Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
LULU
Is it just me, or are things moving … fast? Fast actually feels like a mild term. It’s really more like supersonic. I didn’t even know Rome a week ago, and now, I live with him, we’ve had the most amazing sex of my life, and he just told me that he’s not afraid of getting me pregnant.
These should be red flags.
Yet I can’t bring myself to feel like it’s wrong.
The timer dings, signaling that it’s time to knead my dough and get it in the oven.
I’ve been baking and cooking for the past two hours.
My sauce is already simmering. It’s best if it can simmer for a full day, but this will do just fine.
When I woke up, Rome was still out cold, and I didn’t want to disturb him, so I slipped out of bed and went to the guest room to pull on clothes.
When I got to the kitchen, I was excited to find that the groceries had been delivered while we slept.
At least, I think it was while we slept and not while Rome had me screaming down the building with the best orgasms of my life.
Is that why I’m so quick to agree to this supersonic relationship? Because I’m so attracted to him, and his pierced dick does magical things to me?
To be fair, I was into it before I discovered how talented he is with his dick, pierced or not.
With the bread in the oven, I cross to the fancy farm sink and wash my hands, and then I take stock of what I still need to do.
But when I turn around, I find Rome standing on the other side of the island, leaning against the countertop, watching me.
He’s in a white T-shirt and lounge pants. I’ve never seen him this casual.
“Hey.” I smile at him and wipe down the countertop with a sponge. “You were sleeping well.”
“Did you not sleep well?” he asks with a frown. Christ, I love his voice. It’s so deep and … sexy.
“I slept like the dead, actually. I just woke up and knew I wouldn’t get back to sleep. Plus, this is my one night off, and I don’t want to waste it.”
His eyebrow kicks up, and he looks almost irritated. “You can work any night you want.”
“No.” I shake my head firmly. “I work for Rita.”
“And Rita works for me.”
I smile at him as I find a cutting board and knife, then pull tomatoes and basil out of the fridge, grab a head of garlic, and start chopping.
“But I work for Rita,” I counter. “And she sets my schedule. I don’t want special treatment. I love the job, and I’m not complaining at all.”
“It didn’t sound like you were,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. Holy shit, do the tattoos look good. They’re down both arms, and his T-shirt hugs his biceps like a second skin, and it all makes me a little sweaty.
“I’m just ready for a night of downtime, that’s all. It’s been a crazy week, and I feel like I haven’t had a minute to just breathe since I sat down at that breakfast with my father. Everything was scary. Not just that day or the days since, but for years. And it feels good to take a breath.”
I realize I’ve finished chopping the tomatoes, and my eyes fly up to his.
“I might have said too much.”
“Never.” He circles the island and wraps his arms around me from behind, pressing his lips against the top of my head. “I hate that you lived in fear for even one minute. Someone will pay for that.”
I sigh and lean back into him, enjoying his strength, his warmth. Nothing feels better than being held by Rome. “I don’t need someone to pay for it. I just don’t want to live that way anymore.”
I feel his breath in my hair as he rubs his lips lightly back and forth. “You’ll never live that way again. What are you making? It smells fucking amazing.”
I smile and tip my head back to look up into his icy-blue eyes. “This is for bruschetta. I have bread in the oven for that, too. But I’m making homemade pasta for dinner, and the sauce is simmering. I should have asked you if you have allergies or if there’s anything you hate.”
“I’ll eat whatever you make,” he says before he kisses my forehead. “Do you have everything you need?”
“Your kitchen is well-equipped. I love it.”
“I’ve never used it.” He smirks and hugs me before letting me go. “I’ll be heading to work at around six.”
“This will be done before then,” I assure him. “I’d like to invite Scarlett over to hang out here with me tonight.”
“I don’t have a problem with that. When she arrives, have one of the guards outside go down to get her.”
I nod, relieved that Rome is so laid-back. Most men in his world are hard and cruel. Uncaring. Certainly not affectionate and happy to do a woman’s bidding.
“You have an odd look on your face,” he says, watching me.
“If you hadn’t told me that you’re part of organized crime, I’d never have guessed. I’ve spent my whole life in that world, and you are not like them.”
“Explain.” His eyes narrow, and his jaw firms, but he doesn’t look angry. He looks … concerned.
“You’re not hard and angry. Mean. Vicious. I’m not afraid that you’re going to hurt me just for the fun of it.”
