Chapter 16
CAELIAN
I don’t walk out. She expects me to, but I don’t.
I straighten my clothes, go to the corner of the room where the discreet bar’s situated, and pour myself another bourbon. “Drink?”
When Giana doesn’t answer, I turn.
“Drink?” I hold up mine.
She’s shimmying her dress down over her hips. Her make-up’s a mess, and so is her hair. She looks fucked. She looks unbelievably good.
The ruined panties I ripped off her are a sodden mess on the floor. The room’s a mess, too. It kinda looks like I feel. Fucked up, broken, bleeding… a mess.
One of her stockings has fallen around her ankle, and there are ladders in the other.
I immediately make it a priority to sabotage all her stockings. In fact, I think I’ll buy her a fuckton of them in different shades and colors so she can wear them all goddamn day, only to have me ruin them by the time the sun sets. I wonder how long they’ll last while I hunt her in a forest filled with thorns and tangled branches.
The mere thought excites me… if I can make her come back to me.
For once, I don’t know what I’m doing, and I have no clue what she’s even thinking. I hate it. Despise it. I need to fix it.
“Do you want a fucking bourbon?” Not the way to fix it, Caelian.
She still doesn’t answer me, just stands there combing her fingers through her hair, unable to get the I-just-got-fucked look out of it.
“And you say I’m the child.” I grab the bottle, another glass, cross the room, and sit, pouring her one.
She starts taking off the stockings, flashing me her pretty feet, her toes painted a soft pink—toes that were pointed three minutes ago while I made her come.
I take a measured but deep breath. While I wait, I text the manager, a little man with a nervous disposition, and tell him to knock and leave my order, a fresh tablecloth, and new cutlery outside the door.
Giana’s now looking at the crumpled jizz-papers, her jaw set, her expression showing the confusion and complete mindfuck she’s in. Like me, she has no idea what she’s doing.
She glances down and crouches, picking up her wedding ring, which I dropped somewhere between pinning her to the door and screwing her on the table, then places it on top of the divorce papers that aren’t worth shit.
I look at her, the sad pile on the table, and then at her again. “Drink your fucking drink.”
“I’ll have new papers delivered.” Her tone is cold, a little too icy, like she’s trying too hard.
I tap my fingers on the table, and Giana slides on her little jacket thing—whatever the hell it’s called.
“Stop it,” I demand. “Sit the fuck down and drink your goddamn drink.”
“What do you want, Caelian? You fucked me. Proved you’re a real man. Congratulations.”
“Don’t stand there and pretend like you didn’t get off. That paper’s got more of you on it than me.” I stop, rub my eyes, dig out my cigarettes, and light up. The smoke helps calm me—well, it used to. It’s not doing shit now because the edge just keeps on getting sharper.
“What were you trying to accomplish tonight?” she asks, her voice too soft now, too vulnerable. I prefer her all fire and brimstone.
I shake my head, take a drag, and exhale a plume of smoke. “I came here tonight to give you what you wanted. I had every intention of signing those divorce papers.”
“Then why did you fuck?—”
“We,” I correct her. “Why did we fuck? That wasn’t all me.”
Her lips purse as she bites the inside of her cheeks. “True.” There's a concession in her tone, a slight shift in the battle lines. “But you instigated it.”
“Did I, now?” The challenge is there, laced with an undercurrent of amusement. “Or did I just take advantage of an opportunity that presented itself, namely, you practically panting for my cock.”
Those rosy lips of her part, about to respond with something scathing, no doubt. But the knock on the door interrupts her, and I just smoke until she gives me a resentful look, one that shoots straight to my cock.
With a scoff, she opens the door, and I let her. She’s not about to run off, not yet. She wants to hear what I have to say. And regardless of the mess we’re in, she’s caught feelings, too. Just like me.
Giana takes the trolley, shuts the door…hard, and wheels it all the way up to me, slamming it into my chair. It’s a real grownup way to get my attention, so I match her effort by turning, and blowing some second-hand smoke at her.
She coughs very deliberately. “Classy,” she retorts, fanning away the lingering smoke.
“Well,” I lean back, taking another drag from my cigarette, “I've never claimed to be anything else.”
“You were saying something about divorce papers?”
