Salvatore

27. Ivy

27

IVY

I’ve never ached for a man’s lips to brush mine more than I do right now. That’s why I deny myself, opting for Salvatore to kneel before me in a far more carnal, yet emotionless act that won’t further weaken my psychotic heart.

“Get on my knees?” he grits out, the veins in his neck pulsing.

“That’s what I said.” My voice is a throaty rasp, the chemistry throttling my vocal cords. It’s as if karma’s decided to take retribution after all my years of one-night stands, making me crave the only person in this world I shouldn’t.

His hand falls from my face, his gaze smoldering with a level of hunger that’s intoxicating. “This won’t be a quick kiss, mi reina. ”

I wouldn’t expect it to be. Not with him. With how he indulges me.

Then again, what is time? It’s just a construct, right? Does it even exist?

A few months ago Salvatore Costa wasn’t even a blip on my radar. And now he’s everywhere. Everything .

I can’t take a breath without it being consumed by him. My thoughts aren’t even my own. They’re nothing more than building blocks to a growing fixation.

He grabs the waistband of my jeans with a grin and yanks my hips toward his. Sharp. Rough. “I’m going to fucking devour you.”

The birds awaken, squawking as if matching his severity, the commotion increasing until my ears feel ready to bleed.

“Wait.” I plaster my hands to his chest. “Someone is here.”

He slides his hands over mine, his rough calloused palms the most delicious friction. “It’s a departure.”

I frown, my tummy tumbling, my lust lusting. “Catarina is leaving for the night?”

“No, not Catarina.” He glides his touch to my wrists, coaxing my paranoia to the surface with the lack of elaboration.

“Then who?” I raise my voice over the increased aviary screeching.

He holds my gaze, his stare calculated.

“ Who , Salvatore?”

His jaw ticks. “Remy and Olivia.”

I slowly twist my wrists from his hold. “Liv wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”

“She would if I demanded it.”

Demanded it? “Why?”

“I didn’t appreciate her interference.”

“Are you talking about the dinner conversation? She was just looking out for me.”

“You’re more than capable of looking out for yourself.”

I snort. “One would assume as much, but given the poor decisions I keep making—” I wave a hand between us. “—most would argue.”

“If my first reason doesn’t suffice, consider their expulsion a decision to take my turn to have you all to myself.”

I shouldn’t like the sound of that. Shouldn’t shiver at his words. Not at the expense of my best friend being sent away.

“We have a lot to discuss.” He steps back, the heated spell broken. “Given the plans for your relocation and all.”

Right. The relocation. Of course.

“We don’t need to chat about it. If you want me gone consider it done.” My confidence is hard to maintain. “I can be out by morning.”

His gaze turns cutting. “I don’t want you gone . I want you safe . There’s a difference.”

“Aww, that’s sweet.” Too sweet, and I’m hoping my condescension will snap him out of the softness. “I’m good on my own, though.”

The harshness leaves his features, a vicious smile glinting through the moonlight. “I will be relocating you, Ivy. Whether you like it or not—whether you have to be hog-tied or not. So quit provoking me and come to terms with it.”

I should be angry. Furious. It’s his stupid overbearing care that has my internal organs responding with an opposing sensation.

“Well, I guess a good night sleep is in order, then.” I push from the wall.

“It’s early,” he growls. “And you’ve barely eaten.”

There goes that surly concern again. Biting yet tender. Fierce yet outrageously dreamy.

“I’ll grab a midnight snack later.” Once I get up to sneak in a fond farewell to Adena. Goddamn it . How am I going to leave by morning? Where the hell will I go?

“Jesus Christ, Ivy.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Why is it so hard to accept my help?”

“I can accept it—I just don’t need it.” I lie for the sake of my flimsy pride and walk toward the glass doors.

“ Bullshit . You don’t want to do this on your own. Just like you didn’t want to refuse those goddamn fucking clothes. Is it help in general that you despise? Or just mine?”

I pause as a long-forgotten trauma box falls off a shelf.

It’s not that I don’t want to accept the help. It’s not that I don’t wish with every fiber of my being that his generosity was something I could grasp onto with a two-fisted grip. It’s that box, with its once-bitten-twice-shy label that keeps my independence welded into place.

