All young boys, barely in their twenties, living alone.
No ties to Coretti or any other family, though. ”
“Keep me posted,” he says, before asking, “Does your mood have anything to do with tomorrow’s date?”
“No,” I growl out. Even though I’m lying. Tomorrow is my birthday. I fucking hate that another one is rolling by. One more year and still I can’t go to my parents’ graves and tell them I avenged them.
Seb nods just as the car stops in front of my building.
I get out, looking back at Jeff pulling up to the curb behind Seb’s car.
He followed us from the warehouse. I walk through the lobby, nodding at the greeting concierge.
Vince is sitting on one of the chairs near the entrance.
I acknowledge him with a nod of my head before getting on the elevator.
When I reach my floor, Carlo is standing outside the door to my condo.
“Any problem?” I ask.
“No, Capo,” he reports.
Really? “Did you check on him?” I ask, punching the code in the door keypad. I should improve the condo’s security just like Marco did.
“I did just as you asked, Boss. No contact.”
If he were in my crew, he’d have bled just like Jeff did for taking Fly and Enzino to that club. But judging by his black eye, Marco took care to make him understand the wrongfulness of his ways.
I slide the bloody neckties still in my fist around my neck again.
I’m about as frustrated as I’ve ever been; I could take my anger through the stratosphere multiple times over at this point.
I turn on the light. Silence. That’s what I’m used to.
Returning to an empty apartment—physically and spiritually.
Instead as soon as the door closes behind me, the sound of little nails scampering on the floor starts, and after a second, the creature comes running at me.
Fucking hell. It stops at my feet, jumping, barking, spinning, and repeating.
I’ve never had a pet. Never wanted one. I just don’t care for them.
This one surely looks like its owner. Tiny, horny as fuck, moronically fearless, always hungry and fucking insufferable.
I ignore it and tie my hair into a short ponytail.
Fuck, my hand hurts. It’s bleeding again.
Fortunately, Marco wasn’t there when I cut myself on a piece of sharp metal inside the warehouse, or I’d have never heard the end of it.
A few locks fall over my face, and I tuck some behind my ear with an annoyed huff.
I fucking need a drink yesterday. I move to the kitchen and get the whiskey bottle out.
There are empty containers of food covering half of the kitchen island.
How many times do I need to tell that slob to clean up after himself?
I pour the liquor into a glass. The dog has finally calmed down and is now lying on the floor on top of what looks like one of my cashmere sweaters.
That fucking brat is going to pay for this.
I’ll face-fuck his mouth so hard he’ll choke on my cum. My dick jerks at the mental image.
I’m unwrapping the white pocket square from my hand when I hear footsteps.
He walks toward me, holding a huge bag of avocado pretzels. “Oh, the jailer is back!” His accusing tone changes as soon as he sees my hand. “What the hell happened to you?”
You happened. Cazzo!
I growl an unintelligible response, throwing the bloody fabric on the counter before downing more whiskey.
He’s all lively gestures, looking warm and edible.
Wearing my fucking t-shirt, which reaches his smooth and incredibly strong thighs, as I recall them holding firmly onto my thrusting hips yesterday.
I had a long, good taste of him, but instead of quenching my thirst, it made me crave that slutty ass more.
He shakes his head, the move drawing my eyes to the delicate lines of his collarbone, still red from my stubble.
I feel the sudden urge to lick my way along it until the pale skin is covered in my marks.
He turns around and walks away. Although his back is covered, I can still see all the crisscrossed scars—long, old white lines and some pink new ones—marring the entirety of his flesh.
They tell a story of repetitive abuse. My stomach twists uncomfortably at the memory.
Is it because of the ones I see in the mirror every-fucking-day?
Who did that to him? Is it possible that he asked for it?
Was he forced? Pinned down, defenseless when he endured them?
A murderous feeling awakens inside my chest. Fury not toward him but for him turns me fucking confused and pissed at him and then furious all over again.
I grit my teeth and quickly lock down the whole line of thinking.
