33. ANTONIO
I wake with Scarlet in my arms, and damn, does that feel good.
She fits fucking perfectly against me, with her tight little ass pressed into me.
My cock is already sporting a hardon from her closeness, and remembering the mind-blowing sex from last in the shower only serves to stiffen it to a nearly painful point.
A soft sigh escapes her as I drag my hands over her luscious curves. She's the most goddamn perfect goddess I've ever held. I'll be damned, if I don't make sure that this is the way I'm going to wake up every morning from now on. She might not know it yet, but I'll make sure she stays.
Moving a few strands of her hair to the side allows me to nibble on her earlobe, greedily sucking the little thing into my mouth and breathing into her ear. Another little sigh escapes her, and my hand gets busy moving down her thigh.
She's only wearing one of my t-shirts, no panties, and the sight and feel of her are about to send my cock into the stratosphere with want to be buried inside her tight little pussy. Her legs part for me, and I rub between them, finding her folds already slick for me—goddamn goddess.
She turns her head to the side, her eyes flutter open, and the sight of those bluest of blue orbs steals my breath.
"Good morning," she says in a husky voice, bringing her hand up to her mouth.
My lips curl. "Good morning," I repeat. I take her hand to move it to the side, while the fingers of my other hand are still busy massaging her clit.
"Ugh, morning breath," she says, unwilling to surrender her hand to me.
I laugh and pin the hand over her head while rolling us around. Instead of saying anything, I press my lips to hers, probing her teeth with my tongue until she opens for me.
Her legs part wider, giving me enough room to enter her with three fingers, curling them to hit that secret spot of hers.
As she bucks against my dick, a grin escapes me.
I love how responsive she is to me. Her ass begins to grind against me, her leg rises higher, and that is all the invitation I need to slip into her tight canal.
"Fuck Scarlet," I growl as I pull out my fingers and sheath myself deep inside her. Her hips move against me.
Before I can warn her that I'm about to come, her pussy tightens around my dick and begins milking it mercilessly. With a roar, stars explode behind my closed lids as my body absorbs every blissful second she gives me.
"Wow," she says, leaning against me breathlessly.
"Wow is right," I agree, kissing her shoulder.
"Can we start every morning like this?"
"You read my mind." I lean over to kiss her again, but the ringing of the phone stops me. Cursing, I turn over to reach my nightstand while Scarlet slips off my dick. I watch her disappear into the bathroom and bark into the phone, "This better be good."
It isn't. It's a nuisance call from Igio, but it gives me an excuse to leave the house to run another errand I've been meaning to do. I finish dressing just as Scarlet comes out of the shower.
"You're leaving?"
"I've got a couple of things I need to take care of, passerotta, but I promise I'll be back in a few hours to take you shopping.
" I walk over to her side, trying hard to ignore how fucking sexy she looks wearing nothing but a white towel with her hair all wet and down.
I bury my hand in it, and she lifts her head to meet my kiss.
"I'll be back soon," I promise.
"I'll be here," she smiles, tempting me to call it a day and take her back to bed. I promise myself I will do just that as soon as Carlos is dead. Hell, I'll spend an entire week with her in bed.
A car is already parked outside, waiting for me. Inside are four of my bodyguards, and Umberto is driving. He knows where Igio is holding a Venezuelan hostage. This shouldn't take too long.
I was right, too. It didn't. The bastard was just as closemouthed as his compadres in Los Angeles. The whole thing was nothing but a waste of time.
But now… now I'm at Scarlet's apartment. The other errand I had to run. Something I should have done right away. Women are creatures of habit. They need certain things, as I've learned from Gigi. I just need to figure out what's important to Scarlet.
I guess they haven't replaced the doorman and front desk clerk, because nobody challenges me when I enter the building. Scarlet's lock doesn't pose an obstacle either, making me frown. There is no way I'm ever allowing her to come back here. This place isn't safe.
The first sight greeting me when I enter her apartment is a massive wall filled with books.
