Chapter 2 #2
The next morning, she dresses in athletic wear and has a quick talk with her father before requesting an escort to Central Park.
I parallel park a few streets away and lurk among the trees as she exits the SUV.
She showers Donna and Eric with thanks and urges them to give her space, and after a few words back and forth, Donna nods for Eric to remain with the car and follows over a dozen paces behind Valentina.
The scars on my back burn as I squat and pretend to tie my shoe, hiding behind a group of people mingling around a trash can as my prey jogs past.
With her hair in a ponytail and her shorts revealing her long legs, she’s a wet dream in the flesh, and when she lengthens her stride and works up a sweat, I long to lick the shine from her skin.
Every other male in the park does, too. Their eyes linger. One idiot almost faceplants on the walkway as he looks over his shoulder at her.
I don’t blame him. Her ass is pure perfection.
But she’s mine.
I trip him and cross my arms over my chest. He picks himself up off the ground, does a double take, then chooses to continue his run instead of challenging me.
I quirk a brow and cut through the lawn to enjoy the sight of my prey sprinting along the path.
She paces herself, using her watch as a timer, alternating between sprinting and jogging.
When she loops around and heads back to her entry point, I glimpse her unsettled expression before she paints on a happy smile and waves at Donna as they pass each other. The second her face is no longer in view of her bodyguard, she drops the sunshine act and wipes sweat from her brow.
The ease with which she swaps personas is mind-blowing.
When she slows to a walk and opens her water bottle, I maneuver through trees and step out in front of her.
Between taking a drink, closing her water bottle, and checking her watch, she doesn’t look up until half a second before we pass each other.
Up close, her bright blue irises sparkle in the sunlight and the flush on her cheeks darkens her freckles.
Alarm widens her eyes. I brush her shoulder with my arm, the difference in our height putting the top of her head near my own shoulder.
I break eye contact and slip away as she bumps into the person behind me.
Her squeak and apologies fill me with mirth, but my smirk falls when I look over my shoulder and recognize who she bumped into.
Camilla Vivaldi, the first-born daughter of New York’s most powerful mafia family, stares at my future plaything with a shellshocked expression.
I disappear into the crowd, knowing Valentina will no doubt navigate the situation with ease, since fooling others is second nature to her.
A few minutes later, she stops before turning the last corner to the SUV, props her hand on the back of a bench, leans her weight onto her arm, and hangs her head as though the weight of the world rests on top. For a few moments, she merely breathes.
With her face pointed toward the ground and her bangs shielding her eyes, I can’t read her expression.
A man in expensive workout clothing knocks into her side, and since he’s at least double her weight, the motion sends her flying. She hisses as she catches the edge of the bench with her hip.
The asshole grabs her waist and tugs her back against his front. Every muscle in my body tenses, and I fight against the urge to lunge forward.
With surprising viciousness, Valentina throws her elbow back, hitting him directly in the solar plexus, and stomps on his foot. The man folds forward and clutches at his chest. Valentina darts out of the way, barely glancing back as she joins Donna on the trail.
The rigid set of her shoulders and haughty tilt of her chin says she believes she gave the man what he deserves, but the rage festering in my soul insists it isn’t enough.
I wait until my prey shuts herself into the vehicle with my devoted puppets before I follow the piece of shit who dared grope her. He struts around the park for a few minutes, seeking easy targets, but soon grows bored when the late morning ladies prove well-versed in avoiding scum like him.
My innocent little Cali girl has never had to defend herself against New York City creeps. She should have never allowed him to get close to her. It’s her fault this asshole won’t survive the day.
I tail him to the nearest street corner and scowl when he catcalls a woman with a toddler on her hip. Three steps later, I grab his collar and yank him into the nearest alley.
He fights, but I clamp a hand over his mouth and pierce the center of his torso with my knife, stabbing the spot Valentina elbowed a few minutes ago. With a vicious twist and jerk, I spill his guts onto the refuse covered concrete.
It’s not enough. I jab his chest a few times, knowing first-hand the terrible agony of blade slicing flesh, puncturing organs, and grazing bone. The vicious reminder centers me and sharpens my focus.
I drop the man and leave him flopping on the ground to breathe his last breath alone.
Without an ounce of guilt, I walk away and don’t look back.
As good as it feels to rid the world of one piece of shit, it’ll feel exponentially better to cage the little liar who ruined my life with a few syllables.
I’ll break Valentina Denaro. I’ll make her mine while her father wallows in despair.
And I’ll enjoy every second.