9. ANTONIO
It’s been a long day, mostly because I couldn’t stop thinking about the woman waiting in my bedroom.
My bedroom. My sanctuary . I’ve never allowed a woman in there before.
Not once. It’s my space, the one place in this house that is entirely mine.
And yet, Scarlet is in there, wearing my shirt, sleeping in my bed.
As if her presence there isn’t vexing enough, she managed to sneak into my thoughts during business meetings, phone calls, and while I was inspecting the site of a new warehouse. No matter what I did today, she was there.
And now, I find myself standing in front of my bedroom door, hesitating, one hand raised to fucking knock. Fuck this. I rip the door open, harder than I intended. My eyes sweep the room, sharp and searching, and land on her .
Scarlet sits on the bed, still too pale but looking stronger than before, her long hair loose around her shoulders. And beside her?—
Doc.
The old bastard is perched on the edge of my fucking bed, ready to remove Scarlet's IV. He doesn’t even look up when I step inside.
Scarlet, however, does. Her head snaps toward me, and her blue eyes widen, but not in fear—with something else.
Something that makes my pulse kick up a notch.
Before I can say a word, the old coot beats me to it.
“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” Doc mutters dryly. “Thought maybe you got yourself kidnapped, too.”
I exhale slowly, shutting the door behind me. “Doc.”
I take in the way she sits upright now, watching me, instead of avoiding my gaze—the way my shirt drapes over her frame, too big and looking too damn good on her. I should say something. Instead, I glare at Doc. “You done?”
“Almost,” he drawls. “I know you’ve had a long, hard day of being scary and brooding.”
Scarlet lets out a small, choked laugh before biting her lip, attracting my gaze straight to her mouth, and I immediately regret it. Those lips. Fuck. I can already see them wrapped around my dick, sucking.
With effort, I force my eyes back to Doc. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I say flatly.
“Immensely.”
I clench my jaw. “Hurry up.”
Doc rolls his eyes. “Jesus, you’re impatient. Maybe if you spent more time here, you wouldn’t be hovering like a goddamn mother hen.”
I narrow my eyes. “You done?”
“For real this time?” He yanks the IV out in one smooth motion. Scarlet winces. It’s a small sound, barely anything at all, but it pisses me off anyway. I tense.
Doc, oblivious to the danger he's in, waves the IV in the air like it’s a trophy. “There. You happy, Don Cranky-Pants?”
Scarlet actually laughs. It’s soft and unexpected, and it does something to me.
Something I don’t fucking like. Still, it's enough to extend Doc’s life for a while—if he's done pissing me off, that is. I like the sound of her laughter. He stands, grabs his bag, and smirks at me. “Try not to scare the poor girl while I’m gone, alright? She’s been through enough without you growling at her. ”
I cross my arms. “Good night.”
He chuckles and then puts his hand on my shoulder. "It's always good to see you, Toni."
He eyes me, like he’s trying to decide whether or not he can get away with mouthing off one more time. He decides yes. “You know,” he muses, lowering his voice, “you got a real problem, kid.”
I arch a brow. “Oh?”
He grins. “She’s in your bed.”
Scarlet’s breath hitches when she hears his words. My entire body goes still. My eyes dare him to finish that sentence. He does. “And you like it.”
The smirk on his face is borderline suicidal. He snickers, clearly happy with himself, and makes his exit before I can make up my mind if I want to shoot him in the head or the gut.
Scarlet stares after him, wide-eyed, before turning back to me. “Is he always like that?”
I exhale sharply. “Unfortunately.”
A moment of silence stretches between us. Then Scarlet tilts her head. “You let him talk to you like that?”
My lips twitch. “He’s the only one who can.”
Her eyes darken slightly, but not in fear. She is curious about me. And fuck if that doesn’t make me want to do something stupid. Like asking her if she feels strong enough to get up for a little while.
She nods eagerly, and I realize I must have asked out loud. Fuck me, that woman is messing with my head.
"Alright, you're in for a treat," I promise, before I wrap her in my bathrobe and carry her down the stairs to the kitchen, where the cook has already left, but two maids are still busy cleaning up.
"Out!" I growl.
They have enough sense to drop whatever they're doing and disappear in the time it takes me to gently put Scarlet down on one of the barstools. Her gaze is quizzical when she asks, "Do people always do what you say?"
"If they have enough sense." I nod, looking for what I need.
Getting all the ingredients together under her watchful eyes doesn't take long.
I haven't cooked in a long time. Dad taught Gigi and me; he said it was his way of relaxing.
He was right. Kneading dough is quite rewarding when I can't punch someone's face after a long day.
“What are you doing?” she finally asks, her voice still hoarse from everything she’s been through.
"Cooking.”
She blinks. “You… cook?”
I smirk. “Don’t sound so surprised. I can kill a man and make fresh spaghetti in the same day.”
She stares for a beat before shaking her head. “No, it’s just—” she swallows. “I didn’t expect that.”
Neither did I. I actually made a joke. When was the last time I joked?
I haven't cooked in a long time either. Not since Dad…
I don't want to go there right now; my grief for him is still buried under a shit ton of fury, and that's where it needs to stay until Carlos is dead.
This was a mistake. I have no idea what I was thinking bringing her down here and starting a pasta dough.
This is exactly the kind of shit I can't afford right now.
Not when I need to stay focused on getting revenge for my dad.
Sweat drips down the back of my neck while I keep kneading the dough, imagining it to be Carlos's throat. Our silence is almost companionable. Whenever I look up, she looks distant, too. There is a vacant stare to her eyes that I don't like.
"You okay?" I finally break the silence.
She blinks, like she's coming back from far, far away.
Her chin juts out, "Will you torture me too? Use me to blackmail my father to do things he doesn't want to do?"
The edge in her voice takes me by surprise, but it shouldn’t have.
I suspected she had claws. The bastards hung her up on the ceiling for two days—two days—and she didn't break. I’d expected to find a limp mess when I descended the stairs to that basement, but she had more life in her than some men I've seen subjected to the same torture.
"I would never torture a woman, passerotta," I assure her, the nickname escaping me before I can think about it. But it fits her, little sparrow .
"But you would order it?"
I shake my head, "No."
"Hmm," she harrumphs. The dough is done, time to let it rest.
I pick up a large kitchen knife and begin cutting tomatoes, onions, garlic, and the required spices. Whatever goes into my sauce is always fresh.
"Still, you won't let me go. You're using me against my dad," she works up the nerve to accuse me.
I walk over to where she sits on the barstool. I wipe my hands on a kitchen towel before I tilt up her chin to force her to look me in the eyes. "Your father and I have the same interests in this. Like I told you, I'm keeping you here to protect you."
Her eyes blaze, "Then let me talk to him."
Wordlessly, I hold out my phone to her. She looks at me as if I would pull it back before she quickly snatches it.
"He should be in my recent calls," I know he is.
He called me several times today, demanding to talk to Scarlet, no matter how many times I told him that she was doing fine and was at my house, as my guest , while I was working.
I promised to have her call him as soon as I got home.
Oops, that might have slipped my mind. My bad .
Lambert needs to squirm a little. He needs to know who is in charge here.
Every time he demanded to talk to his daughter, I vowed to make him squirm a little bit longer.
Scarlet wasn't exactly asking, either. Like father, like daughter, I chuckle. But she has been through a hell of an ordeal, so I let it slide—at least that's what I tell myself is the reason—and return to dicing the tomatoes, not even pretending not to listen to Scarlet's side of the conversation.