Chapter 13
CAELIAN
I t’s about four hours later, and I’m tired of staring at a screen. I rub my eyes, then notice Nicoli glancing at me from behind his laptop.
He looks uncomfortable sitting at Alexius’ desk. Or maybe he’s grown tired of the pretend stick up his ass after a few hours of impersonating his twin.
Maybe moving Nicoli’s shit to Alexius’ office wasn’t entirely necessary, but since the world is going to believe Nicoli is Alexius, the staff around here needs to believe it, too. Even the goddamn security around here knows nothing of our plan.
The ones protecting Leandra and Mirabella were made to understand that the threat Aurelio poses is real. Well, it is real, but let’s just say they were fed some bullshit plan we uncovered of a fake imminent attack. And Maximo has Alexius’ doctors and nurses locked down with him, with zero contact with the outside world without Maximo’s approval.
Operation fake-Alexius is now in full swing.
Enough mourning time has passed for things to go back to normal. Enough in the modern world. There are meetings, people to see, fronts to keep propped up. An injured brother to impersonate. And a fucking snake in the grass to bring down.
“What if someone asks to see the wound?” Isaia asks.
Nicoli raises a brow. “Who the fuck would ask Alexius that?”
“I don’t know. There are some weird-ass fucks out there,” he says.
“Thing is, someone might.” I frown.
I go through enemies and those who wait in the wings, but the only deadbeat I can think of who’d do that would be the dick, Aurelio.
“Oh, that jackass wouldn’t dare,” Isaia says, following my train of thought.
“He might. He’s that stupid.”
“Well,” Nicoli says, “I’d punch the fucker, but Alexius might just take a finger. You know, for old time’s sake. Or, just say no and give a speech about manners and the dangers of insulting your superiors after trying to shoot them.”
“One of the long, boring, and scary ones?” Isaia asks. “I’m not scared, but others would be.”
I want to make a joke. The situation begs for a joke. But even with me getting stuck into him earlier and making merry of the situation, I don’t feel particularly witty right now. I feel drained, hurting. And I’m going to have to go to bed alone again.
I could get a woman; I know that. We run a club full of hot women whose job is to fuck and do whatever the hell it is we tell them to.
So if I want a blowjob and a nice spooning afterward, they’ll do it with a smile on their faces. And with vigor. But I don’t want that with any of those girls, even if it’s discreet and no one knows.
There’s a ring on my finger, and apparently that means something to me.
I stare at it. Then I get up and help myself to a drink from Alexius’ collection. I haven’t had one in about three hours, and the concept of what the ring means—I know what it means, but that deeper level—needs some booze to help wipe it out.
Giana left me, and I probably deserved it, but fuck . We have rings. There were vows. We had a…a…thing.
I care.
“Leandra doesn’t like our plan.” I turn and sip my drink. “You know that, right?”
Isaia smacks me as he gets up, pours two more. “Manners, brother.”
“Of course she doesn’t,” Nicoli says. “I’ll be impersonating her husband who—thank God—has gone from critical to stable. So, he’ll eventually come back home, find out what we did, and probably shoot the lot of us.”
I raise my glass in salute to that. “He really is going to hate this plan. I can already see his face, all scrunched up and red like he has a live grenade in his ass. God, I love this plan.”
Isaia snickers. “My guess is he’ll shoot Nicoli first since he’s the one doing the impersonating.”
“And you two dickwads didn’t do anything to stop me,” Nicoli chimes in with a smug look on his face.
Isaia and I look at each other, and I say, “There’s a fifty-fifty chance he’ll shoot us first.”
“Regardless,” Nicoli says, “we are doing the right thing—the best thing we can in this situation. And Leandra knows that, too, so she didn’t object to Mirabella joining her wherever they’re keeping Alexius.”
“They’re protected, right?” Suddenly, I’m uneasy about the plan, because I trust Aurelio less than I do fuckin’ Giana’s asshole father.
Nicoli rolls his eyes as he accepts a drink from Isaia. “Handpicked by Maximo.”
