12. Chapter 7
Dashiell
"Thank you for coming,” I finally make myself say after spending the past few minutes sulking in Lorenzo’s passenger seat while he navigates through the streets of San Francisco.
The mafia prince doesn’t even look in my direction.
He’s been remarkably still ever since we got in the car, his eyes staying firmly on the road, his hands rigid on the wheel.
I wonder what he’s thinking—if he can’t get the carnal memory of our bodies pressed together out of his head. I certainly can’t.
“You’re welcome,” he says softly, his strong jaw firm and tight.
I’ve got something firm and tight to give him, I think, and then I immediately wish I could whack my horniness with a stick.
Note to self: next time, make sure to hop on a dick before getting in an enclosed space with Lorenzo Diamante, or at least jerk off, or I’ll be horny as hell.
“I’ll send someone to your apartment to collect your things,” he says as he turns into an expensive neighborhood of apartments.
“What?”
Sorry, I was too busy staring at your biceps to listen, I think.
He finally spares a glance in my direction.
“You’re going to be staying with me. Starting tonight.
Whoever’s targeting you isn’t going to stop with just a picture, you know.
It’s not safe for you to be at your own place, and if I’m going to actually protect you, then I need you to be close by.
So, you’re going to stay in my apartment. ”
I can barely contain my outburst. “Like hell I am! I can’t just abandon my place. I have a lease—I have a roommate.” My best friend, Kenny. I can’t just leave him like this!
“I’ll pay your lease,” he says coolly. “I suppose it isn’t fair for you to pay for an apartment you’re not living in. And you won’t need to pay anything to live with me.” A small moment of hesitation. “I realize it’s an…imposition to make you do this.”
An imposition? More like a forbidden invitation?
Does this mean that I’ll be sharing Lorenzo’s bed? A bathroom? That we’ll see each other’s bodies, perhaps touch each other’s bodies?
No, Jesus, I’ve been reading too much fan-fiction, too many dirty novels. Nothing is going to happen between me and Lorenzo, not like that.
“What about my job? I can’t just stop going in.”
“I can give you an allowance, if you want the money, but really, you don’t need to worry about buying anything.”
My jaw falls open. “You think I just want to go to work for the money? I mean, yeah, I’m a poor-ass Gen Z kid who will probably never own property because our economy is fucked and the world is gonna burn before I hit thirty, and yeah, it’s nice to have an income in the face of the Horrors, but I don’t just go into work for the money.
I’m a firefighter, Lorenzo. I go into work because it matters, because it’s my purpose. And I’m not giving that up. Fuck no.”
Lorenzo guides his car into a dim parking garage beneath a sleek apartment building. “Then I’ll have a bodyguard take you to and from work.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Do you want my protection or not?” he demands as he parks the car.
I let out a defeated sigh. If he’s being serious about the level of threat I’m facing, if there’s someone out there who thinks I saw something I didn’t see, and wants to silence me, then yeah, I probably need protection. And I don’t know why, but I trust Lorenzo.
It’s like we share an ancient, primitive, deeply human bond—saved and savior. We’re tied together by that, by a bond of life and death, and I know deep in my bones that Lorenzo won’t violate that.
If I trust him.
If I give him permission to protect me—a protection that will require some level of control.
“Fine,” I whisper. “But we’re going to need to set some ground rules and boundaries.”
Lorenzo gets out of the car, comes around it, and opens my door. He leans down, the collar of his shirt parting so that I can see the dark hair on his tanned, muscular chest. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m very good at negotiating consent.”
I swallow my shiver of anticipation. Of course, I know that we’re not talking about sex, not really, but still…
“Let’s go,” he says in a firm voice, almost like an order, standing back to let me out of the car.
And something instinctive and submissive in me says, “Yes, sir,” before I can stop myself.
Lorenzo just nods, as if that was the right answer all along, and gestures toward the parking lot’s exit. Cheeks flaming in embarrassment, I head toward it, conscious of his looming presence just behind me.
Lorenzo’s apartment is a penthouse, taking up the entire top floor of the building. The art-deco-style elevator opens directly into the apartment’s foyer, a space of exposed brick and ornate rugs, nothing like the glass-and-steel minimalist bachelor pad I was expecting.
“Welcome home,” Lorenzo says, almost wryly, leading the way into the penthouse. I follow, slightly timid, like I’ll sully the place with my law-abiding, barely-above-the-poverty-line aura.
The apartment is huge, with polished wood floors, clean brick walls, and a general vibe that’s somewhere between “industrial” and “mafia chic.”
“Sit,” Lorenzo says, gesturing to a boat-sized leather couch.
I do, automatically, my brain craving the instruction even as I tell myself that I should show some agency, some rebellion, by standing.
“Drink?” he offers, going to a fully stocked bar of gleaming wood and mirrors, and pouring himself a glass of some amber-colored liquid. Whatever it is, it probably costs more than my car.
“I’ll—sure.”
