Chapter 24
ROMI
Ismile. That’s all I need to do for this guy and his friends to actually think they’re funny. They’re not, but I have to give a little to a man's ego, especially when I’m going to most likely use him in the bathroom within the next hour.
I went out of my way to leave Manhattan for a few nights to figure shit out. After the first night of decompressing on my own, I slipped back into old habits. I’m not a saint, and quitting anything cold turkey isn’t recommended, right?
So I stayed at a random hotel, contrary to my mother’s suggestion of an estate she and Barry speak fondly about. Not that they’ve been out this way since my father passed; there’s no longer a reason for them to be here.
It’s ironic, really, that the estate they like is close to the country club, which she most likely was hoping I’d visit like a good girl, instead of being prone to visit the closest dive bar, which is precisely what I’m doing now.
It’s still full of wealthy assholes who come here on weekends, but it’s much more fun than talking to the women at the country club about their husbands and listening to gossip about who is cheating on who and with whom.
It’s the longest I’ve been away from Borris since Lorraine passed, and I miss the little guy's consistent love and attention. Though I know my mother is probably spoiling him rotten.
I can’t stand the men I’m playing pool with, but since one of them—his name is Drew—is the nephew of the bar owner, we were allowed to remain inside even after the bar closed.
Considering the late hour I arrived and that I wanted a stiff drink, if all I had to do was entertain them for a few hours, then so be it.
It’s only his group of friends left and me, but at least the alcohol keeps coming.
“Are you sure you know how to play, sweet cheeks?” one of Drew’s friends calls out.
It’s always the same when I go to sports bars like these. They’re staring at the screen during the game, then at my tits and ass during the ads. When we play pool, they expect me to ask for help.
As fucking if.
“I’m sure I can figure it out,” I purr as I immediately sink one ball, then a second and third.
Drew’s friend swallows and then looks back at the screen.
That’s what I thought. As easy as it is to stroke a guy's ego, it’s equally as easy to shatter it.
“Wow, you look hot doing that,” Drew says. They’re all football players. Five of his friends are standing around, drinking and watching the league they haven’t yet managed to reach.
I bat my eyelashes and let my nails delicately drag over his chest as I walk past him to take a sip of my drink. He's all but drooling. Too easy. As they always are. It lacks in challenge, but gets me exactly what I want and need—a distraction.
I’m still reeling from my recent discovery about a certain fucking roommate. I’m furious with myself for ever letting him into my home. I knew he wasn’t fucking normal, but a killer?
Then again, who am I to judge?
I light a cigarette and watch Drew quickly talk strategy with one of his friends as to how he should proceed with his next shot. I try not to roll my eyes.
I judge Dante for being a killer, which is a natural response.
And yet I think about when we were curled up on my couch, questioning how someone so bloodthirsty could also be the type of person to bring home fucking Thai food and check my temperature.
He does my laundry, for fuck's sake. Makes sure the fridge and cupboards are full. He’s more like a nanny or domesticated house cat than a ruthless killer.
But I can see it, imagine it. I saw the crazed look in his eye when he got excited about explaining who he actually is, as if he could finally be seen and heard.
I believe him when he says he’ll kill anyone I sleep with, but there’s no way for him to know where I am now, and I need to get him out of my system.
The moment I fuck someone else, I'll move on, just like I have with every other person I’ve slept with.
He’ll only ever be a man I had sex with, and that will be the end of it.
His infatuation will wear off, and I’ll be free to deal with my own shit, no longer being consumed by thoughts and reminders of him.
I internally growl, irritated that, yet again, amongst all the chaos in my mind—trying to figure out my next collection for the art exhibit, and how to best combat Meredith—Dante is still what comes to the forefront. I just can’t compartmentalize him like everything else, and it’s eating me alive.
“Thinking about me?” The question is whispered over my shoulder.
I turn in his direction so quickly, that he has to steady the glass in my hand so it doesn’t spill on his nice suit. I note the Rolex on his wrist before looking into those dark-brown eyes that trap me, that dangerous smirk pressing that perfect dimple into his face.
How the fuck did he find me?
“I was wondering where you went. Making new friends, I see,” he says, taking in the group of men who are suddenly very aware of his presence.
“The bar's not open, douchebag. Who the fuck are you?” Drew accusingly points a pool stick at Dante.
“I'm making sure my little menace isn’t getting herself into trouble,” Dante says with a lethal edge to his tone.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Drew demands.
“Do you know this guy?” another one of them asks. Oh fuck, this is bad. They’re all much bigger than Dante. He’s tall and lean, but not built like a fridge, like most of these guys. But it’s not Dante I’m worried about.
“He’s a cousin,” I’m quick to say.
“The kissing kind,” Dante tacks on, but I can tell he's far from amused. He’s fucking furious.
“What kind of sick fuck are you? You better fuck off now while you have the chance,” another one of them says. And, suddenly, all six of the men are stalking toward Dante as he steps in front of me, casually grabbing my pool stick.