Curious, I step closer. These aren't romance books like Gigi reads; these are real books. Reading the Maya Glyphs by Michael D. Coe , The Curator’s Handbook, The Lost Art of Reading Nature’s Signs by Tristan Gooley .
The last one awakens my curiosity enough to pull it out to look at the back.
My initial thought that this is about some kind of preserve nature shit, is quickly changed.
It's about understanding symbols and historical context in ancient artifacts.
Still not something that gets me perked up, but interesting.
I put it back in its place and keep browsing, strangely fascinated by her collection.
I pull out another, SPQR: A History of Ancient Rome by Mary Beard.
I leaf through it, and my eye gets caught here and there by pictures.
Strangely, even with my Italian family strings, I've never felt a pull to Italy, but seeing these pictures, I get the fascination.
I browse through the first chapter, and before long, I find myself sitting on Scarlet's couch, engrossed by the book.
With a curse, I throw it on the couch, shaking my head at myself.
Scarlet's couch is comfortable. A fluffy blanket smells like her, making me smile faintly.
Underneath a pillow, I find another book, The Gallic Wars by no other than Julius Caesar himself, written in a language I can't decipher, but assume to be Latin.
My little passerotta truly is full of surprises.
The book looks well-worn, too, unless she bought it second-hand—which I don't believe—she has read it multiple times.
There are even handwritten notes in the margins, also in Latin.
I don't know Scarlet well enough to definitively identify her handwriting, but it looks like hers.
Alright, I'm not packing these books, and I won’t take the Kindle on the table. I have no idea if it's traceable, but I'm sure a purchase on her account would raise Carlos's suspicion.
The kitchen is separated from the rest of the area by a long counter.
A vase with now wilted flowers sits in the center, as well as a bowl with slowly spoiling fruits.
The sink is empty and clean; nothing looks out of place.
I refrain from opening the fridge, not in the mood for the stink of rotting food.
I'd send a cleaning crew in here to take care of it, but I've already made up my mind that Scarlet is not coming back here.
As soon as Carlos is dead, though, I will have her books and things brought to my house.
The pantry is a small surprise. Somehow, I had expected to find a bunch of healthy snacks in there, but there aren’t any. The entire pantry is filled with junk food, ranging from chocolate bars to chips and Ramen noodles.
I should probably feel guilty sneaking around her apartment like this. But I don’t. Scarlet is mine to take care of now, whether she realizes it or not. And if I have to go through her things to figure out what she might need, so be it.
I close the pantry, shaking my head with amusement. All those books, all that knowledge—yet she eats like a college kid.
I move back into the living room, taking another slow look around.
The space isn’t overly feminine, but it’s hers.
Everything feels like Scarlet. The muted colors, the meticulously arranged books, the throw blanket draped over the couch like it was casually tossed there—when I know damn well she probably folded it perfectly before leaving.
There’s a framed photo on a nearby shelf.
I pick it up, studying it. Scarlet and Judge Lambert.
She looks happy and full of love. I remember Lambert mentioning that Scarlet is all he has left and that his wife died.
The one who had abused Scarlet for years.
Still. If she's dead, wouldn't Scarlet have a picture of her, too?
I turn in a slow circle, but this is the only personal picture I can see. Interesting.
I continue my search, scanning for anything she might need. Clothes, toiletries, essentials. Gigi bought her some stuff, but she might want her own. The door to her bedroom is slightly ajar. I don't hesitate before stepping inside.
The bed is made all in white, sheets and comforter. A red throw blanket is the only source of color. I don't see an overabundance of pillows or stuffed animals, like Gigi prefers, and no frilly bedsheets, either.
A small desk sits against the far wall. Papers are neatly stacked next to a closed laptop. Pens, again, nothing colorful or frilly, rest inside a pen holder. I step closer and pull out the first drawer. My eyes land on a leather-bound journal.
I know I shouldn’t, but I’m already reaching for it. It looks brand-new. I flip it open, expecting more Latin scrawled notes like in her books. Instead, the date catches my attention. She only started this a little more than a month before her abduction.