His jaw works. “I need to get something straight with you. I’m not a good man, Eloise. I am hard and angry, and I can be vicious. I have no qualms about taking someone’s life.”
“But it’s because they’re the bad guys. Not just randomly, or because you enjoy it.”
He tips his head to the side. “Don’t romanticize me. I’ll treat you well every moment of every day, but few others get that luxury. No, I don’t enjoy hurting women. Killing is a part of most of my days. People fucking fear me because I need them to. I am the bad guy, firefly.”
I nod slowly, taking it in as I stir the bruschetta mixture, then place it in the fridge so all of the flavors can marry.
Next, I get started on the pasta.
“Just because you haven’t seen it doesn’t make it nonexistent,” he finally says.
“But I prefer not to see it.” I clear my throat. “I’m not innocent, Rome. I’ve seen my fair share of death. My father thought it was funny to murder the men who betrayed him in front of me.”
He lowers his hands, and they fist on the island, but I keep talking.
“He’s a sadistic bastard.” I shake my head and open cupboards. “Do you have a stand mixer with attachments?”
“I have no idea.”
“Hmm.” I walk into the pantry to look and don’t see it at first, but then it catches my eye on a corner shelf, high up. “Aha! Found it.”
I’m able to grab it with my right hand, but it’s too heavy for my left since I can’t reach all the way above my head. I almost drop it, but suddenly, Rome’s there, helping me.
“Whoa,” he says, taking it from me. “Don’t do that again.”
“Sorry, I can usually manage, but when something is high up, I have issues.” I demonstrate how far I can raise my left arm. “This shoulder doesn’t work well.”
“Why the fuck not?” he asks as he sets the mixer where I point on the counter.
“It’s been dislocated too many times.”
I turn to walk away, but then I’m spun back around, and Rome’s fierce eyes glare down at me.
“Say that the fuck again.”
I lick my lips. Jesus, I just say everything around this man.
He’s like a truth serum. But who else have I ever been able to tell?
No one on my father’s payroll would have given a shit.
Iris hated how I was treated, and sometimes she’d make sure to hold me when I couldn’t hold in my pain.
But she also needed to keep her job, and the walls had ears, so she would never have been a true confidante.
I had no one, and I hadn’t realized how lonely my life was until I came to Rapture.
Is that why all of this is coming out of my mouth? Because I’ve never had a soul to tell? Because I could never divulge to anyone that I lived with a narcissistic monster who treated me so despicably?
“My left shoulder has been dislocated a lot, and I never had physical therapy for it. So I can’t reach up, and I can’t lift heavy things above my head. But I’ll just get a step stool—”
“Fuck the stool. Who dislocated … let me guess, your piece-of-shit father?”
I lick my lips again and give him a jerky nod. “If I made him mad, he grabbed my arm and pulled it behind my back. Hard.”
Rome paces away from me, then turns back my way. “What else?”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“I want to know every fucking thing he did to you. I saw the bruises. And now I know about the shoulder. What else, Eloise?”
“I have a scar”—he growls—“on my low back from a knife. Mostly, it was slaps, though. Once in a while, he’d punch me, and once I was on the ground, he’d kick my ribs. That’s what you saw. Those are fading nicely and don’t hurt anymore.”
“Anything else?”
I reach out and take his hand, giving it a squeeze before I resume my place at the island to make the pasta. “Mostly, it was psychological. I’ve seen men tortured, hacked up, bled out, all of the things.”
“When did he start doing that to you?” His voice is hard and low.
“I was young.” I blow a piece of hair out of my face, thinking it over. It was just before my mom died. “Probably eight or nine.”
“Christ,” he whispers.
“Yeah, some girls went to dance class, and I watched men lose their fingers. He never made me be the one to do it, but that’s because he loves it too much.
He always said it was because my idiot of a mother never gave him a son, so he didn’t have a proper heir, and I’d be expected to be it instead.
But let’s be real, I was never going to inherit anything.
Women aren’t dons. Whoever he made me marry would have taken over the family.
He just liked hurting me. Watching people die tore me up until I was in my early teens, when I learned how to turn my brain off and disassociate. ”
I shake my head as I mix the eggs and flour by hand. This is my favorite part. I love getting my hands dirty in the kitchen.
“Why did we start talking about this?” I ask with a frown.
“You prefer not to see it,” he says, reminding me.