25. Twenty-Four
Twenty-Four
Fabrizio
B zz. Bzz. Bzz.
The incessant buzzing of my phone jolts me awake from the nightstand, slicing through the peaceful ambiance that had wrapped around the room. Each vibration feels like an impatient tap on my shoulder, dragging me further away from the serene cocoon I had woven with Sienna.
The screen lights up, throwing a harsh glare that clashes starkly with the soft, ambient glow of the room. Text message after text message demands my attention, pulling me away from Sienna’s embrace. I sense the delicate balance of our evening tilting, knowing our intimate moment is on the brink of being shattered.
A wave of disappointment crashes over me, and I long to linger just a bit longer in our blissful bubble, where the only things that mattered were the warmth of our bodies and the sincerity of my earlier words. I press a gentle kiss to Sienna’s head, deeply inhaling her scent, trying to etch this fleeting moment into my memory forever.
With a reluctant sigh, I begin to disentangle myself from her. My hand reaches for the phone, fingers brushing against its cold surface, a stark contrast to the warmth of Sienna’s skin. As I read the messages from my brother, my body tenses, and my jaw clenches with a mix of frustration and concern.
I can feel Sienna’s eyes on me, her gaze burning into my back as I rise from the bed. The loss of her touch leaves me feeling exposed and cold, the comforting warmth of her body now replaced by an unsettling emptiness.
With three purposeful strides, I step into the closet, the dim glow from the lamp on my nightstand casting elongated shadows across the room. The soft light barely illuminates my surroundings, but it’s enough for me to quickly pick out some clothes. As I slip the black suit jacket over my shoulders, I feel an immediate transformation; the relaxation and carefreeness that had filled my being evaporate, replaced by a steely resolve.
I walk back to the bed, feeling the weight of Sienna’s gaze fixed on me, her eyes following my every move until I sit down beside her. Our proximity feels charged, the night’s intimacy now overshadowed by the gravity of what I’m about to say. “I need to leave for a few days,” I announce, my voice steady but the words hanging in the air like a heavy curtain, slicing through the fragile silence.
“Why?” she asks, her voice a soft plea, barely masking the disappointment that’s etched across her delicate features. Her eyes search mine for answers I’m hesitant to give.
I lift my hand, my fingers brushing gently against her cheek, the contact both comforting and bittersweet. “I thought I told you not to ask questions you won’t want to know the answer to,” I murmur, my thumb tracing a tender path along her skin, feeling the warmth and softness against my touch.
The room plunges into a tense silence, the air thick with unspoken emotions and the weight of my departure. My hand moves to the back of her neck, my fingers closing around it with a gentle yet firm grip, pulling her closer until our foreheads touch. The closeness is a bittersweet reminder of what I’m leaving behind, our breaths mingling as we share this fleeting moment of connection before the inevitable separation.
The intensity of her gaze pierces through me. Her breath mingles with mine, creating a shared warmth that simultaneously ignites my desire and soothes my soul. Our lips collide in a fierce kiss, a tumultuous blend of passion and anger that leaves us both gasping for air. Her tiny whimper as I pull away echoes in my ears, a sound that tugs at my heartstrings with a painful sweetness. The lingering tingle of her lips on mine makes me ache for more, but I force myself to rise from the bed, each step a struggle against the magnetic pull of the beautiful woman lying naked beneath the sheets.
The room suddenly feels colder, emptier, as I resist the primal urge to rip off the clothes I just put on and ravage her until she begs me to stop. This battle within me, between the raw, animalistic desire to consume her entirely and the tender yearning to crawl back beneath the sheets and lose myself in her embrace, her scent, her warmth, is almost unbearable. Yet, I know I can’t give in. Not now. Not when I might finally have a lead on who is after my children. Not when every day the person responsible remains at large, posing a constant threat to their safety. And Sienna’s.
