Chapter 24
Lucia
Before sunrise, I stand barefoot in Dante’s kitchen, hair in a messy knot, eyes burning from almost no sleep. Each time I closed them, I pictured Dante disappearing with that woman in his arms. Throughout the night, I told myself it doesn’t matter. Dante can associate with anyone he wants.
As quickly as denials rushed through my head, a large, imaginary knife stabbed into my chest painfully enough that I had to sit up and breathe through it.
Sleep was hopeless, so I threw off the blanket that commenced my shameful act hours ago and snuck into Dante’s kitchen to help myself to a mug of expensive coffee.
Now I pour freshly squeezed orange juice into a plastic cup. The citrus scent soothes my spinning thoughts, but the occasional question still seeps through the cracks. Where did Dante go? Why did he leave? And most importantly, who was the woman he left with?
Most of my questions are inquisitive, but some are worrying. Dante hasn’t left Camille overnight once in the past week. He wakes her every morning and tucks her in every night. If he doesn’t return soon, he’ll miss the first half of their routine.
As I place the orange juice in the refrigerator to cool, a knock sounds at the door. Except it isn’t a knock. It’s heavier, more a boot hitting wood than a hand.
My heart jumps into my throat as an unexpected parcel of hope streaks across my face.
Far too eagerly, I dry my hands with a tea towel and then hurry to the door.
When I open it, the face I’m anticipating doesn’t reflect back at me.
Marco isn’t as tall as Dante. His hair is lighter, and his eyes aren’t as intense.
Although he belongs in the category of handsome, I’m doubtful they’re related by blood.
When Marco’s eyes flick to the left, I crank my neck in the same direction.
Leaning against the hallway wall is Dante.
Or what’s left of him.
He looks wrecked. His clothes hang crooked and his posture is broken, but it’s his eyes that lower the imaginary knife to my stomach. They’re lost. Wholly and without constraint.
“What happened?” I ask Marco.
He shrugs, but before he can speak, Dante drawls out, “Lucia…” Even though his greeting is a drunken slur, or worse, I smile, happy he’s still coherent enough to recognize my voice.
A startled squeak escapes me when he steps forward and stumbles.
I catch him before he hits the floor and instinctively wrap my arms around him.
He stands a foot taller than me and weighs at least a hundred pounds more, but since he doesn’t put all his weight on me, I’m not terrified of being crushed underneath him.
Like that would ever be terrifying.
“I’ve got him,” I tell Marco.
The last thing I need is his heavy boots stomping through the apartment and waking Camille before I can get Dante cleaned up and out of sight.
She doesn’t need to see him like this, and I don’t want anything to steal the joy I feel each evening and morning when she greets him with euphoria.
Those times are the highlights of my day.
“You can go.”
Marco hesitates, but I hit him with a glare that leaves no room for argument. After a curt nod, he returns to the hallway he guards at all hours of the day and night when Dante isn’t here.
The instant the door closes, Dante curls his body around my back. His chin brushes the top of my head as his hands land low on my stomach. He breathes in so deeply he chuckles when strands of my hair tickle his nostrils.
“You smell like me, angelo. I like that.”
I swallow hard when I feel him thicken as I guide him to the bathroom. He reeks of alcohol and a floral perfume I pretend not to notice. My allergies keep me from using perfumes that aggravate my sinuses. Floral scents irritate my sinuses, so I never wear them.
After helping Dante onto a chair I assume was placed there for the females in his life, I walk over to the massive walk-in shower and turn on the water. I considered putting him straight to bed, but the front of his shirt is marked with a stain that looks an awful lot like vomit.
“Can you stand?” I ask, twisting back to face him.
He watches me for several heart-thrashing seconds before he jerks up his chin.
“Okay. Good.” I nudge my head to the hallway. “While you shower, I’ll turn down your bed.”
As I begin to leave, his hand shoots out to grab my wrist. His hold isn’t firm. I could pull away at any moment, yet it’s clear he doesn’t want me to go.
“Stay,” he says, reinforcing my thoughts.
“I can’t.” The words grind out of me, thick and longing. I’ve been dying to hear him say that word all week, but I don’t want it when he isn’t in control of anything.
“Yeah, you can,” Dante replies, tugging me closer. “Just like you can make yourself come.”
