Chapter 33
ROMI
“Can I help you?” I ask over my shoulder, still staring at the canvas. My usual prompts to help me creatively haven’t been working. I’ve been walking every morning, and hell, I even went back to yoga this morning for the first time in forever.
When I finally turn to face Dante, he's leaning against the doorjamb, holding a mug of chai latte. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since he left two days ago, after I patched him up. His work is becoming more sporadic, and I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.
He came into the apartment a little while ago and went straight to the shower, meaning he probably had a bloody mess to clean up. It’s unnerving the way I’ve come to accept that part of him.
His dark-brown hair is wet, the ends curling slightly, and he's only wearing low-hanging gray sweats. My core immediately swarms with heat as I take in the image of his perfectly chiseled abs scattered with tattoos. His bandage looks as if it’s been recently changed.
I look away, trying my hardest to pull away from the distraction my mind is in desperate need of.
I’ve been curious ever since I found out about the Morettis' dark secret and the reality that my best friend, Lily, has involved herself in that world. Lily, of all people. I’ve known her for such a long time, and this is the last situation I’d ever expect her to be in.
I haven’t yet had the courage to call her and ask about it.
If anything, I want to resolve the issues I have in my own life before inquiring about hers.
He steps toward me, holding the mug out. “There are many things you can help me with, sweetheart. All of which involve your mouth.”
A dull pulsing begins between my legs, and I point toward the little nook Borris is sitting on. “You’re to keep your distance. I need to actually get some work done today.”
He chuckles as he raises his hands in the air defensively before grabbing a small canvas and a fine-tip paint pen.
I scrutinize him. “Are you going to do some stick figure sketches?”
Borris barely makes room for him, but the moment Dante sits down, he places his head on his lap. It’s endearing. It's also disorienting when Dante shows moments of tenderness like this, in contrast to his usual arrogant, murderous self.
“I am. Aren’t you going to ask where I’ve been?” he says as I turn back to my canvas.
“Nope,” I reply, hiding my smile. And when he laughs, my stomach flutters.
I know Dante won’t admit it, but I can tell something tense is happening with his job. I don’t know what it might be, but he looks as if he hasn’t slept in days. And although he’s a little paler than usual, he's still beautiful.
“Wouldn’t want to come on too strong now, would you, Cattivella?”
I’m not entirely sure about Dante, for obvious reasons, but right now, he’s surprisingly been the healthiest thing for me, in a sick and twisted way.
“Then let me show you how you play this game,” he sarcastically suggests. “How has your day been? How is the progress on your collection coming along?”
I’ve made some progress, but only on one front.
If anything, what I’m considering with the publishing will definitely create more work for me, but I’ve already decided on it.
I’ve given myself these past few days to focus on the collection first before I start on the book side of things.
I haven’t yet pitched the idea to my agent because I know unless I have an ironclad game plan, she’ll freak out.
I look at my canvas. “It still hasn’t clicked. But it’s coming together.”
“And publishing the books?” he asks. I look over my shoulder, but he doesn’t even notice my glare since he's intently focused on his sketch.
“I’ve started looking into it. It should be no problem at all,” I lie. I half-heartedly looked into it before with Lorraine, but this time it’s different. I haven’t done any research yet, but I certainly will. Dante isn’t the only one who’s been having sleepless nights.
“When you need help, Romi Lutton, you only have to use your words and ask for it.”
I turn back to my painting. I’m stubborn, yes.
But accepting Dante’s help seems like the final offering for him to enter my world.
It’s like finally deciding I can depend on him.
And that terrifies me. Part of me wants to reach out and accept it, and another part pulls me back, reminding me of the implications.
I continue with the canvas, each stroke soothing me, even if it doesn’t yet entirely feel on point. It’s something. I’m doing something.
We fall into a comfortable silence, both focusing on our art, but after a while, I grow curious about his. I’m so conscious of when Dante’s in a room that all my attention is sucked toward him. I don’t remember when it became like this, but now I can’t step back from it.
I look over my shoulder and can’t help but admire him as moonlight shines through the bay window, a few curls falling across his forehead.
My feet are moving of their own accord, bringing me to his side before I even realize what I’m doing.
His arm naturally comes around my waist, pulling me into his side, as he continues drawing.
“What the fuck?” I exclaim, my jaw dropping at the masterpiece in front of me. And how did he manage to do this so fucking quickly? It’s a sketch of me, sitting in front of my canvas, cross-legged, painting. The strokes are hastily done yet perfectly detailed. “How are you so good at that?”
His thumb rolls over my hip. “I’m good with my hands, remember? Besides, have you found one thing I’m not good at yet?” he asks with an arrogant smirk.
“Yes, I have, actually. Having morals, a humane conscience, and humbleness. I could go on.”
“That all sounds boring, Cattivella.”
I continue watching him, mesmerized by his focus.
I scratch under Borris’s chin as I glance back toward my own canvases.
Something just isn’t clicking into place.
I want to center it around Lorraine. I want to express this part of my life through my art, and yet…
It suddenly dawns on me then. I look back at Dante’s work and then my two pieces I’d previously been working on—the ones with the orange and gold and splashes of black.