For a long moment, there’s only silence. I lift a brow and glance at Nicoli. “So, where are they?”
“Are you serious?”
“I want to see my brother,” I say, reminding him that hasn’t changed.
“You know the deal,” he responds. “Besides, I don’t know their location either.”
“Are you saying you have absolutely no idea where they are? Where your pregnant wife is?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
I’m not sure I believe him; it’s his Mirabella we’re talking about. He’s not about to let her out of his watchful eye.
Jesus, I know Giana’s movements.
I know New York’s done a few very low-key things with her brother, and for the rest of the time, she stayed at the mansion. Because I’m having her protected. Watched. Mostly because I don’t trust her scumbag, slimy father, partly because it gives me peace of mind knowing she’s staying out of trouble and hasn’t done anything stupid yet—like seeing Aurelio.
I wonder if Nicoli knows I’m having her watched.
I almost scoff and choke on my sip of bourbon. Of course he knows. He just hasn’t brought it up, which is very Alexius of him. But I’m pretty sure Isaia has no clue. He has no clue in general. Clueless little prick.
This morning, he almost became clueless and dickless, little dick.
My little brother’s resorted to suicidal tendencies in his need to Dr. Phil me into confessing I’m in love with my wife. That’s right. I see through his snide, shitty remarks, trying to rile me up.
“It’s best if no one knows,” Nicoli continues. He looks distinctly unhappy about it. “For safety. This fucker might try to leverage them, and I for one don’t want anyone, and I mean anyone, having it tortured out of them.”
Isaia and I exchange a look. “You think you’re that weak?” I ask.
“No.” Nicoli takes a deep swallow of his drink and scowls, looking at something on his laptop—or rather, Alexius’ laptop. “I think you are.”
Isaia snickers.
“And you.” Nicoli glances at Isaia.
“What the fuck did I do?” Isaia asks, throwing himself down in an armchair.
“Bought a yellow Ferrari. Need I say more?”
“Caelian, fuck you.”
“Stop.” Nicoli accidentally manages to save Isaia’s life by cutting him and his words off. “Both of you. Shut up.” He rubs a hand over his face. “It’s for safety reasons, and the fewer people who know, the better. Maximo would die a thousand times over before giving them up. And if it’s all I know, that she’s in Italy before the baby’s birth, then it becomes more believable when I’m Alexius.”
I can see that. Makes sense. I still have a slight lingering of a doubt that he’s speaking the truth. This is Mirabella we’re talking about. Nicoli had warded the little girl with the yellow coat since the first day she stepped into this house an orphan.
And what the fuck is it with my brothers and the color yellow?
“Okay, I guess it makes sense. Put them where they’re safe, protected, and no one knows. Not even us, in case the shiteth hits the faneth.”
Isaia scowls. “What?”
“The story is,” I continue, ignoring Isaia, “that you, Nicoli, are at an undisclosed place in Italy? You, Alexius, is here. And Leandra isn’t here because…?”
“She’s in Italy, too, with the kids, taking care of Mom’s business at the vineyard. Alexius—me—couldn’t join because someone has to keep the shit together here.”
I nod. “That’s plausible.”
“Of course, it is.” Nicoli looks confused. “Where the fuck have you been the last few days? We discussed this…at length.”
“Our brother has been a little distracted with his broken heart and all.” Isaia shoots me a cocky grin, and I want to cut it off his face.
“Firstly,” I start, glowering at him, “fuck you. Secondly, screw you. And thirdly, fuck off.”
“Oh, my God, you’re like children.” Nicoli rubs his temples. “Now I know why Alexius seems to want to murder someone half the time. It’s because he does,” he snaps. “You two.”
“Excuse me,” I object. “As if you haven’t been a permanent pain in your twin’s ass. If I remember correctly, you killed a motherfucker in the middle of a parking lot that created a whirlpool of shit on our doorstep that?—”
“That fucker tried to rape Mira!”
