Chapter Twenty-four #2
Kirill nods. “We’re coming,” he says simply before turning on his heel and leaving the room.
Andres and I both nod silently as he exits.
The room feels quieter now, heavier.
I tap my fingers against the edge of the table, already calculating the best way to handle Donaldson.
Well, that was... interesting.
I shift my gaze to Andres, who is blatantly ogling some random girl’s boobs and ass like he’s at a fucking buffet.
I narrow my eyes at him, my eyebrow arching in disbelief.
“What?” he asks, clearly unbothered.
“Is this how you’re choosing your date for tomorrow?” I ask, amused despite myself. My tone drips with sarcasm, but I let my gaze flick to the girl for a moment.
“She looks like she has a good personality. Probably a lot going on in that little head of hers,” I mock, my voice low and cutting, eyes sliding to Andres.
He doesn’t even flinch. I know he’s not interested in these women any more than I am.
He takes them out because he has to, because it’s expected, because it keeps the vultures guessing. It’s all for the show, nothing more.
I look at the picture he’s pretending to admire, some doll with painted lips and empty eyes, and I feel… nothing. No spark. No hunger. Just static.
Since Serena, my brain refuses to register anyone else as beautiful.
Nothing compares. My dick, on the other hand, throws a tantrum like a spoiled child, dead weight until she’s near, until her scent crawls under my skin and poisons me.
She’s ruined every other woman for me, shattered the game I used to play so easily.
And I’m not fucking sorry.
I hate that I want her. I hate the circumstances that make her forbidden. I hate that I can’t shut her out no matter how hard I try. But the truth is darker than hate, because even as she destroys me, I crave her. She’s in my head, in my veins, a chain locked tight around my throat.
And no matter how much I fight it, I don’t want to break free.
Andres looks at me and starts to laugh, his head shaking. “Who are you bringing?” he asks, but there’s a cautious edge to his voice.
He knows better than to ask about what I did with Serena in that room, or why. We’ve got the kind of friendship that doesn’t require questions. We do stupid shit for each other, no explanations necessary.
“Ashley,” I say, and even I can hear the annoyance in my tone as her name leaves my lips.
Andres smirks, that knowing look on his face that makes me want to hit him.
“Listen, man, I gotta go,” I say abruptly, cutting off whatever comment he’s about to make. “See you later.”
I leave before he can reply, stepping out of the club and into the cool night air.
My phone buzzes as I pull it from my pocket, the screen lighting up with a message from Ashley.
Ashley: Bought myself a nice dress. Can’t wait to see it ripped off me. See you tomorrow at 8 p.m. XOXO.
I don’t bother replying.
Sliding the phone back into my pocket, I shake my head and head home, my thoughts heavier than I’d like.
The familiar smell of carbonara hits me the moment I step through the door. My stomach growls in response, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since this morning.
Bianca, my maid, is already in the kitchen. She works quietly, her movements precise as she bakes something in the oven. I head straight to the table and pour myself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid burning my throat as I take a sip.
Moments later, she places a plate of carbonara in front of me, the rich aroma making my chest tighten unexpectedly.
“Thank you, Bianca,” I say, my voice quieter than usual.
She nods wordlessly and returns to her baking, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
For a second, I can’t move. My throat tightens as memories of my mother flood back.
The house in Florence always smelled like carbonara. I was five years old, and my favorite thing in the world was helping her cook.
She would laugh when I spilled flour everywhere or sneaked bites of grated cheese.
It’s been years since I let myself think about those moments.
I shove the thought away and pick up my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I find her name.
Mother.
I hesitate for a second before pressing “Call.”
The line rings, each tone stretching longer than it should, until finally, she answers.
“Son, I missed you so much!” Her voice is warm, loving, and filled with that familiar softness that always makes me feel like a kid again.
I can tell she’s still under treatment, her voice carries a faint fragility that wasn’t there before.
“How are you doing, Mother?” I ask, my tone steady, masking the weight in my chest as I twirl the pasta on my fork.
It’s always the same. I only call her when I’m eating her favorite dish.
It’s the closest I can get to those moments in Florence.
“I’m okay, I guess,” my mother says softly, her voice carrying the weight of her struggles. “I’m taking the pills, but they make me tired and sleepy all the time.”
There’s a pause, a fragile silence that makes me grip the phone tighter.
“I miss you so much, and your father,” she adds, her voice breaking slightly. “Lorenzo, I’m always dreaming of him.”
Before I can say anything, I hear her start to sob. My heart tightens, a sensation I thought I’d forgotten how to feel.
“He was my whole life, Lorenzo. Ti chiedo perdono… Mi manca da morire.” she continues, slipping into Italian, her emotions overflowing.
When she switches to Italian, I know her heart is breaking all over again.
“Calmati, madre. Verrò a trovarti presto,” I reply, my own voice softening. Italian is still my first language, no matter how long I’ve lived in New York.
“Really?” she asks, hope suddenly lighting her tone.
“I’ll visit soon,” I say, meaning it, but not entirely for the reasons she thinks. I need to see her, yes, but I also need answers. If anyone knows what kind of business my father had with Beaumont, it’s her.
“Yes,” I add quickly, reassuring her. “Listen, Mom, I’ve got to go. Take care of yourself and keep taking the pills, okay?”
She’s been a train wreck since my father’s death, ten years of pills, therapy, and isolation in Florence. I haven’t seen her since she withdrew from everything and everyone, and the thought of it sits uncomfortably in the back of my mind.
“Ti amo, figlio mio,” she says, her voice calmer now.
“I love you, too,” I reply, my tone steady, before ending the call.
I stare at the phone in my hand for a moment longer than necessary, the silence of the room pressing in around me.
Tomorrow’s going to be a fucking long day.