Chapter 8 #2
The thought came to her that if Gino had offered the choice Tommaso had, she’d have opted for death. If it had been anyone else but Tommaso, she’d have chosen death.
She really was drunk!
Edoardo opened the back door for them. Gabriella’s stomach dipped as she was lowered onto the back seat.
Tommaso ducked in through the other door.
He’d barely settled himself in before she scooted over and somehow managed to manoeuvre her legs into straddling his lap.
“Do you still want to have sex with me?” she asked, grinding herself down on his confined length.
“I always want to have sex with you.”
She palmed his gorgeous, bearded face and breathed, “Shall we have sex now?” The back of the car was completely concealed from the front. There was no danger of them being seen or heard by Edoardo.
She must be more drunk than she’d realised because her lips were begging her to kiss him, to really kiss him. She’d never kissed a man with a beard before. But then, she’d not kissed many men at all. Only one.
“A tempting proposition, but I’m not in the habit of taking advantage of women who won’t remember it in the morning.”
That struck her as hilarious. “But I’m your possession, remember?
” She slipped her hand down his chest and cupped between his legs.
His shaft was as hard as rock. “I’m a toy to be used and abused whenever and wherever you feel like it…
. Don’t be angry,” she added earnestly when his jaw clenched, “I’m just stating the truth.
You let me live so I could be your sex slave, and then when you get bored of me, you’ll probably stick me in your dungeon…
” Another thought popped into her head. “Those parties Gino mentioned…does that mean the stories about your father’s sex parties were true?
” She’d heard whispers about them, but there was no way she could have asked if they were true.
Who could she have asked? Lorenzo’s daughter?
His wife? And what would she have said? ‘Is it true that your father/husband hosts high-class orgies?’
He gripped the wrist of the hand stroking his cock and moved it away. “Yes.”
Placing both her hands on his shoulder, she asked, “Did you ever attend any of them?”
All playfulness in his eyes had gone. “Are you seriously asking if I ever went to one of my father’s orgies?”
“Did you?”
“I love a good orgy as much as the next man,” he drawled, “but one where a member of my blood family is in attendance and having sex? No thanks.” His eyes suddenly narrowed. “What about you? Did you attend any of them?”
Her head reared back in astonishment. “No way. Why would you think that?”
A smile that didn’t meet his eyes curved his lips.
“I keep thinking that he must have had suspicions about you to keep you out of the shadows, but we both knew my father – if he had suspicions, he would have acted on them, so that makes me wonder what it was about you that made you so different. Were you fucking him? Was that the hold you had on him?”
“God, no!” she said, horrified at the very thought. “I didn’t have any kind of hold over him, and he never looked at me as anything but Gabba.”
His hands on her waist, his stare was penetrative before he laughed and shook his head.
“You’re such a good liar that I shouldn’t believe a word that comes from your pretty mouth, but I believe you’re drunk enough to be telling me the truth.
Or maybe it’s just that I don’t want to believe you and my father had a thing. ”
“Your father was a dirty bastard who screwed anything with a pulse, including loads of Siena’s friends, which was just disgusting, but I was about the only one he never tried it on with.” Her laughter sounded as slurry as her words were becoming.
Whatever playful alchemy all the alcohol had induced between them vanished in a vapour. “Then why did you want to destroy him?” he demanded tersely.
“Why do you think?”
“I don’t know what I think. You must have had a reason. He was your godfather. He treated you with love and kindness your whole life, and yet you were actively working to bring him and the rest of us down.”
Even though the car's cab was now spinning as madly as the stairwell had, disbelief managed to snake through the fog that was starting to close in on her. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. Your father never kept secrets from you. You know he killed my father.”
The wooziness now overpowering her, she slumped forward onto Tommaso’s chest.
“What do you mean by that?” His voice had become distant. “Tell me, Gabba.” A hand gripped her chin and gently but firmly lifted it. “Before you pass out, tell me what the fuck you mean.”
She managed to open her eyes and lock onto his. “My father wanted to walk away. Your father put a bullet in his head to stop him.”
It took some effort, but Tommaso managed to slide his comatose wife out of the car and lift her dead weight into his arms. There had to be a spark of consciousness left within her, for she hooked an arm around his neck and nestled into him.
His head was pounding as hard as his heart.
She had to be lying. If his father had killed Fabio, he would have known about it.
The treacherous rat was lying, he grimly decided as he carried her up to their bedroom. Playing psychological games with him.
Kicking the door open, he pulled the duvet back and lay her down. Her feet were bare. He had no idea where or when her shoes had fallen off.
Her eyes opened. “Water?”
His lips tightened, and he jerked a nod.
The bathroom water coming from the same source as the kitchen’s supply, he filled a glass in the ensuite and rooted for painkillers in the bathroom cabinet.
In the bedroom, he perched on the bed and shook her shoulder. “Wake up. I have your water.”
Her mouth moved, but there was no other sign of life.
“Come on, Gabriella. Drink the water.” Why was he even bothering? He shouldn’t care less that she’d drunk enough alcohol to dehydrate herself. He should be taking satisfaction in knowing she would feel triply shit in the morning.
Telling himself to leave her to stew in her own alcohol-induced juices, he found his hand stroking her hair. “You need to drink your water, Gabba.”
“Can’t lift my head,” she croaked.
He closed his eyes and inhaled, then slid a hand beneath her head and gently lifted it, supporting her back too until she was slumped against him like a rag doll.
What the hell had she been thinking in drinking so much?
He put the glass to her mouth. She managed a couple of sips.
“More,” he commanded. She obeyed. With firm cajoling, he got her to drink two-thirds of the glass. Putting it on the bedside table, he lowered her back down.
When her head was on the pillow, he covered her in the duvet. “I’ll refill the glass for you. There’s painkillers here if you need them.”
Her lips twitched in what he thought was an attempt at a smile.
“Who told you my father killed yours?” he asked before she could slip away again.
An almost silent sigh expelled through her nose. Her voice was so low he had to lean in to hear her. “My mother. Two days before she died.”
“If it’s true…” He could not believe it. Just couldn’t. His father had been many things, but never a liar; never to his children. “…then why try to destroy all of us? Why not just him?”
Her closed eyes moved as if she were trying to open them. “I promised.”
“Promised who? Your mother?”
“She said …” Her lips stopped moving, and her shoulders seemed to deflate.
“She said what?” he demanded to know.
But there was no more sound or movement.