I hold up my hand in defense. “I get that. I really do. I would have torn his spine out of his ass if it were me. But my point is, I’m pretty sure he wants to murder you half the time, too.”
“Caelian?” Nicoli mutters.
“Yes, brother?”
“Shut up.”
I raise my eyebrows but don't dignify his command with a verbal response. Instead, I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest, smirking at him.
Isaia looks at us both. “So, I guess the big question is when does Alexius make his big appearance?”
“No fanfare,” I say. Parties, good times, and splashy entrances are my thing. But I also know when not to do shit like that, and when to lay low.
“Well, I’m not planning a party,” Nicoli mutters.
“The three of us are on the same page. Until now, you’ve been home recuperating, mourning, and now the great Alexius is ready to get back into the swing of things.”
“We’ve got work, shipments, meetings, all the fucking bullshit to handle.” Nicoli’s phone chimes, and he merely glances at it before focusing on us again. “There are meetings and arrangements that we’ve let slide. It’s time to pull it all back together, and the moment word gets out that Alexius is back in action, there will be an influx of people who would want an audience with him.”
“You sure you can handle it?” Isaia asks.
“Yeah. But let’s keep it to a minimum. Only the most important ones.”
I stand and saunter over to the window, staring out. “What if you just make a few general appearances? Like a trip to Myth? Show your face here and there.” I shrug and turn toward him. “Silence the gossip without any one-on-one meetings. It’ll lessen the risk.”
Nicoli shakes his head. “Alexius doesn’t attend shindigs at Myth without Leandra anymore.”
“But he’d go to Club Myth. Not for girls, but for business, outside club hours. That place is a mecca for all the important people we need to appease. All we need is a few girls to tell the guests they’ve been seeing Alexius around. And that’s it.”
My brother would make it a port of call the moment he was back in the saddle. Just for the books, to check up on things. And all it would take was one member, or one member of staff to see him, and word would spread.
Alexius Del Rossa is back in business.
“Club Myth it is,” Nicoli says. “Time to make any rumors of Del Rossa die.”
I nod. I should be happy, because, hello brilliance! But I’m not.
I stand and button my suit jacket. “I don’t know about you, but I’m all officed out for one day. Try not to miss me while I'm gone. I know I don’t show it, but I’m guilt-stricken whenever I don’t grace you with my presence,” I say, emphasizing the sarcasm. “See you later, fuckers.”
Isaia mutters something about a gun, a bullet, and my spleen as I stride out. Poor bastard can’t fathom the fuck I don’t give when it comes to his juvenile commentary.
As I walk down the hall to my room, I pass the guest bedroom, which I now consider Giana’s bedroom.
The door is open, and I stop in front of it, staring straight ahead for a moment before I glance inside.
As I take it in, there’s this sharp stab of… something in my gut.
The absence of her.
The neatly made bed, the untouched dresser, the silent air. It smells of her, though. That damn Turkish rose and patchouli should annoy me, but instead, it inexplicably tugs at something inside me. It grates on my nerves, making this empty feeling worse because it’s like she’s still here, but she’s not.
Everything is hollow and empty, yet her scent lingers. It’s like an echo of her, a silent haunting that creeps uninvited into my thoughts. And as much as I want to wave away this feeling, it clings stubbornly.
It’s a rookie mistake to walk into the room, but I make it anyway, easing inside, glancing around like it’s not killing me to be in here when she’s not.
I haven’t been in here since she left, avoiding it like the plague, and with good reason. Being in here brings it all back.
Memories flash. Lips collide and bodies are pressed against each other, hot and urgent. Her hands in my hair, pulling me closer. Pushing me away.
Push and pull. That’s what we do…what we did.
And it was fucking fantastic, never knowing what her next move would be, whether she’d fight me or submit.
Her sweet submission. Her thrilling fight.
Glancing around, I notice the gift box on the nightstand. I already know what’s inside it before I even open it. It’s the knife I gifted her. The one that reminded me of her. It’s the first gift I gave her that had no sarcasm or sexual innuendo tied to it. And that’s the one she chose to leave behind.
