27. Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Six
Olivia
W hy did I have to ask why he cut his nails again? Because I knew. I knew when I saw that woman last night standing in his living room in her racy lingerie. A stone filled my stomach in the aftermath. I did as he asked, resentfully and yet my hearing strained over the noise of some teen rom com because I am a creep. A creep whose body was full of too much tension from the party and warmth from his closeness. In my head, I saw images of myself in red lacy lingerie and those terrible claw tipped hands with their two clipped fingers and what he would do to me with them.
God, I had fucked myself to those images. Slid my fingers under that expensive black thong, imagining it was those two clawless fingers, and found my pussy throbbing with need. All it took was a few pumps and swirls against my sensitive clit and I came undone, biting my pillow to smother the scream. Not that he would have heard me amid his own genuine pleasure. So, unsatisfied, I rolled over and thought about the night’s events, letting my anger at him wash back in on all that had transpired.
Now I am angry again, furious that when he told me why he cut his nails, my lower body betrayed me and flooded with heat. With a frustrated huff, I switch the entertainment system on and walk to the bathroom. I stare hard at myself in the mirror as I peel the towel off, examining my body. My hands come up to cup my breasts, barely a handful, before sliding over my small waist and down my hips. I like my body, always have, it’s long and sleek. Any curves present are from muscles gained from training and running. The woman in the red lingerie was curved in other ways, probably the ways he likes.
With a pained sound, I turn to the shower and pull the faucet to the coldest setting. It takes a few moments for me to talk myself into it but when I step under the frigid spray, it’s like a door closes to all thoughts and it’s just my body, and the freezing water. My focus goes to controlling my breathing as I fight the natural reaction of hyperventilating and give myself two minutes to master the cold.
Done, I step from the shower and move closer to the mirror, meeting my grey eyes in the reflection. “You do not want him. He’s a monster,” I tell my image. “You have been through a lot and you are confused.”
And that is the sobering thought. I have been through a lot. He has dragged me into a world I wanted no part in and I hate him to my very core for putting me in this situation. Toweling off, I try desperately to focus on that hate and not on what’s happening in the rest of the apartment as I leave the bathroom and slide into the bed naked. Absentmindedly, I flick through the streaming sites, humming to myself to avoid any noise that might perk my hearing before settling on a movie I haven’t seen before and ignore the irony as I start The Godfather .
“Research,” I mumble, settling back into the pillows.
The opening scenes begin, and I watch with rapt attention, surprised by the tension from the very beginning. Is this what the old Mafia was like? Do people go to the Don’s, the Emilio’s of the world and ask them to fix their troubles? My stupid brain imagines Emilio behind a desk in a penguin suit. Are they trapped like this? Will Emilio be as old as Don Corleone and still a monster? Doing Mafia business on the day of one of his children’s weddings? Can the Greco brothers even have children as they are?
That thought makes my stomach feel weird. Will this curse dictate their entire lives? Controlled and hindered by the limits of being monsters? No wonder why they are both so angry. And yet, does the world need more of the Mafia? If they do have children, what kind of evil deeds will their offspring bring about? The thought of mini versions of Alessandrio running around causing chaos makes me snort with unrestrained mirth. Lord help us if that man can procreate.
If I wanted to not hear a thing, I picked the wrong movie. The sound of voices reaches me through the closed door and I redouble my efforts not to acknowledge them. It makes me tense as I focus all my energy on the movie, trying desperately to not hear any of those noises I heard that first night. The memory of that still makes me see red. Now I know who he was fucking then most likely, unless he has a bevy of babes—surely not? God, Lucia even said the women of the Mafia wanted to try them out.
The sound of a heavy thud and a raised male voice has me sitting up straighter. Fuck. All attempts not to listen go out the window. This does not sound like a lover’s tryst. I don’t want to pause the movie and give away that I am listening, but I do get up and move to the door, pressing my ear against the wood. My heart is pounding knowing that this is pretty much the stupidest thing I could do, but my curiosity is definitely getting the better of me.
“Ripped her nails out!”
I straighten, mortified, even as the sound of breaking wood echoes off the tiles and reaches me over the background noise of the tv. That voice, it’s not Alessandrio’s but… Emilio’s. My stomach twists as another loud thud reaches through. Are they torturing someone? It sounds violent. My stomach twists at the knowledge, dread turning my stomach liquid. Torture. Oh God. I can’t unhear that, and even worse—ignore it.
I twist the handle of the door and pull. The breeze against my naked body stops me as another loud thud and a groan elicits from the end of the hall. I race to the bathroom and wrap the towel around my body, praying this isn’t the stupidest thing I have ever done. If they are torturing someone, what can I do about it?