He pours another glass and brings it to me, then sits in a dark leather chair facing me. I take a tentative sip of the drink, and it’s both smooth and fiery at the same time. I swallow carefully, trying to hide my wince.
“Stronger than you’re used to?” he says with a wry smile.
It transforms his face into something no longer vaguely frightening—he’s almost beautiful when he smiles, I realize.
Something boyish comes over him in that moment, making him look younger than the faint silver streaks at his temples suggest.
“It’s delicious,” I force myself to say, even as every molecule in my body shudders.
“If you say so.” Lorenzo takes an easy sip, then sets his glass down on a smooth coffee table.
“So. Here’s how this is going to work. You’re moving in here, you’re going to stay in the room down the hall—my housekeeper keeps it set up for guests, so it’s ready for you.
” His gaze might as well pierce to my soul.
“And as far as anyone outside this apartment is concerned, we’re dating. ”
At that, I actually laugh, bringing up a sharp burn from the whiskey. “We’re what?”
“Dating. You know, a relationship? Like we told your family. It’s a good enough cover story for why you’re staying here. We’ll say we connected after you saved my life, and now you’re living with me.”
“In that scenario, we met and moved in together in, what, like a week? No one will believe that.”
He raises a thick eyebrow. “Make them believe it.” Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, muscular shoulders straining at the sleeves of his coat.
“I believe that you’re a target of the Volkov bratva, a branch of the Russian mob.
You think my family is bad? They’re far worse.
My family has principles. We have lines we don’t cross.
We have a code. The Volkovs say fuck that code.
I believe they killed my father, and for whatever reason, they think you saw something that night that could incriminate them.
So, we need them to know that you’re under my protection—and that I’m protecting you for a reason other than owing you a debt.
But they’ll be far less eager to target you if they believe you’re a made man’s partner. ”
“Really? How does that make me any safer? Not to be insensitive, Lorenzo, but if what you say is true, then they killed your father—may he rest in peace. If they really have no principles or code, then why would they hesitate to kill your boyfriend?”
Lorenzo’s jaw ticks, muscles jumping along that chiseled line. “I can’t guarantee that you’re one hundred percent safe, but I can guarantee that you’ll be a hell of a lot safer like this.”
That, I guess I have to accept.
I want to argue. God, do I want to argue. Some contrarian, self-sabotaging part of me doesn’t want to be told what to do, even while an equally strong part of me craves the direction. And beneath it all, there’s the burning photograph of my parents’ house, the threat scrawled on the back.
And that’s enough for me to accept this.
“There need to be ground rules, if I’m going to do this.”
He nods once, picking up his drink again. “Go on.”
“Obviously, this is fake. Whatever we tell people in public is fake. Not real.”
“Of course.”
“Good.” I hold up two fingers. “Second, I’m not one of your—I dunno what you call them—henchmen. I have a career and a life outside of this apartment, so you don’t get to boss me around like I work for you.”
His expression shifts, almost as if he finds this amusing. “I thought you liked being bossed around.”
My traitorous cheeks flush warmly, and I do my best to ignore his suggestive tone.
“And three…” Here, I lean forward. I need him to know how fucking serious I am.
“If you fail to protect my family, if anything happens to them, then the Russian mob is the last thing you’ll have to worry about. I’ll kill you myself.”
Can he see how fast my heart is beating? Tell how my pulse is racing, how I’m sweating beneath my arms? I just threatened the life of a goddamn mafia prince as if that were something I do all the time, and I’m this close to shitting myself.
But Lorenzo seems to respect the steel in my voice, even if it does seem to surprise him. “Good. You’ve got some fight in you. Is there anything else?”
“That’s it.”
“Then we have an agreement.”
He stands, crosses to me, and extends a large hand. Slowly, I get to my feet and take his hand. His hand swallows mine as he shakes it.
He doesn’t release me immediately. “Now, get some sleep, Dashiell. You’ve had a big day.”
Something relaxes inside me. I have had a big day. A weird-ass day. And him giving me permission to sleep reminds me that, yes, I do need to rest. I need to take care of my body.
He releases my hand and nods down the hall. “Whatever you need, just let me know. I’ll have someone go to your apartment and get you the basics.”
I nod and go down the hall to the room he indicated. It’s large, clean, and well-decorated with things that look like antiques. The bed is wide, a king-size, with a smooth wine-red quilt. I can’t help but imagine what sort of sensual activities could take place on this bed.
No, Dashiell, I tell myself. This isn’t real. You’re not actually dating this mafia prince. You’re just here to be protected. He’s just protecting you, fulfilling a promise. He’s absolutely not going to fuck you.
Even if I definitely felt his arousal when he pulled me against him at my parents’ house.
Even if I swear I can see the dark desire in his eyes when he looks at me.
Even if, no matter how bad an idea it might be, I know that I’m willing to throw away all the rules if he ordered me to get on my knees, to worship him, to let myself be used by him.
Oh, god.
I collapse on the bed, face-first into one of the pillows.
This is an unbelievably bad idea, and I can’t think of any way that it’ll end well.