With a heavy heart, I reach for my phone on the nightstand and reopen my brother’s message. The weight of the situation crashes over me like a tidal wave, threatening to drown me in its relentless surge. “One more thing,” I say, my voice steady but urgent. “I need to ask you something.” She takes the phone from my extended hand, her fingers trembling. The sheets slip down, revealing her flawless body, her full breasts rising and falling with each breath, a sight that only deepens my internal conflict.
“Can you tell if that’s the man who attacked you at the school?” I ask, my eyes locked onto her face, searching for any hint of recognition.
She studies the picture, her brows knitting together in concentration. “I-I don’t know,” she stammers. “It could be, but I told you, I didn’t really see much of his face. Why are you asking?”
Instead of answering, I press on, my urgency mounting. “Does the name Michael Brenton mean anything to you?”
Her face drains of color, her eyes widening in shock as she grips the phone so tightly that her knuckles turn white. That reaction is as good as an answer.
“Who is he to you?” I demand, unable to mask the intensity in my voice. She shakes her head, disbelief etched across her features.
“That makes no sense.”
“Sienna, answer me,” I insist, struggling to keep my voice calm and patient despite her unsettling reaction. “Who is he to you?”
“That’s Miriam’s husband. But that—” she stammers, her confusion evident.
“Who’s Miriam?” I press, feeling the pieces of a larger puzzle beginning to fall into place.
“She’s my colleague. And um—the other teacher attending the school’s afternoon care.” She swallows audibly. “She—she loves children. That makes no sense at all.”
I take a deep breath, trying to quell the anger simmering inside me. How had my brother or any of my men missed this connection? Such a blatant oversight would never be tolerated again. Sienna holds out the phone to me, her expression just as pensive as when I first met her.
“What are you going to do now?” she asks, uncertainty lacing her voice. After shoving the phone into my pocket, I lean down and brush my lips across her forehead.
“Don’t worry; everything will be fine,” I murmur, though the words feel hollow. It’s all I can manage to say before leaving the room. I don’t dare to look back at her, knowing I wouldn’t like the way she looks at me—like she’s just remembered she’s dealing with the devil.
Stepping out of the house, the crisp air of the night envelops me, and the scent of salt from the nearby ocean weaves through the air, invigorating my senses with its refreshing chill. I am unsurprised to see Oliver stationed outside.
He is fully dressed and poised for action, his stance rigid and alert. His eyes, sharp and watchful, sweep the surroundings with the vigilance of a seasoned protector, always ready for any potential threat.
“I will be gone for a few days,” I inform him, my voice imbued with a firm resolve that leaves no room for debate. Oliver nods, but the concern etched into his features is unmistakable.
“Let me come with you. I-I don’t like this,” he stammers, his usual air of confidence noticeably shaken. I understand his apprehension; the recent attack at the school has left everyone on edge, and being assigned to what he perceives as a mere babysitting duty grates on him. He is a man of action, not one to stand idle. However, personal preferences hold no sway when it comes to the safety of my family. Oliver and Vance have a clear, non-negotiable mission: they must stay here and protect my family.
“No,” I assert firmly, my tone allowing no argument. “I trust the two of you to keep my family safe while I’m gone.”
“Yes, boss,” he replies, though resignation seeps into his voice as he accepts his role. The weight of responsibility is evident in his eyes, but so is his unwavering loyalty. I slide into the backseat of the sleek black car waiting in the driveway. Its engine hums softly, a purring beast ready to whisk me away. Davis, one of my most dependable men, sits behind the steering wheel. He turns to face me, his expression steady and composed.
“Where to?” he asks, his voice calm and professional.
“Back home to Atlanta,” I instruct, my mind already racing with the myriad tasks that await me. There is no time for hesitation; every moment counts.
“Yes, sir,” he nods, and with a swift, practiced motion, the car glides smoothly away from the idyllic beach house, leaving behind the tranquility of the seaside retreat. As we drive, I take a deep breath; the picturesque scenery outside the window, with its rolling waves and sun-kissed horizon, does little to soothe my frayed nerves. A gnawing sense of unease takes root in my gut, whispering insidiously that something is wrong. Very wrong.