15. Kaos
Ican think of a million things I’d rather be doing than babysitting Camilla De Marco. She hasn’t stopped glaring at me since I walked into the room, like she’s the only one unhappy with this little set up. Being near her is dangerous for both of us. She may have grown up as a Mafia princess, but I doubt she’s ever met anyone as cold and callous as me. I wasn’t always this way. Hell, once upon a time, I was the nice one of the four of us. But sometimes life gives you lemons you can’t make lemonade with, and I learned that lesson the hard way.
The problem is, although I know I should stay as far away from Camilla as I can manage, there’s an invisible tether that drags me to her room each day. I pretend to watch whatever bullshit she has on, but really, I’m watching the way my brothers, for all intents and purposes, interact with her. I’m watching the way her dark hair falls around her shoulders when she laughs and how sad she looks when she thinks none of us are watching. She’s addictive, and that’s why she has to go. Because if she stays, she’s going to drag all four of us down with her, and I don’t know that we’re strong enough to survive that again.
That’s why it’s been years since any of us have brought a woman here, years since we’ve shared anyone past a night at the Scarlet Lounge. It’s too risky. We almost lost everything the last time we trusted a woman, and I’ll be damned if I allow that to happen again.
“You don’t have to stay.” Camilla breaks the silence, her head turned from the TV for the first time since Bishop left.
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t,” she snaps. “You look like someone kicked your puppy, pouting over there.”
“I don’t pout.”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, buddy, but you absolutely do. I don’t know why you bother coming in here at all. You look miserable for every single second you sit in that chair.” She crosses her arms across her chest and winces at the movement. It takes everything in me to remain seated instead of making sure she’s comfortable like my body screams at me to do. “I’ll stay put until one of the others gets back. You don’t have to sit here, and if you really want to check up on me, I’m sure you have access to that.” She points to the corner where one of the three cameras in this room sits.
“I’m staying.”
She huffs out an irritated breath. “Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of an asshole?”
“Most days.” I shrug. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a brat?”
Her head whips around, and despite the obvious pain in her eyes, she looks nothing but angry at my words. “I am not a brat,” she snaps. “You don’t know the first thing about me or my life. I literally take everything you all throw at me and just accept it, because what other choice do I have? If I were a brat, like you and the rest of this goddamn city seem to think I am, I would be making your lives impossible, which I’m not.”
She has a point. But I’m not going to admit that. I kind of like seeing her riled up. The problem with Camilla De Marco, well, one of many, I suppose, is that she’s effortlessly gorgeous. She’s been here for five days, and each of those five days she’s been dressed in one of Bishop or Kovu’s shirts. She was covered in so many bruises that up until yesterday, I wasn’t sure there was one part of her body that wasn’t black or blue, and apart from a few skincare items Crew had brought in for her, she hasn’t had any of the things women normally use to stay beautiful. And yet, she’s stunning. So fucking beautiful, it makes me want to break all my own rules.
“That’s only because you’re hurt. I’m sure the minute you’re back on your feet, you’ll be wreaking havoc.”
She sighs, some of the anger turning to something else, something I like seeing a whole lot less. Misery. “I asked to be taken to Charles. I tried to get out of your hair. It’s not my fault Bishop found me in the alley, it’s not my fault Crew ordered I stay here, and it’s not my fault you’re stuck on babysitting duty. I’m sorry for being such an inconvenience. I’m sure my father would tell you I’ve been this way my whole life.” A broken sob cracks through, and her hand falls to her stomach with pain in her eyes. “He even died because of me.”
Hot tears fall against her cheeks, and I hate to admit to myself how much I fucking hate them. Normally, I like seeing women cry. Call it a kink, call it what you will, but this is different. Camilla isn’t crying because I’ve caned her to the point of oblivion or because I’ve held her on the edge of orgasm for three hours but refuse to allow her to tumble over the edge. No, she’s crying because she’s in emotional distress, and before I realize I’m doing it, I’m out of my chair and rounding the bed to where she’s sitting up against a mountain of pillows.
She watches my every move, her eyes tracking me, and with each step I take closer to her, her breath shortens until they’re coming in sharp pants. She’s so fucking beautiful like this. Vulnerable. Hurt. At my mercy. She’s my greatest temptation, like the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden. But I have to resist. I have no other choice but to resist. Because Camilla could very well be our downfall. A Trojan horse sent to take out our empire. And yet I’m drawn to her like a moth to a flame, my body moving of its own accord to be burned, and before I realize I’m doing it, I reach out and touch her for the first time. My fingers brush against her damp cheek, wiping away the tears just in time for them to be replaced with more, but that just gives me another excuse to touch her. I can’t help myself, I can’t help but touch her.
Her breath stutters the moment my fingers run along her bruised cheek. She’s looking better today. The bruises have started to heal, and rather than being black and blue, they’re turning shades of yellow and green, it’s progress. My touch doesn’t cause her pain, though. No, quite the opposite, because each brush of my fingers across her soft cheek is like a live wire coming to life between us.
Camilla’s lips fall open into the most delectable “o,” and I have to swallow down the groan clawing up my throat. Why does she have to be so fucking addictive? Couldn’t she be like all the other women we’ve chosen over the last few years? Disposable. Temporary. Unremarkable. But as much as I hate to admit it, Camilla is none of those things.
“Your father didn’t die because of you, Princess.” The nickname has none of the usual snark I use when it falls from my lips. “He died because he chose to make a dumb deal with the wrong person. He died because he was stupid enough to give away his only succession plan. And he died because he didn’t think to get you the hell out of this city well before your eighteenth birthday. He made a lot of mistakes, but none more than selling something so precious for something so insignificant.”
She stares at me for long seconds, tears glistening in her eyes. I didn’t notice it before, probably because I’ve never allowed myself to get this close, but there are flecks of vibrant blue within the gray, and it’s fucking beautiful. She stares at me for so long that I begin to wonder what I said that made her look at me like this, and I begin replaying each word in my mind over and over. “You think I’m precious?” Her voice is barely a whisper, the words almost inaudible in the otherwise quiet room.
Did I really say that?
I do another quick catalog of the words I said, and when I stumble upon the ones she’s fixated on, I pause. Why did I say that? It’s not true. Not in the way she thinks I meant it, at least. She thinks I care. She thinks that I think her father is an idiot for trading her because I see the value in her. But that’s just not the truth.
“No, Princess,” I bite out and step back, breaking the contact. I try to ignore the ache that fills my chest with each step I take away from her. I only turn back when I reach the door and find her staring after me with surprise. “You’re nothing but another whore, just like all the ones that came before you, and all the ones that will come long after you’re gone.”
I don’t wait to hear her response before throwing the door open and slamming it shut behind me.
What is it about Camilla De Marco that makes all the men in this house lose their minds?