20. SCARLET
The air thickens between us. I hate to admit it, but with every passing minute, I like Antonio DeLuna more and more.
This is not just the most amazing sex of my life talking—well, maybe a tiny bit—but my mind, too.
He is everything I always dreamed of in a man being—aside from the illegal activities and killing people. There's that.
He is tall, dark, and so very handsome. His body is to die for. He saved my life, just like a hero in a movie. He's every woman's wet dream. But above all that, he's also charming, witty, caring, and… nice, at least to me.
He's also a killer, Scarlet , my mind reminds me.
A killer who killed the men who abducted and tortured you , my heart adds.
He's also the most satisfying cock to ever visit here , my pussy chimes in.
I hope my face isn't turning flaming red, because I really don't want to follow where my pussy is going with this.
Mafia, Scarlet. Fucking, murderous, scrupulous mafia , my mind reiterates.
Alright, alright, I get the message. Jeez . I catch myself before I roll my eyes at myself.
I know I should stop. I don't need to know this; it'll only complicate things, but my tongue won't obey me. "About Carlos?"
He leans back on the cushion I put on the floor and regards me through veiled eyes. "Are you sure you want to know about this? There's no going back once you do."
He's warning you. For fuck's sake, listen. You. Don't. Want. To. Know . My mind screams.
"No going back?"
A slow, almost lazy smirk tugs at his lips. "If I divulge family secrets, you’ll become family." His eyes burn into mine, sharp as a blade, slicing through any illusion of choice. "And in my world, family isn’t just a word. It’s a binding contract."
His fingers trail up my arm, deceptively gentle. "You want in?" He tilts his head, studying me like prey. "Then you’ll be mine. Not just in name. In every way."
A shiver runs down my spine, but not from fear of him. No, it's from the unspoken promise in his voice, the claim he has already made.
"I don’t share. I don’t ask. I take. And if you say yes, passerotta, you won’t walk away. Ever."
I feel dizzy, so, so dizzy. I take a drink of wine.
Doesn't he have anything stronger? I'm a good girl, remember?
I'm a curator, for crying out loud. But you also know how to keep family secrets, don't you ?
I want to tell the voice in my head to shut up, but mercilessly, it continues.
Y ou've kept secrets for years—your mothers, your fathers, yours .
I swallow. I want the voices to stop, so I keep the conversation going. "And what do family members have to do?"
Deep green eyes penetrate mine as if he's searching the bottom of my soul. "Scarlet," his tone is still warning.
The wine is getting to my head. "Do you know what it feels like to hang from the ceiling for hours? Days? To be hosed down with water like an animal?"
Silently, he rises, moves to a dresser underneath the obscenely large TV, and opens it. Ah, there's the hard stuff .
He holds up a bottle questioningly. I have no idea what it is, but the liquid is amber, and I really need something stronger than wine. I nod. He fills two glasses and returns, handing one to me.
"I have an idea about the pain?—"
"Pain?" I interrupt sharply. "I'm not talking about the pain. Yeah, it was there, but I've dealt with pain all my life. What I've never gotten was justice. Did Hank and Marco suffer?"
He nods.
"Good." I empty the glass, and the liquid hits my throat, burning a path all the way into my stomach, burning out all traces of the good girl . From there, it spreads out in a wave of warmth. I hold up the glass to him.
"Scarlet." He warns again.
"No, don't ‘Scarlet’ me," I nearly shout.
"I've been a good girl all my life. All.
My. Life. And it was never good enough for my mother.
Never. You know what? I was glad when she died.
Glad!" I laugh, and even to me, it sounds hysterical.
Maybe because I only spoke a half-truth. You killed her, Scarlet .
He puts his glass down and walks up to me, pulling me into his embrace, but I push him back. "You thought earlier that I had a panic attack because of what was done to me, right?"
He stares at me. I know I'm losing my shit, but I can't help it. The last few days have done a number on my psyche. "I'm not going crazy, Antonio. For the first time in my life, I'm thinking straight."
I walk to where he keeps the booze and refill my glass.
"I had a fucking panic attack because I felt guilty. Guilty for putting my father in this position. Guilty for having been kidnapped." I swallow the liquid down in one gulp. This time, it doesn’t burn as much as before.
"You don't have to feel guilty for that—" he tries.
"But I do! That's the problem," I interrupt him again. "Mom always said one day I would ruin my dad's career. Being a judge's wife was everything to her. But you know what?"
He stays still, knowing this was a rhetorical question.
"I was never given a choice . My dad is a judge.
He took this position well aware of what he was getting himself into and the possible consequences it might cause his family, as well as the danger he could put us all in.
Me?" I raise an eyebrow mockingly. "I never had a choice .
Yes, I should have probably paid more attention to my surroundings after Dad warned me, but like you said, those men would have gotten me either way, wouldn't they? "
"Yes."
I feel myself deflate just a little. "My dad isn’t responsible for this, but neither am I."
He doesn't say anything; he just stares at me with his inscrutable green eyes. "Over and over, I berated myself for my carelessness while I was hanging from that ceiling, knowing I would die. But I'm sick of it. This wasn't my fault."
"No," he agrees.
"I hated how powerless I was hanging there," I admit, lowering my head and allowing a tear to spill down my cheek. "That was the absolute worst part. The humiliation, the fear, the knowledge that there wasn't a thing I could do. It never crossed my mind that my dad would hire you."
"He didn't hire me." Antonio objects.
I shrug. "Whatever, semantics." I take a deep, shuddering breath, "I know one thing for sure: the cops wouldn't have been the ones to save me; hell, they might've never even found my body."
I can read the truthfulness of my statement in his expression.
"So," I look up until our eyes meet again. "What does one have to do in your family?"