17. Chapter Seventeen — Carlotta #3
With warm, calloused fingers, Cassiel shows me how to flick the safety catch off, only for a second, he promises me with a soft kiss to my sweaty temple, before he crosses the small, dingy space to the metal hatch, rapping his large fist against the sheet of steel.
“Let us out, asshole.”
Asshole isn’t a strong enough word to describe how I feel towards Rome Folonari right now, but right this second, I can’t force my lips to move, so it’ll have to do until I’m up to ripping a strip from his skin.
The hinges of the door protest any movement, cutting into my eardrums with a high-pitched creak.
Rome slips through the crack of the door, his polished dress shoes echoing loudly against the exposed ground.
A waft of expensive smelling aftershave trails after him, tickling my already sensitive nostrils and I steel my core as much as I can, drawing myself up to my full height to look him in the eye.
Over his shoulder, Cassiel watches me, blinking slowly; each bat of his long lashes silently telling me to stay calm.
Moving in a circle, Rome surveys the space. His usually perfectly coiffed hair, I notice, is all mussed up, chocolate brown strands sticking up in all directions as if he’s been running his hands through it.
Those eyes of his stare at the tremor wracking my hand still holding the gun, causing me to drop my arm to the side of my body.
I hate that he’s seeing me so vulnerable, shaking and tearstained, my voice hoarse from screaming.
I hate that he hardly even glances at the dead prisoner, instead focusing on the vomit in the corner and the pool of bile at my feet.
I hate him.
When Rome steps towards me, I force myself to stay where I stand, clenching my teeth together to stop myself from spitting in his face. “Well done, Carlotta. You’ve passed—”
“I don’t give a flying fuck if I’ve passed or not.” Uncaring that the safety latch isn’t on, I shove the weapon into Rome’s chest. I take great pleasure in the way I catch him unawares, his large feet stumbling beneath him before he regains his composure.
“Carlotta—”
“Don’t fucking utter my name,” I hiss. My voice scratches, sore and painful with the amount of screaming I’ve been doing, but I don’t stop. “You’re sick. Making me—”
I can’t even say the words. It hardly matters that Cassiel was the one to actually point the gun and shoot the man, stealing his last breath right from under him. It was still my task. I’m still an accomplice. And more than anything, it’s me that Rome thinks killed him.
I fucking killed someone.
Choking back a sob, I suck in a greedy gulp of dank scented air, feeling it burn my lungs.
“Carlotta, please—” Rome stops himself from grabbing a hold of my arm to stop me leaving, but I shrug him off with a snarl I didn’t even know I was capable of making.
“Don’t. Touch me. Or next time, I swear to God it’ll be you in that chair.” I jut my chin towards the prone body of the deceased, still tied, hands and knees, to the metal chair.
“If you just wait and let me explain—”
“Let you explain?” A hysterical cackle bursts from my lips, echoing across the four brick walls.
“Let you explain what? How you’ve tricked me and lied to me?
Deceived me, blindfolded me, practically hogtied me up and sent me on my merry way to murder an innocent man in fucking cold blood.
Is that what you’d like to explain? Hm?”
I move closer until I can press my chest to Rome’s, vehemently ignoring the rapid race of his heartbeat that I can feel seeping through my thin shirt.
It should be my heart that’s galloping with fear and adrenaline, not his.
Shoving a finger between us, I jamb it into his chest.
“I’m not some prissy Mafia Princess you can use as a pawn. Fucking when you feel like it, leaving me dripping of you and then sending me out to slaughter like a fucking pig when you feel like it. Do you hear me?”
“Red,” he tries. “I—"
“Shut up,” I bite. “I don’t want to hear it, not now. Not ever.”
“Cristiano—”
“Don’t say his name.” I shove harder, but Rome doesn’t stop me. God, I could wrap my small hands around his neck and fucking strangle him right this second. “You’ve got no fucking right to say my brother’s name! He was my brother!”
I don’t even realize that I’ve dug my nails into Rome’s cheek, trying to claw my way up his body in sheer rage, until strong, thickly corded arms are banding around my waist and squeezing. “I fucking hate you, Rome Folonari!”
My feet brush against the floor as Cassiel pulls me away, half dragging me. I fall limp in his arms, the short rush of adrenaline burning away leaving me exhausted, both emotionally and physically worn out.
“Come on, let’s get you home.”
I nod jerkily, leaning all my body weight on Cassiel. I’m sure to topple over if I don’t.
When we get to the doorway, I turn in his grasp, watching Rome stare at us, his jaw tight, three red, bloody scratches marring his pretty face. He blinks quickly, his eyes strangely glossy, but I refuse to believe he’s fucking crying over me.
After everything he’s done, everything he’s put me through, why would he?