“No. I was saying something about you panting for my cock.”
She crosses her arms. “You were toying with me just like you’re doing now.”
“I played around with you, yes. But just because you were being…unreasonable.”
“Pot and kettle hang out and discuss their blackness.”
“My kettle’s a rose red, courtesy of my mother. Pots are stainless steel and copper.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re obnoxious.”
“And you’re stubborn. We both have our faults.”
“Some more than others.”
I smirk, then lift the lid on the smaller plate nearest me. Salad, I think. I really have no idea what I ordered.
I tip it over, use the dome as an ashtray, and sip my drink before pouring a little more, mainly because I can. “Here’s the thing, love, and you need to listen to me real closely.”
“Do I have a choice?”
I shrug. “Everyone does.”
“Until they don’t.”
“Now, that’s different territory, isn’t it? Eat some bread, some salad. Whatever the fuck else I ordered. I think I ordered duck for you.”
“I don’t want duck.”
“Then eat my fucking steak. Rare.” I take another drag. “Jesus, you’re hard fucking work.”
“Sign the papers. Then you’ll be rid of me.”
See? That, right there, is the problem with her. She’s frustrating, annoying, all the negatives rolled into something I can’t resist. Something that gets under my skin and infects me. Because that’s what she is, a thing there’s no cure for. A thing I lust after even when I know I shouldn’t. And she’s unexpectedly soft, sweet as she is sharp and funny. She gets me. And we ignite each other.
I should walk the fuck away.
And really, I was. I was going to do that.
“I’m afraid your papers are a little… stained .” I stub out the cigarette.
“Because of you.”
“There was an itch. It needed to be scratched.”
“Well, scratch it somewhere else.”
“I would, love. But it’s real fucking boring without you.”
Her gaze is locked on mine for a moment, the tension starting to crackle again.
Finally, she sits, opens the lids of the dishes, and then, using the two unfolded napkins, picks up both the duck and the steak and puts them in front of her, then takes the cutlery.
“Great,” I say, deadpan. “You’re eating.”
“I’m starving,” she retorts, sawing off a piece of duck.
“I hope you choke on it.”
There’s a hint of a smile there—a slight curve at the edges of her plump lips before placing the fork in her mouth.
I watch her with intent as she chews. “You're a piece of work, New York.”
“And you're a piece of shit.”
“That was inside you ten minutes ago.”
She chokes, coughs, clears her throat.
I smirk.
“What is it you wanted to say to me, Caelian?” She wipes the corners of her mouth with a napkin.
“I meant what I said.”
She tilts her head, staring at her plate, and cuts through the steak— my steak. “You said a lot of things.”
“And meant most of it.”
“Specifically?”
“That I love you. That I’m in love with you, if there’s a difference.” God, all this talk of feelings is hurting my brain. “And I did come here with every intention of signing those divorce papers.”
She freezes then takes a bite of the steak, chewing incredibly, annoyingly slowly before swallowing.
She reaches for her drink, eyes still fixed on the bloody steak on her plate. She takes a sip, places her glass back down, and finally looks at me. “What are you tr?—”
“You walked out,” I interrupt. “You made your decision and walked the fuck out.”
“I had no choice.”
“Bullshit. When shit went sideways, you walked.”
“And you allowed it. You and I both know you could have had me locked up and no one would have questioned you.”
“I was sick of your whining, constantly reminding everyone how you were forced to marry me.”
“I was forced,” she snaps.
“Well, boo-fucking-hoo.”
“Oh, that’s real mature, Caelian.” She slices the steak aggressively.
“I got stuck with you, too, you know.”
“Here’s the perfect opportunity for you to get rid of me. Sign the goddamn papers.”
I grind my teeth, leaning back, the high-pitched noise of porcelain screaming under her knife grating down my spine.
“Fuck, woman. You really got under my skin, didn't you?” I mutter.
“Good,” she snaps. “I hope it itches.” She pops the steak into her mouth.
“Oh, it burns, love.”
She sits back, holding the cutlery, chewing and swallowing, and her gaze settles on me with stern resolve. “If you’re worried about me talking or saying something, I won’t. All I know is Alexius was hurt…badly. I was there when he flatlined, remember?”
I sit up straight. “Who the fuck did you tell?”