The room still very much looks like a disaster from when I had my breakdown, but I’ve become used to it, much like how I've been learning to slowly let Lorraine go.
Much like Dante’s done while I wasn’t even noticing.
He's captured me in a moment that might have seemed mundane—like how Lorraine and I once spent our time in here. Maybe that’s what I have to do: recall the days I remember us laughing on her bed, lounging on the sofa with popcorn, nursing a hangover, and walking Borris near the water.
That last thought is the hardest to imagine, but I know I need to tell her story.
I need to show all of the expressions she made while she was living, because that was her life.
The golds and oranges are perfect, like autumn leaves and the sun trying to break through the black that covers it in darkness. Depression. Pain and suffering. The battle most of us fight at least once in our lives, but some struggle with it more.
Finally, it settles into my mind, and it feels right. It’s finally clicked into place.
“What’s that brilliant mind thinking right now?” Dante asks, drawing me back into the room.
“I’ve figured it out. I know what I need to do with this collection,” I say, a wave of relief rushing through me.
I hadn’t admitted it out loud, but part of me worried I’d lost my muse.
It was the first time I’d stepped away from it for so long, and everything I tried simply didn’t feel right. But this… this was everything.
“Do you want to paint me like a French girl?” Dante teases as he tries to lean in and kiss me. I push him away with my hand to his face.
“You wish. And stop trying to pull moves, Casanova.”
“I’m not the one pulling anything. You’re the one who came and sat on my lap like a good girl,” he growls, his thumb still grazing over my hip.
His touch elicits goose bumps all over my skin as I stare into his dark eyes, tracing the dark circles beneath them.
“How was your day, Dante?” I ask sweetly, and my heart flutters from the way he smiles.
“Better now that I’m with you,” he replies, then kisses me. I don’t push him away this time, embracing his possessive nature as I slowly let him into my heart.
I can fight him all I want, and I most likely still will. But right now, as I look into his beautiful eyes, I can’t imagine not having him here. And no matter how much I fight the power his presence has over me… I’m glad he is.
Deep down, I know that, and I’m tired of trying to justify my logic around him when my heart has been screaming at me this whole time. I’m sick of ignoring my own desires, other than the carnal ones.
Because Dante is nothing but determined, and he’s become the quiet in my mind. The pull for alcohol, weed, and cigarettes is no longer the source of my distraction.
Him.
All of him.
Mine.
I’m falling, in a time when I thought I had no right to.
Yet I know without a doubt, Dante will be there to catch me, and it comes down to me allowing him to. To slowly step up to the edge and let myself fall. My heart pounds at the intensity because there will be no coming back from this.
I slide my fingers through his hair, and he groans as I angle his head back to look down on him.
So beautiful.
When did I start looking into the eyes of the killer and thinking these things?
I think I always did. I always knew.
I kiss him, taking from him as I always have, except now he holds me tightly, possessively. Borris jumps off the window seat, and I straddle Dante as his hands roam over me, and he kisses me like a starved man.
I know I’m pushing paint through his hair, but I don’t care. It’s always like this with him. The sudden urgency to dominate and take from him, and at times to let him take what he needs as well.
His cock strains underneath me, and he lifts me by the hips and takes a few steps. I lean back in his hold, but he’s quick to grab me by the cheeks to redirect my attention back to him.
“Borris has already left the room. I left a treat for him downstairs. He’ll be gone for a while,” he growls, and I throw my head back and laugh at the fact that he knew exactly what I was looking away for. And, of course, he thought ahead, planning for just this scenario.
Dante awkwardly tries to step over something and curses. We both look down to where he’s stepped on one of my paint palettes, fresh paint now covering his bare foot. I keep laughing.
“You think that’s funny?” he asks, pressing kisses around my face. He lowers me onto my back, and I gasp as his fingers swipe across my cheeks.
“Noooo!” I cry as I realize he’s smeared paint all over my face.
His hand then goes to my stomach, rolling up my shirt.
“You did not, Dante Moretti,” I say as I fist the paint and bring it to his bare chest. A guttural growl escapes him as he shoves my shorts down, and I aggressively attack his pants.
We’re naked in the span of seconds, paint all over us, laughing.
I accidentally graze my nails down his injured arm, and he hisses.
“Oh fuck, I’m so—” The apology dies on my lips when I look into his eyes, which have darkened.
“Don’t apologize, Cattivella. I like it. Whatever pain you’re willing to inflict, I’ll happily accept,” he says, lining his cock up with my pussy. A warmth floods my core. The more I let him in, the more he’s willing to share his depravities with me. It should terrify me, but it doesn’t.
He slams into me, and I hitch backward, trying to accommodate his size. How does only a few days without his touch feel like a lifetime? My nails dig into his flesh as he takes me for all I’m worth, impaling me like a madman, and slapping noises echo throughout the room.
Another shift happens inside me as I decide to let him fully into my heart—finally accepting the truth that lies between us. I cling to him for my salvation, knowing that if I let him in, there’s no coming back from it.
Only in death will we be separated, because that’s how tight the stranglehold Dante Moretti has on my soul is.
And from now on, I’m not willing to walk away from it.