My eyes shoot to him so fast that I grow dizzy. I thought he’d be too intoxicated to remember what happened before he left.
“I’ll be good,” he lies, his eyes flaring with mischievousness. “I promise.”
I nod. Don’t look at me like that. I don’t believe a word he speaks. It is the fact that he butchers a world-renowned signal of telling the truth.
How can you mess up crossing your heart and hoping to die?
“Keep your underwear on,” I demand when he follows clumsily removing his shirt with his hand lowering to his trousers, which he can’t remove since he’s wearing shoes.
“I’ll get them.”
His groan when I fall to my knees to undo his laces would usually instigate a severe bout of recklessness. It doesn’t have the same effect today. His clothes don’t solely smell of floral perfume. His body is coated in it.
“Almost there.” I grunt as I tug on the back of his designer shoes to remove them. “Now you can step out of your pants.”
My throat brutally swallows when I lift my eyes to make sure he heard me, and they’re almost taken out by an impressively large and throbbing penis.
Dante didn’t keep his underwear on as asked.
He is butt-fucking naked, and I stare at his rippling abs, big cock, and tattooed pecs like I’ve earned the privilege to disrespect him so greatly.
“I’m so sorry.” I slap a hand over my eyes before turning my head away. “I shouldn’t have looked.” My bones creak in protest when I leap to my feet. Years of abuse before years of dancing in four-inch stilettos have aged my body faster than normal. “I’ll wait for you in there.”
This time I don’t make it even a step away. Dante’s knees buckle, and he starts to collapse. Reacting purely on instinct, I steady him before he falls to the floor with a thump loud enough to wake Camille.
“Sit. I’ll bring the water to you.”
Nodding, he slumps into the chair, then cradles his head in his hands. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.”
“I have an inkling.” I switch off the shower, then wet a washcloth before returning to the vanity. “How much did you drink last night?”
Dante’s nose creases. “I didn’t… I don’t think.”
As I wipe at the mess crusted on his chin, I twist my lips. “You smell a little boozy. Not enough to wonder if you played a drinking game, but there’s a hint of…”—I breathe in deeply, flaring my nostrils—“the oak barrels they use when making Dalmore whiskey.”
“A fan of three-thousand-dollar whiskey?” he asks, slurring.
Hair tickles my spine as I shake my head. “I despise the scent of it. Too many—”
“Bad memories?” he says with me.
“Yeah.” My hand shakes when I remove a smear of red lipstick from his mouth before I instruct him to lift his arms.
“I’m barely touching you,” I murmur when he squirms from the washcloth scrubbing his pits.
He doesn’t have bad body odor. I’m praying a good scrub will activate his natural manly scent enough to stop me from wondering why he smells like perfume and has a lipstick stain on his mouth. “Stop being a wuss.”
Dante arches a dark brow. It’s remarkably rigid considering how badly he’s swaying. “Did you just call me a wuss?”
“No, of course not.” My last word comes out with a squeal when he ends my lies by tickling my ribs. “Don’t.” My warning is stern and to the point. “I hate being tickled. It’s one of only a few things I hate.”
His smile. Kill. Me. Now.
“Dante…”
His name barely leaves my mouth when it’s replaced with an ear-piercing scream. He doesn’t just tickle my ribs, though. He finds the sensitive spot behind my knees, and I buck and kick out like I’m in the throes of ecstasy.
I contort so much that by the time the washcloth is discarded on the floor, I’m practically sitting in Dante’s lap and fighting for air.
I’m not solely breathless from being tortured with immature, woeful tickling hands.
It’s from the closeness of Dante’s face when his body responds to my closeness.
He thickens under my ass as his arms band around my back to tug me in nearer.
I’ll wallow in self-resentment for days to come when my hips involuntarily roll. It’s not my fault. An extremely handsome man is looking at me like I invented the sun.
Daftness inspired by lust is anticipated.
Instead of scalding my recklessness, Dante encourages it. After fisting my bun, he uses his grip as leverage to pull me down on him again and again. Tingles surface too fast to be safe, so I breathlessly murmur for him to stop.
“I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
He rolls his hip upward, grinding against me, before he locks his eyes with mine. They appear nowhere near as confused as they did a moment ago. “That’s not possible. You can’t take advantage of a willing participant.”
I twist my lips, confused by his reply.