My finger taps against the journal. Something like a conscience tells me I shouldn't. That this is a line I shouldn’t cross. But I've never listened to it before, so why start now?
I don't know where I heard to do this, but since this is nothing I can talk to anybody about, I hope that writing it down will be as cathartic as people claim. I have my doubts, but… the nightmares have been getting worse lately, so much so that I don't even want to sleep.
My brows crease with the memory of Scarlet's anxiety attack.
My gut churns at the thought of the abuse her own mother rained down on her.
I wish I could bring her back to life, just so that I can kill her for what she did.
My mind races, wondering why she has no one to talk to about it.
What about Daddy Dearest? Or her friends?
I don't think she's that much of a private person that she wouldn't…
Out of concern—so I tell myself—I continue reading.
Well, here goes nothing, let’s get straight to it then, right? If this doesn’t help, I’ll burn this damn book later. That’s supposed to be cathartic as well. I’ll probably burn it anyway, cause…
I pause, just like she seemed to have done. The hesitation is there, woven into the words. A moment of doubt. A breath caught between confession and regret. Whatever is weighing on her, it’s more than just her mother’s abuse.
My fingers tighten around the edges of the book, and I keep reading.
Alright, here goes nothing.
I KILLED MY MOM.
What?
The words stare back at me, solid and unflinching. For a long moment, everything stops except my heartbeat, which picks up a notch while I process her words. Slowly, a smirk pulls at my lips.
Well, well, well. It seems my little passerotta isn’t a passerotta at all.
She’s an aquila—an eagle. I exhale through my nose, running a thumb along the book’s leather cover.
I knew she had fight in her. That much was obvious.
But this? This is something else entirely.
I don’t know if I’m impressed or astonished. Maybe both.
I wonder if her father knows. It doesn't sound like it.
I feel neither anger nor horror. Instead, I feel… intrigued. Scarlet is full of surprises. And if she thinks she can keep this part of herself hidden from me, she is dead fucking wrong.
I close the book, not bothering to read on. She’ll tell me when she’s ready and feels safe enough to let me in. But I can’t leave this journal here.
I glance around her apartment while my mind calculates the risks. If this book ever fell into the wrong hands—if the wrong person found it…
For now, I'll tuck it into my jacket. Later, I'll put it in my safe.
I protect what’s mine. And Scarlet is mine.
While I look through the drawers of her dresser, my mind keeps returning to the bombshell I just read. I knew she was fucking perfect for me before, but now… the more facets I get to see of her, the more she fascinates me.
In her closet, I find a grey bag big enough to hold some of her things, like a pair of well-worn pajamas that I'm sure she loves, as well as some shirts and jogging pants.
The bathroom is a complete surprise. A big grin spreads over my face when I look at the mayhem that happened in here. A curling iron is off now, but a deep, black indentation in the Corian counter bears silent witness that she didn't always turn it off in time.
A blow dryer lies forgotten inside the sink, right next to a bag of cosmetics, which I also grab. I check her shower. I don't think she's attached to her loofah or razor, so I leave them, but I grab her shampoo, conditioner, and body soap.
Then I go through her drawers. They stare at me right from the first drawer I open.
Mocking me and tempting me, trying to make me do something…
unchivalrous. It's her birth control pills.
For some reason, seeing them there… knowing she and I had unprotected sex, does something to me.
In my mind's eye, I see her perfect body swollen with my son or daughter.
And fuck if that isn't something I suddenly want more than anything in the world. More than to avenge my father.
Leave them here … my mind tempts.
I can't… if I bring her stuff, she'll know I was here. She'll know I saw them…
Fine, don't bring her stuff.
It's tempting. Very, very tempting. With a groan, I grab the damn pills and throw them in the bag with all the other stuff. For good measure, I check her medicine cabinet. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised by anything, but there's nothing there. Well, nothing she might need.
My feet get tangled in her bathrobe, which lies on the ground in a heap of discarded clothing. She went out with her friends that night. My lips curl because this looks exactly like the aftermath I would expect from a woman once she's done with her makeup and clothing.