Chapter 5
5
Cleanup of humiliation in aisle five, please.
What’s worse than begging a murderous stranger to fuck you?
Him rejecting you and walking out the door.
Correction: Him having sex with you and then leaving might’ve been worse. But I’m dramatic, thank you very much.
I wait two hours, just in case Damien returns, but he doesn’t. To clear my head, I go to dinner with my mother and sister, Lanie. After that, we attend a local ballet recital. Neither helps me clear my head of him.
I don’t tell my father about Damien not taking the money or how I danced half his debt off. My cheeks warm as I think about all the ways Damien touched me.
If my father found out I have the money, he’d demand it back.
Including what I loaned him.
Then, he’d gamble it away tonight.
It’s after ten when I get home. I lock the dead bolt on the door and yawn, humming a tune from the ballet while strolling through my apartment. I stop in my tracks when my gaze hits Damien’s blazer draped over the couch. He forgot it on his rush out of here.
I glide my fingers along the expensive fabric and raise it to my nose before shamelessly drawing in a breath, inhaling his scent. My body relaxes as I shrug it on. It droops on me like a potato sack, the sleeves swallowing my arms.
Take it off, Pippa .
For all I know, there could be crime evidence on this.
A dead person’s DNA.
Here I am, dummy of the year, wearing exhibit A of a murder case.
And now, my DNA is on it.
I pat the pocket, silently telling myself I’ll only wear it for a moment.
Surely, DNA takes a few minutes to gather.
Like the five-second rule with dropped pizza rolls.
I keep the blazer on while kicking off my flats. My bare feet plod against the wood floor on my walk to the bathroom. Damien is on my mind as I shower, and I run my hands over my body, remembering how good his touch felt.
After showering, I slip on a bra and panties and tug the blazer back on. On my way to my bed, I snag my MacBook from the nightstand and climb underneath the blankets, making myself comfortable.
Then, I Google Damien, Lucky Kings Casino .
Nothing of relevance comes up.
I type Damien, Lombardi, New York .
That search brings up a few photos and news articles.
Nothing stalk-worthy.
I click on a blog post on the site, New York Mafia Girlie , that ranked men in the New York Cosa Nostra families by hotness, status, and viciousness.
Cristian Marchetti is number one.
No surprise there .
Also known as Monster Marchetti, Cristian is the cruelest mob boss in the city. Even though he’s close to my father’s age, Cristian is hot as hell. A total DILF. But his psychopathic tendencies are a bit of a turn-off for me.
Antonio and Vinny Lombardi are ranked fifth and seventh, respectively.
Damien Bellini is ranked twelfth.
Leaning in closer, I zoom in on the blurry photo of him. It’s one someone took from afar, and he’s standing in front of the city courthouse, shaking hands with the prosecutor.
I spend another twenty minutes scouring the internet for all Damien news before shutting my MacBook in defeat. It seems the only way to get to know this man is to either join a mob family or owe them a substantial amount of money.
Although the second might lead to my death.
Not that it matters.
Getting mixed up with a man like him is nothing but trouble.
A direct roadway to heartbreak—no U-turns, no reroutes. Straight off a cliff.
I set my laptop back on my nightstand and am on my third yawn as I drift off.
Sane people don’t bang on doors this late in New York.
I ignore it.
I've already dodged violence once today. No, thank you on putting myself in that situation again.
I fluff my pillow and lay my head back down.
But the knocking continues.
Bang! Bang!
Pound! Pound!
“Jesus,” I shout, throwing off my comforter .
The last thing I need is my landlord evicting me for whoever is at my door, disturbing the peace.
“I’m coming,” I yell, stomping through my apartment.
I peek through the door’s peephole before swinging it open and stumbling back as Damien stands before me.
His shoulders are slumped as he stares at me gravely.
All his confidence from earlier is absent.
Gone is the pretentious suit, replaced with black sweats and a hoodie.
He opens his mouth, but no words come.
I retreat another inch when he silently invites himself inside, shutting the door with the heel of his sneaker.
“Damien—” I don’t get the chance to complete my sentence.
He cups the back of my head and madly kisses me.
It’s pleading.
Hopeless .
Breath-starved.
He guides me backward toward my bedroom, not loosening his hold.
The only light in my bedroom comes from the TV, but that’s all he needs. He leads me to the edge of my bed, holding me in place, and I stumble when he frantically tears my panties down my legs.
His eyes leave mine as he trails kisses down my neck.
Every movement is rougher than he was earlier.
The dark side of him coming out at night.
“Damien,” I croak out again, pushing at his chest to slow him down.
Stop him.
Get some sort of explanation.
He ignores me, digging his canines into my skin as if going for blood.
I nudge him again, harder this time.
He rears back, as if I suddenly tased him .
Pain fills his eyes.
Red, on the lines of reaching bloodshot.
He cups my face, gentler than he was seconds ago.
As if I were an heirloom, passed down through generations.
Those anguished eyes lower to mine.
A breath catches in my throat as I nervously hold his gaze.
“Pippa,” he finally whispers, caressing his trembling thumb over my cheek. “My family was murdered tonight. Please let me stay here before I do something that’ll haunt me for the rest of my life.”
I open my mouth.
Ready to tell him I’m sorry.
Ask how .
Why .
He squeezes his thumb into my cheek, as if driving those questions away from my lips.
I nod—a silent understanding—and allow him to devour my mouth.
This man saved me from my father’s problems earlier.
And tonight, it’s my turn to save him.