“It’s not you.” I turn to him, still standing near the corner of the house, his posture imposing, his expression fierce in the moonlight. “I accepted help from a stranger once.” I don’t know why the words leave my mouth. “She offered a spare bed after I’d been living on the streets for weeks.”

He stands taller, my foreshadowing obviously hitting the right vibe.

“She was a lovely woman with a nice, suburban home.” Polished floorboards and large bay windows. “I stayed eight days in absolute bliss… then her husband came home from his long-haul trip and my free rent gained a sordid price tag.”

I let the imagery sit for a moment. For Salvatore’s imagination to wander.

From the flair of his nostrils, it definitely wanders to the correct location.

“I was barely seventeen and had given that lovely woman, with her warm home and generous thread-count, eight full days to lull me into a false sense of security where I was desperate not to lose access to food and clean clothes.” I shrug. “But it was just sex, right? My virginity wasn’t anything I was clinging to. I wasn’t a prude. Just scared, lonely, and defenseless. The problem was, I had little choice. I owed them—at least that’s what she kept whispering to me when I started packing my meager belongings in a hurry to get out of there.”

Salvatore’s lips curl in disdain, his fury barely tangible. Fury I adore.

“So it’s not you.” I drag in a strengthening breath and stand taller. “I do appreciate your help. Immensely. But while I owe you, I’ll always feel like I’m waiting for those eight days to be up and for that long-haul trucker to arrive.”

He looks away, silent in his ferocity.

I wait for him to say something. Anything . The quiet stretches, the lull turning eerie. Even the birds have stopped their siren’s call.

“Understood,” he finally mutters. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Understood?

My insides twist. I’m not sure what response I’d expected but that wasn’t it. Wasn’t what I’d craved.

My bad for romanticizing a man with a blood-stained soul.

I shove the traumatic memories back into that box, securing it tighter this time, pushing it to the farthest reaches of my mind.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “See you in the morning.”

I enter the house and lock myself in my room, grabbing my phone to text Liv straight away.

There’s already a message waiting from her.

Liv

Are you okay? Please call as soon as you can.

I don’t call. Instead, I relay a string of messages proclaiming I’m perfectly fine even though it feels far from the truth, and tell her I’ll see her tomorrow.

When I have to say goodbye.

I’m going to have to hug her one final time. After that I won’t see her again.

There’s no future that exists where I’d be willing to tell her my location and risk having her tortured for the information. There can’t be ties that bind us. The same goes for Allison.

They’re better off without me. I guess they always have been.

I cry a little, sniffling in the shower, then again against my pillow. It’s over the top. I don’t usually blubber so easily, and I hate it.

I blame the escalation of emotion on the increased amount of trauma boxes. My mental storage shed must be almost full, and the result is this hot mess of too many feels.

I listen to Salvatore’s movements until late in the night.

It’s around eleven when my light is off, and I’ve been quiet for hours that I swear I hear the basement door creak open.

He returns forty minutes later, the gentle clasp of his bedroom door soon followed by the patter of the shower before silence finally takes over the house.

I wait until after midnight to creep down the hall and quickly slink into the basement. I use the flashlight on my cell to illuminate the way down the stairs to the shelves that now sit flush against the wall, hiding the secret passage.

Shit. The fucking PIN code.

I inch the furniture away from the wall, all feminine-goddess energy and hissed profanities as I try not to make a sound while simultaneously wracking my brain for that four-digit number.

There’d been sixes. Two of them.

And a five, maybe.

Nine-five-six-six?

I nibble my bottom lip and stare at the security panel.

Will an incorrect input sound an alarm?

I glance up at the basement door. Will this trigger Lorenzo’s guards to storm the house?

It’s stupid, but I find it hard to give as many shits as I probably should.

Fuck it. I don’t have a lot of people left in my life and I’ll have even less tomorrow, so I tap in the digits and release a tight breath of relief when the lock disengages with a barely heard click.

“Are you awake?” I whisper into the void.

“Always,” comes the accented reply.

The small lamp flicks on as I make my way to the other side of the passage and rest against my usual spot at the end of the wall.

Adena sits on the bed, her age-wrinkled face far more exuberant than it has been as she claims her knitting needles and spool of wool from under her pillow.

“You look happy,” I say through sadness. “I assume Salvatore snuck in to see you.”