“I told you, my little rabbit, if you run, I will chase. I just didn’t expect you to get up to no good so quickly. I couldn’t be prouder.” He snaps the pool stick over his knee, and I flinch, growing cold as I watch in disbelief as he smirks with six giants closing in on him.
This is all just a fucking game to him.
“Don’t do this,” I whisper, because I’m not sure what Dante is capable of.
“Why? It’s the thing that comes most naturally to me. And you did this.” He shoots me a pointed look over his shoulder. “I told you no one else was to touch you until I’ve had my fill. I’m not done with you yet, Cattivella.”
One of the men lingers back cautiously. “I don’t know about this, guys. Maybe we should just leave it,” he says, and I realize he might be the only one thinking with his brain instead of brawn.
“It’s one guy, Jackson. Don’t be such a wimp,” Drew chastises.
“You boys talk too much,” Dante says, still with that shit-eating grin on his lips.
This is who he is. At his very core, he enjoys antagonizing others to their breaking point. And it’s as frightening as it is amazing, the way he draws everyone to him, precisely where he wants them.
The first man lunges with his fist raised, and Dante brings his knee up into his stomach, his movement fluid.
Dante's behind the other guy within seconds, one half of the pool cue slamming into the back of the guy's head, dropping him to the floor.
Another man comes at him with a pool stick, but Dante deflects it with ease and thrusts the end of his cue into the dude's face, blood spilling everywhere from his broken nose.
One of them pulls out a gun from inside his jacket, pointing it in Dante’s direction.
“Dante!” I scream, my blood turning cold and freezing entirely when I see the gleam of excitement dance in Dante’s eyes. And I realize the mask has completely slipped. It’s like he was waiting for someone to bring more than fists to this fight.
I take a step back the moment the energy shifts into something far more sinister.
With lightning speed, Dante slams the shattered end of one of his sticks into the man's shoulder.
The guy screams as he reels back, the gun dropping from his hand as he stumbles against the wall, curling his other hand around the protruding stick.
The rest of Drew's friends stop in their tracks, suddenly aware they’re dealing with more than what they bargained for, but it’s already too late.
Dante places one hand on the pool table and flings himself over, kicking another guy in the chest so hard he slams into the wall beside his still-wailing friend.
Another one of them attempts to pick up the gun, but Dante kicks it toward me and out of their reach, grabbing one of the balls and beating him over the head with it, his hand quickly covered with blood. The guy goes down, knocked out cold.
“You’re fucking crazy!” Drew yells, and guilt worms through me. I put him in this position, but I never thought… No, I knew Dante was capable of this, but I never thought he’d come after me.
I pick up the gun and point it in Dante's direction, licking my lips. He pauses as he approaches Drew, still holding half a cue stick as his head slowly turns in my direction.
“Don’t tell me you’re protecting this dickhead, Cattivella. Because that would make me really mad.”
“Stop this,” I assert. It’s terrifying the way he was acutely aware the moment I picked up the gun. It’s like he sees everything. But it's not because he sees me as a threat. No, I’m certain it has more to do with the fact that I’m just a new toy who’s joined his fun little game.
Or maybe I was always that.
“Cattivella, technically, I haven’t killed anyone yet. I should get brownie points for that. After all, you were the one who set this all into motion.”
“I don’t want to die,” Drew pleads, quickly raising his hands in defense.
One of his friends takes off, and I’m cursing the fact that it’s after hours, and we’re the only ones here.
But does that make a difference? Dante most likely would wipe out an entire fucking bar full of people. And for what, to get to me?
Fuck, he’s more lethal than I would’ve ever imagined, and I’ve become some kind of carnal obsession.
“We can play a new game if you like, Cattivella,” Dante purrs.
“Stop calling me that!”
He’s crazy and cruel.
And I’m holding a gun in his direction. What the fuck is happening right now?
“I don’t want to play any more games, Dante. You need to stop this. You’re scaring me.”
His eyebrows dip slightly, and he seems confused momentarily. “You’re not scared.”
I’m startled by his response.
“You think you should be. But you’re not. I know when someone is scared of me, Cattivella, and you are not.”
A liquid warmth floods to the bottom of my stomach, and I’m terrified and confused by my heated response. This doesn’t make any sense.
He’s a madman.
A killer.
A tormentor.
And a giant pain in my ass.
But he’s also beautiful in a way I always imagined the devil would be.
Which also means he’s not good, and I should listen to that truth in my veins.
“Might I make a suggestion, Cattivella?” he says, his voice like velvet twisted with an edge of insanity. “That you run. It might be the only way I can teach you that I will always chase after you. But every time you run, there will be consequences.”
My blood runs cold, and for the first time, I see the predator within the man—finally turned on me.
Without a second thought, instinct carries me, and I run, the echoing of his countdown from sixty seconds calling out after me.
Oh my fucking God, he’s actually going to hunt me down.