“ Shit,” I huff as I enter the hall.
It sounds like absolute chaos is erupting at the other end. Glass shatters, wood breaks, and someone groans. What if it’s some weird sex game? My feet stumble at that, anger un-spooling in my stomach.
“You will apologize.” That snarl definitely doesn’t belong to Alessandrio.
There is a deafening thud, and the tiles beneath my feet vibrate with the force of it. The urge to turn and run is so fucking strong. Even my muscles tense as I take another step toward the exit of the hall in protest of my decision. There is another thud that ripples up through the floor into my feet.
“Fuck.” That is Alessandrio.
I would recognize the timber of his voice anywhere, but unlike his usual self assured confidence that usually spills from his mouth, that is the sound of pain. It spurs my feet. The desire to know what is going on completely overwhelms good sense. I step from the hall on to a scene I cannot even comprehend.
The wall of windows filters in natural light at almost every angle, and although the sun seems to dip low, its unforgiving rays still illuminate an act of violence. I am frozen by the sight. Emilio. The voice I heard was the Don, the thuds—Alessandrio. I’m frozen in both shock and awe as Emilio slams his brother into the wall, where Alessandrio crumples, his enormous form sliding down the cracked plaster.
“You will apologize,” Emilio snarls. Reaching down, he hauls his brother to his feet. “You hear me Drio? The nightmares still rock her and you have the audacity, with the trouble you caused?”
The most stunning part is Alessandrio does nothing to defend himself as his brother slams him back against the wall. He does nothing in the face of Emilio’s rage. The Don lifts a fist, and it finds its mark in Alessandrio’s gut, doubling him over with a groan.
“Stop!” My voice is terrified as the word flies into the room.
Emilio, in his surprise, stops holding his brother, who slumps to the floor. With no thought of the repercussions, or the reason, I’m across the room, planting myself between them. Emilio’s eyes are a vast cold blue.
“Why are you doing this?” I meet his icy gaze with one made of steel.
“It’s Greco business,” he seethes.
“Wow. This is how you treat your brother? And I thought Riccardo was a fucked up sibling.” My anger catches me off guard. Are these the people I am trying to help?
Emilio’s gaze shifts only slightly, and I realize I am standing between two beings who could rip me apart in nothing but a towel. Alessandrio on that front, however, wouldn’t be a problem, given I am not entirely sure he’s conscious. Emilio’s eyes rake over me, not in that predatory way his brother does, but in a way that tells me he too is surprised at my gall.
“Why are you defending him?” His question rattles me because I am not entirely sure I have an answer.
“I…” What can I say? I hate the injustice? I hate seeing people fight? Maybe I just hate seeing Alessandrio, who seems so indomitable, being so submissive to his brother.
“Forget it,” Emilio snarls, offering me a reprieve. “You will apologize,” he says, staring at his brother behind me.
For what? I am on the brink of asking, but he’s already turning away, stalking toward the service elevator, and I don’t move or breathe until I hear the slide of those doors.
“Fuck,” I say on an exhale as the black cloud that seems to be Emilio Greco’s temper evaporates with the beast.
Did my father’s wife know what she was unleashing into the Mafia world when she cursed the Greco brothers? I highly doubt she expected to see her curse come to fruition. Pity, I am sure they would have made her pay horribly. Something dark and oily unfurls in my heart at the thought.
“Why?” The voice is rough and pained.
I spin to face Alessandrio. Even slumped on the floor, he is over half my size. Even battered by his brother, he still cuts a menacing figure as he watches me beneath lowered lids, a sliver of blue shining in the dying light as he looks up at me. I drop to my haunches before him.
“He was beating you.” And I didn’t fucking like it.
Thoughtlessly I reach out a hand, and press it to his cheek. His eyes close as he leans into my touch and I stare mesmerized at my pale hand against that caramel fur. Soft. Why is it so soft? My thumb skims beneath his eyes and he exhales, his breath carrying the heavy scent of alcohol.
“You are drunk.” A small mercy. He probably cannot feel any of this. Hopefully, he will forget my momentary curiosity and we can pretend like this moment never happened.
“And you are fucking beautiful.” I snatch my hand back, his words striking at me, hitting deep.
He hates me. I hate him, and yet I feel hot all over in response to them. He is drunk , I remind myself. This is a man who clearly knew this moment with his brother was coming and did everything to dull his senses.
“I cannot lift you to your feet.” My words are rushed to cover the shock as I move back, afraid to touch him again. “Please get up. You need your bed.”