If this is what he wants, why has he been so distant?
Dante doesn’t give me time to dwell on the facts. With his stocky thighs forcing my legs wide, and his cock’s head rubbing against my opening, stars commence blistering before I can catch my breath.
I try to pull away. It’s the right thing to do, but the plea in Dante’s voice when he begs to make me come is too much to bear.
“Let me do this for you. Let me make you come. Please.”
Ashamed by how fast he can unravel my morals, I bury my head into his neck and breathe through the hysteria. It should only take one sniff of his perfume-scented skin to return my respect.
It doesn’t.
I’m thrust into the throes of ecstasy only seconds later, Dante’s filthy, pleading mouth an unpinned grenade for any red-blooded woman.
I still as tingles race over every inch of my skin, and I breathe his name heavily in his neck. It’s a fast orgasm, but its swiftness doesn’t dampen its power in the slightest.
I’m exhausted by the time the simmers simper, but hopeful our exchange has sobered Dante enough for it to be the beginning of lust-filled embrace.
My hope is short-lived. As his cock throbs in sync to the needy pulse of my clit, Dante traces a cluster of freckles on my neck. I didn’t know they existed until they were pointed out in a similar manner years ago.
The softness of Dante’s touch and his rushed exhale bombard me with so many memories that I clam up. For nine months, the memories of the last time these imperfections were highlighted fueled my wish to live.
The fantasy crashed and burned when Gabriele was born. The flames of the inferno were ferocious enough to destroy any happiness they once rewarded me.
Dante’s glassy eyes bore into mine, and then recognition dawns. “It’s you.”
I return his stare, lost. Who did he think he was making come?
When all roads lead to one answer, I feel sick.
I attempt to slip off his lap, but Dante holds on tight, refusing to let me go.
Mercifully, the pitter of little feet saves me from having my heart shredded.
Camille is awake, and I’m not the only one realizing. Dante’s eyes widen as his throat bobs on repeat. He dreads the thought of his daughter seeing him like this. Not just naked, but with his bravado stripped away.
I’ve never seen him so bewildered.
“I’ll tell her you’re not feeling well.”
This time, he lets me go.
My thighs wobble with more than the effects of an orgasm when I make my way to the door. “Once you’ve slept, you should feel better.”
I freeze partway through the door when Dante calls my name.
He waits for me to face him before saying, “Camille…” Before he finishes, his eyes bulge, and then they’re hidden by the trash can liner a cleaner replaced yesterday afternoon.
I tell him I’ll be right back before I rush out of the bathroom, almost tumbling over a sleepy-eyed Camille who was about to enter from the other end.
“Good morning, sweetheart.” Her pupils dilate as her eyes shoot between her father’s now closed bathroom door and me. She’s only four, but her accusatory glances are extremely visual.
I deserve every suspicious glare she gives.
“Daddy is feeling a little unwell today, so I took him some…”—come on, brain—“medication! I took him some medication.” Fret for her father overtakes her face until I add, “So I guess that means more pancakes for us.”
Her mouth gapes open as a greedy flare lightens her dark eyes.
Her curls spring in every direction when I scoop her into my arms and fling her onto my back.
Her giggle when I piggyback her out of his room isn’t as loud as the one she rewards Dante with each evening, but it defrosts my heart enough to push aside that he imagined the woman he was with last night while making me climax.
Luckily, I anticipated Camille’s breakfast request. A stack of pancakes is already in the oven, waiting to be devoured.
As I go through the motions of a live-in nanny as I have the past week, my mind continually drifts back to Dante. Don’t look at me like that. Not all my thoughts are salacious. I’m praying he hasn’t collapsed in the bathroom. Or worse, choked on vomit.
My worries play havoc with my stomach so much that before I can eat a single pancake, I make out to Camille that I left the maple syrup in her father’s bathroom.
“I’ll be right back!”
The panic burning me alive is instantly quelled when I enter Dante’s room and see him in bed.
I pad over silently, my hand unconsciously plucking at a lint ball in the hem of my sleep shirt.
He’s breathing loud enough that I don’t have to place my finger under his nose as I did my father many times in my youth, and his chest is minus the rattling sound of someone choking on their tongue.
He’s okay.
The verdict is still out for me—even more so when Dante whispers my name in his sleep.