“No one. I’m not an idiot.” She stabs my steak, and I take the duck from her. She can mutilate the steak, for all I care. I have an appetite for blood, but not from the steak. Not tonight. Or, actually, that’s wrong.
I do.
From her eating my steak.
I hope she licks the goddamned plate.
“Aren’t you?”
Her eyes narrow.
“Because every real conversation I’ve had with you shows an intelligent woman. But you act like a fool.”
“If protecting my brother is acting a fool, then label me that all you want.”
“You think you know what you’re doing, but you have no clue. You have no idea what the fuck you’re getting yourself into,” I grit. “You want a divorce and think it will make things better? You think running from me to Aurelio is going to be better?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You think he’s going to keep his word, keep you and your brother safe?”
She doesn’t move, doesn’t look up. But the pause is long enough. She doesn't need to say anything. Her silence says it all. She thinks a cunt like Aurelio will keep his word once she’s married him, once he’s taken everything from her family.
I lean forward, elbows on the table, every trace of bullshit gone. It’s not a game anymore, and I’m no longer playing.
“He will fuck you over, Giana. Literally and figuratively. The moment he slips a ring on your finger, he will do whatever the hell he wants with you, your brother, and your asshole father.”
“You’re wrong,” Giana says in a strangled voice. “He promised. Agreed to the deal. He gets me if he leaves Cristiano alone.”
“And your dad?”
“He…he’ll be good, too.”
Anger, dark and hot, shoots through me. Selfish, weak, pathetic, that’s her father, and she can’t see it. I get it, family, she loves them. But the man came to us for help, to get her out of the deal, to protect her. And now, all of a sudden, he’s happy to let her marry the Le Fonti fucker? All just to save his own skin and his son’s, whose life he values more than his daughter’s.
I roll my shoulders, suppressing the overwhelming urge to smash and break things because it’s frustrating as hell that she can’t see her father for the snake that he is.
“If you think Aurelio will keep his word by not harming Cristiano if you marry him, you’re wrong, New York. He’s a weak, sadistic fuck who drools for power.”
“Just like every other man in the mafia world.”
“He’ll take everything from your father. From you.” I narrow my eyes at her. “He’ll taunt you with me. I’ll move on.” I won’t. Not as far as I can see. I’ve never been in fucking love before, and so far, I hate it. “He will use your brother. He’ll hold that will-he, won’t-he-kill-him card over you to control you. And you, pretty Giana, will be his puppet on a string for the rest of your miserable life.”
She’s white now, hands fisted on her steak knife and fork. It’s starting to sink in, finally.
“And, baby,” I continue with a flair of assholery, “you might think, hey, at least you’ll get sex, but it won’t be any good. Or if you’re holding on to the dream he won’t want you, forget it. He’ll fuck you like you’re nothing but a blow-up doll for him to ruin, and he’ll come. But not you. He’ll never make you come.” I lean my head to the side. “And I know how much you love to come. Or maybe you’re hoping for the day he’ll lose interest and start screwing everything he can buy so he won’t touch you again. That won’t happen. He’ll fuck others, even on your wedding night. And afterward, he’ll make you suck the taste of his whores off his tiny little dick.” I don’t know the size of it, but in some universe, Aurelio knows I’m calling out the size of his dick, and he’s furious. It makes me happy.
I stand and move toward her. “He’ll hit you,” I say, and she sets down the cutlery, clearly having lost her appetite. “He will hurt you not just because it makes him feel powerful, but because you humiliated him by marrying me first.” I take a napkin from the trolley and dip it in water, then gently start to clean her smeared mascara. “Eventually, you’ll learn to be a make-up expert—thick, to cover up, heavy on the eyes when you need to distract from your mouth or cheek, and heavy on the lips when he forgets himself and punches you a nice black eye.”
“No—”
“Yes.” I tighten my fingers on her chin and force her to look me in the eye. “I know men like him, Giana. We save girls from his kind all the damn time. Some are lightly bruised, moderately traumatized. Others cling to their lives by a mere thread. And some of them slit their wrists after being saved because they just can’t escape the nightmare.”
She swallows, her eyes glassy, lips trembling.
“Now, which one do you think you’ll be after he finally decides he’s done with you?”