10. SCARLET
My fingers shake when I scroll through Antonio's incoming call list. I still can't believe he just handed it to me. My eyes well with tears when I see the number of times my dad has called. Eleven times in a single day. I can only imagine how out of his mind with worry he must be.
"Antonio! Where—" my father answers before the first ring is even finished.
"Daddy?" My voice breaks.
"Scar? Oh my God, baby, is that you? Are you okay, sweetheart?
I'm so, so sorry. Did they hurt you? Oh my God, Scar," he blabbers.
His voice is deep and scratchy. I can picture him, too.
His grey hair is probably a mess from when he kept running his hands through it.
He probably has dark circles under his eyes from rubbing them and not sleeping.
"I'm okay, Daddy. I'm good." From the other side of the kitchen, I hear Antonio scoff, but I ignore him.
My dad sucks in a shaky breath, but his words come out rushed, like he’s afraid if he stops talking, I’ll disappear again. Like, he needs to hear my voice to believe I’m real.
“Baby, I’ve been trying to reach you. I was—am—sick with worry. I thought—” he chokes off, his voice sounding like it’s breaking in a way I have only witnessed once before. My dad has always been the strong one. The one I could rely on. Hearing him this broken hurts my heart.
“I know, Daddy. I know.” I press my free hand to my chest, trying to keep myself together. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t call. I—I wasn’t allowed to.”
I send a surreptitious glance toward Antonio, who has moved on to slicing onions and garlic.
He's not even pretending not to listen. I watch his jaw work.
He's always devastatingly handsome to look at, but from his profile?
The little crooked Cesar nose, the sunken in cheek, the way his strong hands work the knife he's using…
I feel a small flutter go through my stomach.
“I wish I could come get you. Is he treating you right?” My dad's voice brings me back to what I'm doing.
I turn my back on Antonio. I'm not trying to hide my words; I just can't keep staring at him. “I’m… safe. I'm good. The doctor was here. He stitched me—" I break off the moment I realize, too late, what I'm saying. Dad takes in a sharp inhale.
"I want to come get you," he says in a breaking voice. "I need to see my baby girl. I need to see that you are okay."
Okay? I'm not. I'm not even remotely okay. I was kidnapped. Strung up and tortured. Nothing is going to make that okay again. Ever. But I can't tell him that. He's my father. He was so broken up after he found out… after Mom. I can't do that to him again.
I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the tears, fighting the little girl trapped inside me who cried out for her father every time her mother took the switch to her. I need to be strong. Stronger than I was before. I can't allow my dad to hear my fears or cry my heart out to him. It would break him.
I want to go home. I want to pretend none of this happened. I want to be back in my apartment, at work, or going out drinking with the girls, rolling my eyes at Jo’s latest stock market rant.
But that isn’t my life anymore.
"I'm good, Daddy. I really am. I'm safe and well taken care of. Antonio is fixing me some food right now. I should probably go and help him."
I glance over my shoulder, where Antonio has stopped chopping and is watching me with an inscrutable expression.
"Okay. I'll do whatever I can to get you home, Scarlet, I swear."
"I know, Daddy, I know." A small smile tugs at the corners of my lips.
"I'll call you tomorrow, baby girl. I love you."
"I love you too, Daddy." I manage to keep my voice even, then I hit the red button and disconnect the call. Only then do I allow the big fat tear gathering in my eye to run down my cheek.
"Nobody will hurt you under my watch," Antonio says, holding a tissue under my nose.
But who is going to protect me from you? I wonder, taking the tissue and blowing my nose in a very unladylike way.
"Your father and I have the same goal here. Nobody is going to hurt you, Scarlet," Antonio reassures me again as if I hadn't heard him the first time.
"Thank you," I nod at him. I want to believe him, I truly do. "That smells delicious." I change the subject, pointing my chin toward the stove.
"Just some spaghetti with meatballs," he shrugs.
"Hmm, somehow I doubt it’s just just ." I force a smile to my lips.
It's not going to help to cry in front of him. He is a gangster , I remind myself. A cold-hearted killer. He’s running this part of the Cosa Nostra organization now after his father's death.
He is just as ruthless as Carlos is. If he and Dad didn't have the same goal, I'm sure I'd be strung up in his basement.
I watch him add the pasta he just made into a pot of boiling water, and my stomach rumbles.
I haven't had a full meal since… since before I went out with the girls, eons ago.
Well, that's partly my fault , I amend. Good food was brought to my room earlier, three times. I could have eaten if my appetite hadn’t taken a leave of absence.
I don’t know at what point Antonio rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, but now I can't help but watch his muscles flex as he grates parmesan cheese into a small bowl.
Fuck, how can anybody look so sexy grating parmesan cheese?
But more to the point, why the hell is he turning me on so much?
For all intents and purposes, I'm his prisoner.
He has the ability, know-how, and means to kill me at any given time.
Still, I can feel my panties getting wet at the sight of him.
I hope that is some deep-seated forgotten survival mechanism.
As in like, screw your captor like there is no tomorrow, and he might let you see it .
"Those men… the ones who held me, are they dead?" I have no idea—absolutely none—why I asked this question, but for some unfathomable reason, I need to know.
He pauses his grating and looks at me through his thick, dark eyelashes. A dimple makes an appearance on his left cheek. God damn, why does he have to have a dimple too?
"They won't ever hurt you again," his voice is deep.
"That's not why I asked," I swallow, focusing my eyes on his hands resting on the counter. Long fingers with manicured nails drum slightly against the surface.
He walks around the kitchen island. "Why do you ask, then?"
He reaches my side, and a heated jolt moves through me. Instinctively, I lean back in my chair as he moves closer, caging me in against the island as his hands plant on either side of me. "Do you want them dead, Scarlet?"
His voice is nothing but a rasp; he is so close I feel his warm breath on my face, so close all I’d have to do is lift my head and we would be nose to nose. The flutter in my stomach increases.
Unable to say anything, I nod, while simultaneously wondering what the hell is wrong with me. How can I be turned on by this man right now? Besides being my captor, we are talking about possibly dead men here.
Men who tortured you , part of me states. Not cries. Simply states.
"What if I told you two are still alive. Strung up like you were, Scarlet?"
I swallow and try to lean back further, but my back is already hitting the counter's edge. His hand lifts, his thumb moves underneath my chin, and a tremble moves through me. The worst part is that I have no idea if I'm trembling in fear or because Antonio is turning me on.
His thumb brushes against the underside of my chin. "What would you do, Scarlet? Hmm?" His voice is so deep and gruff that my hands cling to the edge of my seat. I need something to hold on to, to ground me.
"Would you ask me to see them? Would you want to carve them like they did you?"
My head jerks up. I was wrong, there is enough distance between us so that our noses don't touch. Barely.
"No, no, of course not," I protest, ignoring a deep, primal part inside me that wants to come to the surface and do just that.
Our eyes meet. His thumb is still underneath my chin, and I'm very aware of the contact between our flesh. I'm also aware of my rapidly beating heart.
A deep chuckle escapes him. He moves his thumb and caresses my cheek, causing my lower body to liquify. "Liar."