His eyes crack open once more. They’re not as glassy as I expected them to be given his current state.
“I told you not to come out of your room,” he says, rubbing a hand down his face, wincing.
“Yeah, well, morbid curiosity got the better of me.”
“Consider your curiosity answered. Now fuck off if you know what’s good for you,” he snarls.
I lean back on my heels, raising my eyebrow at him. Clearly, he doesn’t take kindly to people rescuing him. I should get up and leave. My brain screams that nothing good can come from this, and yet there is this tug toward him that right now, I don’t want to ignore.
“Charming,” I snap back, and a small smile pulls at the corner of his lips.
“I would like to teach that smart mouth a lesson.” My eyes flare at his words.
“How so?” I ask sweetly and watch his own eyes flare as the haze clears. “Will it be a backhand or a fist?”
He looks momentarily rocked; is that disgust I see fracturing his face?
“I would never do that,” he replies finally.
“Didn’t think so. Now please get up and go to bed.”
“Leave me,” he growls in defeat.
“No. I just saw your brother kick the stuffing out of you. You need your bed, not the cold tiles.”
He chuckles darkly. “If I knew how much trouble you would cause me, I would have left you at that school.”
A bitter laugh rises in my throat. How easier my life would have been. I back up as he moves those long, thick legs of his. Alessandrio uses the wall for support as he finally rises, forcing me to rise to my own feet in his shadow. He takes a limping step, hand pressed to the wall, and much like the rest of my actions tonight, I do something I might regret. I force myself under his arm. The limb is heavy and warm over my shoulders and I hadn’t realized how cold I was until this very moment.
“What are you doing?” His voice sounds strained, but I can’t look up at him, even as I feel his eyes burning into my cheek.
“Helping you.” I struggle to shrug beneath his arm.
He mutters a curse before limping on, still clutching the wall, refusing to put any weight across my shoulders. I should probably thank my lucky stars that he doesn’t. It’s slow work. I can hear him breathing through his teeth, as if trying to contain the sound of his pain, and anger at Emilio burns through me. The urge to condemn the Don’s actions is on the tip of my tongue, but now is not the time. I shift my arm around his waist and feel him stiffen beneath my touch. God. His body is a contrast of hard muscles and the softest fur. I keep my eyes lowered, feigning ignorance as we shuffle toward the hall. With every limping step, I feel those muscles move beneath my fingers. He’s riddled with power that is both intriguing and unnerving. He could have destroyed me. Every moment I was his captive, he could have ended me, and I would have been powerless to stop him. And yet he let Emilio toss him about. Because he’s his Don?
“What did you do to deserve his punishment?” I ask.
“Insulted his wife.”
That forces my eyes up, surprise bubbling in my chest, but he isn’t looking at me. His eyes are strained on the path ahead as we begin down the hall.
“Lucia ordered this in response?”
He chuckles at my question.“Unlikely, she isn’t one for violence. My brother has a short fuse, and I said something I shouldn’t have.” He doesn’t continue on.
It’s Greco business. Bullshit, it’s the men of the Mafia exacting punishment. What he might have said to bring this down on his head pulls at the strings of my curiosity, but as we reach a door in the debris lined hall, I swallow the question. His arm shifts over my shoulder, and he groans as he tries to pull away. My eyes search out his face and find it taut.
“Let me help you,” I breathe.
His narrowed eyes meet mine. Something like suspicion and weariness blazes in their depths. I drop my gaze first, instead finding his claw tipped hand reaching for the handle. It never makes it.
“Fuck this.” His words are tight with pain, but his movements catch me off guard.
My gasp fills the tense silence as his velvet palm wraps around my throat, driving me back. My mind reels, not with fear but something more carnal, something that has my body begin a warm thrum. His eyes are my anchor, the vast blue of them dragging me under as I stare in awe at his cursed face. My back collides with something firm, but I am at his mercy, lost at sea.
“You are turning out to be more trouble than I thought.” His words are a soft husk that sends shivers down my spine as he towers over me.
My hands clutch his sides, fingers curling against steel and fur. My teeth find my lip to stifle the moan teasing the back of my throat. His gaze lands on my mouth, narrowing in observation. Something velvety presses against my lower lip, pulling down to release my captured flesh. I drop my eyes, unable to meet his intense stare.
“Next time you consider rescuing someone, make sure you are wearing more than just a towel,” Alessandrio says, pulling back. “Now go to your room,” his voice rasps. “This time, don’t come out.”
Shame and desire wreak havoc in my chest as his shadow lifts, and he turns away. I remain where I am until I hear his door close, frozen in my embarrassment.