I clench my fists, feeling the cool bite of the gold ring around my finger. She's not here, but she's everywhere, in every corner, every scent, every sound that vibrates from the silent room. I should burn it. Light a match and watch it go up in flames faster than our marriage.
“Fuck!” I curse, grabbing the box and throwing it across the room.
I’ve never felt like this before. Like I’m alive, yet something vital inside me is dying a slow and agonizing death. Like this woman has something I need to survive, and she ripped it out of my chest with her bare hands.
I hate it. I hate this feeling, but more than anything, I hate myself for letting her get under my skin like this.
The ache throbs somewhere between my ribs, and it slowly morphs into anger as I take note of all the empty spaces in the room—spaces that were occupied with her things until recently.
The vanity is now void of perfume bottles, hairbrushes, hairbands, and make-up items. She never uses a lot of it, just enough to evoke and entice. Perfection doesn’t need enhancements, and by God, that woman is perfect in all the sinfully decadent and exquisite ways.
I run a hand through my hair, exhaling heavily, and grab one of the pillows off the bed, burying my face into the silk, hoping it still smells like her.
It does. Or maybe it doesn’t.
Maybe it’s just my desperation conjuring up that pure fragrance of her. It’s not her perfume. It’s that natural scent of her skin, her desire, her lust, that sweet aroma of her arousal that sinks into me.
It unravels me. Ruins me. Severs my control, and I want it. I want that out-of-control hunger to possess me. It’s fucking intoxicating and addicting.
I fall onto the bed, my back against the silk sheets, squeezing the pillow tighter, inhaling deeper as if it could somehow satiate my hunger for her, and my cock grows hard.
It’s not lust. It’s not desire. It's something deeper, more primal. A hunger that goes beyond flesh, something born out of sinew and soul.
I'm aching for her, my entire being yearning for her touch everywhere, and I quickly loosen my belt, unzip my pants, and pull out my dick—hard, throbbing desire of the angry kind.
I stroke myself. It’s fast, unrelenting strokes, tightening my grip, squeezing. I need it to hurt. It needs to fucking hurt as much as my insides do, her image taunting, a cruel slideshow of something I no longer have. My desire for her is this volatile thing that infects my marrow.
I want her. I need her. Her lips. Her touch. The way she arches so beautifully into me while I fuck her. How her mouth forms the perfect O, those blue eyes lit with a fire so hot, so intense, it could burn down the entire world around her.
I can still see it, her virgin blood on my palm the first night I fucked her in the woods. I imagine it still smeared over my fingers as I pump my cock, harder, faster, pulling back as far as the skin will let me, my hand a piss-poor substitute for her warm, slick pussy.
Fuck, she’d get so wet for me, drenched from her clit down her smooth, soft thighs.
I move with a wild pace as I jerk off, bucking my hips like I’m fucking her. Like she’s on top of me, riding me and making a mess around my dick.
Sinking my teeth into the pillow, I let out a desperate, wild grunt, coming so violently that the world narrows down to this single, scorching point of pleasure as my seed spills over my clenched fist.
I’m fucking suffocating myself, pressing my face so damn deep into the pillow, squeezing out every last drop of cum.
My cock pulses, and I throw the pillow off the bed, roaring into the room with so much rage I could kill.
I sit up, panting heavily.
My fingers are sticky with my own cum. I’m supposed to feel relief. Supposed to be satiated. But instead, the pain lingers. The emptiness is raw and throbbing. There’s this thing coiling around my chest, winding tighter instead of releasing.
I miss her.
She’s like a phantom limb, a missing extension of myself, and it’s hell trying without her—seven times over since I’m desperate to convince myself I feel nothing when I feel everything .
All I can think about is how I don’t have Giana anymore. And what’s worse, this big, black hole thing in me is increasing in size by the fucking second.
It’s almost like…
Like—
I drag the non-sticky palm down my face.
—I love her.