She nods, the tink , tink , tink of her metal needles filling the small room. “You’re not meant to have favorites. But it’s no secret he’s mine. Despite my situation, he still cares for me and I for him.”

My belly regains its fluttering disarray. The more I learn about Salvatore the more I admire. It’s maniacal.

“He was very distracted, though,” she continues. “Tight-lipped, too. Did something happen?”

I shrug, itching to tell her everything. “I’m leaving in the morning. I came to say goodbye.”

Those knitting needles pause their tinkering movements. “Is my son leaving with you?”

I lower my gaze to the floor, wanting to say yes, needing it to be true even though it feels entirely too vulnerable, but… “I don’t know. He wants to…” I attempt to picture what that outcome would look like—him relocating me, just the two of us, alone.

“You don’t want his company?” There’s an edge of tense curiosity in her voice.

“It’s complicated.” I meet her frown with a look of apology. “The situation between us is…” I sigh. “It’s just complicated.”

“Are the two of you a couple yet?”

“ No .” I answer too quickly. Too emphatically.

She raises her brows as if all knowing, all seeing.

I’m unsure how to respond.

“He’s a successful man.” Her tone fills with defensive pride. “And handsome. He comes from good Italian stock.”

He’s also protective, witty, and oddly compassionate.

All his positive attributes compile in an unfathomable list that has my stomach doing a sweeping roll.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

Nothing. Everything .

“I don’t know.” I press a hand to my belly, trying to calm the riotous war of my insides with a softly stroking thumb.

Her gaze narrows on my abdomen as if my stomach holds the answers. “You’re concerned about something.” She casts her wool and needles to the side and climbs onto her knees. “Come here, child.” She slides her arms between the metal bars and beckons me forward. “Let me give you a hug.”

My heart fractures, the maternally starved little girl inside me wanting to rush toward her. “What about the cameras?”

“Hold on.” She retracts her arms and reaches for the night light, plunging the room into darkness. “Now we can’t get caught.”

I stare into the inky black, my hesitance and despair fighting against yearning so potent it squeezes my lungs.

I place my phone beneath the waistband of my pajama bottoms and chance a step toward her cell, the tiny red light the only glow to mark my way.

“Please, Ivy. Let me comfort you.” Her voice guides me through the void. “Everything will be okay.”

I want to believe her. To cling to the only motherly words of reassurance I’ve had in a decade despite them coming from a stranger behind bars.

I’ve never felt more alone. More hopeless.

“That’s it,” she coaxes. “Come to me, sciocca patetica .”

I’m unfamiliar with the endearment, but the warm way in which she says it brings respite.

There’s a squeak of mattress springs. A clink of her knitting needles. Then her outstretched hands brush mine and she drags me into the bars, her arms circling my shoulders.

I scrunch my nose against the raw agony of her kindness and quickly navigate my arms between the bars to return the hug.

“ Sei un povero disgraziato senza cervello ,” she soothes. “ Non affonderai i tuoi artigli su mio figlio. ”

The indistinguishable words remind me of my mother. How she used to comfort me in Greek when I was a child, the foreign language seeming to cast a spell over whatever had upset me.

I rest my head against the bars, traveling back in time, disappearing into a childhood where my mother doted on me. Where she loved and cared.

Things had been good back then. I hadn’t known of the atrocities enacted by a father I adored or how my brother was being groomed to carry the horror-stoked torch.

It feels like a lifetime has passed when one of Adena’s arms falls away.

I sniff and withdraw an inch, expecting the comfort to be over.

“Be still,” she coos, her other arm tightening, the strength of her hold increasing tenfold.

I force a smile, appreciating her enthusiasm, only to have her fingers grip my shoulder in a hold that’s less comfort and more… I don’t know… territorial, maybe.

I attempt to withdraw again. “Thank you for your kindness.”

Her nails dig into my shoulder through my satin pajamas. A clink of her knitting needles pierces the silence.

“ Stai ferma .” Her tone gains a rough edge.

Foreboding skitters along my nape. “Thank you, Adena.” I make a more adamant attempt to pull away.

“Don’t thank me.” Her nails bite into me like claws, her arm wrenching around my neck, holding me hostage, yanking my face into the bars. “Just stay away from my bloodline, you Latina whore.”