I need to get a fucking grip. I have a plan already, and I need to stick to it.
I pour more whiskey and take the bottle and glass with me when I plop down on the sofa. Enzino comes back and sits on the coffee table in front of me. A first aid kit is on his lap.
“I don’t need that,” I clip.
“You’re bleeding on the goddamn floor. Nacho is licking it.” He points at his dog lapping at the floor near the kitchen island.
I look at the back of my hand, noticing more blood dripping down.
“You got out of the bedroom,” I deadpan.
He grabs my wrist and stares at the wound, pulling on the skin too roughly. I grit my teeth against the sting.
“You were away for hours. I needed the bathroom.” He doesn’t hold back his annoyance at me.
“How did you do it?” I should have cuffed him before locking him in the bedroom.
“By myself.” He presses the cotton filled with disinfectant harder than necessary, making it burn like a bitch. Resentful brat! “Do not start pointing fingers at your crew. It wasn’t my first time.”
The way his challenging eyes are avoiding mine now tells me everything and nothing at the same time. What the fuck does that mean? I’ve been struggling with this powerful attraction toward him from the beginning, but this is different. I want to know more.
He applies a bandage and secures it before asking, “Is this all?”
I nod, downing the glass. He pours more for me and then goes to get another glass for himself before coming back.
“Am I going to be next?” He points at the blood on the necktie and shirt. “Because tortures are not needed, just ask.”
“No need for a promise of food?”
His eyes widen and he waves his hand when suddenly the glass slides between his fingers, hits the hard floor, and breaks. Shards of glass spread around as a drop of blood appears on the side of his bare foot.
“Fucking pain in the ass,” I grumble, taking another long sip of whiskey before hauling him on my shoulder. My leather boots make crackling and smashing noises over the glass on the floor as I take him to the kitchen island. He starts to wiggle, so I spank him, and he yells.
“Such a feminine scream,” I sneer.
“What’s wrong with being feminine, anyway?” He punches my back.
I set his ass on the counter after wiping the surface with my arm, making the discarded, empty food boxes fall on the floor. Then go get the first aid kit and my glass of whiskey.
“Nacho! Please don’t let him go near the broken glass.” His worried tone makes me sigh. I grab the dog by the scruff and lock him in the bedroom. When I’m in front of him again, I lift his foot and place it on the island.
“It’s just a small cut, I’ve had much worse,” he reminds me, trying to pull his foot away.
I don’t let him. I know he’s gone through worse; I’ve seen his back. And even though I’m trying so hard not to, I want to know who did it. Because I know it couldn’t have been consensual. Art is not a masochist. I tilt my glass and let some liquor fall on the wound.
“Ouch!” He hisses, grabbing my wrist and digging his nails into my skin. That just reminds me of the half-moons he left on my shoulders when I fucked him into the mattress.
“Is this your idea of torture? Why don’t you give me a nice paper cut, too, and some frozen milkshake brain freeze?”
I ignore his nonsense. “There’s no shard of glass in the wound.”
“I know it’s just a scratch. Haaaa!” He screams in surprise, losing his balance when I lift his foot in the air toward my face.
I smirk at him. His response is a murderous glare, which turns into a shocked expression with a hint of desire when I start blowing on the cut. The Band-Aid won’t stick if the skin is wet.
“Push your thumb against the roof of your mouth,” I say, letting his foot back down on the counter. “My mother taught me that.”
“What?”
“It helps with brain freeze,” I explain. There’s a box of Band-Aids in the first aid kit, and I use one to cover the cut.
“That’s mine,” I tell him when he lifts the glass near his lips.
“I know. Mine is too far.” He points at the coffee table.
“You always do what you want?” I drop my hands, palms slapping on the counter on each side of him.
“Asked the kidnapper,” he whispers, leaning toward my face, his darkening gaze on my lips.
I know that seductive smile he’s giving me. He’s bright-eyed, snarky, and bushy-tailed most of the time, until he turns into a provocative vixen.