Chapter 24
CALIGULA
I wake to weight.
A thick arm sprawls over my ribs like a steel beam. A furnace presses tight to my back. And—oh—a baseball bat seems to be nestled up against my ass.
Damiano’s cock.
He’s still asleep, breath slow and steady against my neck. His morning erection grinds lazily into the curve of me with every exhale, like his body already decided what it wants before his brain’s online.
I wriggle back just enough to feel the friction, to imagine what it would be like if he woke up and—
Then I remember myself. Remember him.
His voice, cruel and mocking. Told you you’d be begging for my cock one day.
It was bad enough that he said that. Worse that he proceeded to wring an orgasm out of me I didn’t even know my body could provide. Not that intense. Not that deep.
I can’t even pretend that last night was part of some master plan of mine. I just felt grateful, and then a few seconds later, I was…
I hate how easily I gave in to it. Hate how my body betrayed every instinct I have left. And then he didn’t even come.
Again.
I pull away from him carefully, turning just enough to see his face. Without the perpetual scowl he wears when awake, he looks younger. Still dangerous, but less like a monster. More like a man who’s forgotten how to be one.
Then I notice the bandage on his arm. The gauze is stained through with blood, spreading like spilled red wine across a tablecloth.
He bled for me. No matter what else he did last night, he bled for me.
Of course, he’s the one who dragged me out in public and dangled me like bait, so he only has himself to blame in that sense. He said he wanted to show me off, but I didn’t get the impression he was enjoying himself.
I sigh out loud. He doesn’t stir.
I should be snooping around in his underwear drawer, maybe sneaking out to case a few more rooms so I can find something that will help me find a way to control him.
I’m doing okay so far—slept in his bed last night, for example.
If only I could make myself believe that attempted blow job was part of my ploy.
The red on the bandage looks bright, which means it’s fresh blood. I should wake him and tell him, but I don’t move. The guy is an asshole. A dangerous, disturbed, deviant asshole. I should probably be begging him to put me back in that basement and just forget about me for the year.
I definitely shouldn’t be worried about his bandage.
I slide out from under his arm slowly, careful not to jostle him.
My feet hit the floor and I scan the room for something to wear.
I can hardly put my tux back on; it’s still covered in his blood.
I spot his fluffy black robe draped over a chair in the corner and wrap myself up in it.
It swallows me up and it smells like him, so that wearing it feels like being claimed all over again.
I have a flash of his fingers in my ass, his hand on my cock, and I give a full-body shiver of pleasure.
It gives me pause, though. After last night…
am I still a virgin? I don’t know what the rules on that are.
And I don’t care, I remind myself. All I care about right now is doing whatever I need to do to control the dangerous animal currently passed out in bed.
He’s still bleeding. There’s more red on that bandage now than there was a minute ago.
I don’t know how to use all the intercoms and panels that seem to be everywhere in this house, so I guess that just means I’ll have to head out and find someone. I can figure out how to get back to the kitchen.
I’m pretty sure I can, anyway…
The hallway stretches before me like a horror movie cliche.
To make myself feel less like I’m about to get a jump scare, I check every room that comes off the corridor.
They all have the same feeling, the same look.
Every surface is polished to a mirror shine.
Everything is expensive, curated like a magazine shoot.
But there are no family photos, no personal touches, just wealth displayed like…
Like armor.
My first impressions were right. This isn’t a home. It’s a fortress built by someone who trusts no one and loves nothing. Damiano Orsini is a tangled ball of obsession, vengeance, and hatred.
I come across a few locked doors, which are intriguing, and make a mental note to come back to them another time.
But it’s actually pretty easy to find the kitchen; I just have to follow my nose.
The scent carries me down and down—rosemary, garlic, and simmering tomato; sizzling bacon and the suggestion of creamy eggs; fresh-baked bread.
It’s rich and warm and alive in a way the rest of this mausoleum isn’t.
My stomach cramps at the thought of food, too. A sign I should eat something sooner rather than later.
The kitchen feels like the complete opposite of the rest of the house. The steel shutters are still down over the windows, but the lighting is cheerful, warming wooden surfaces and gleaming copper pots. It’s lived-in, comfortable—the heart of something that might actually be called a home.
A huge pot simmers on the stove, thick red sauce bubbling softly. Steam curls from it, carrying memories of Sunday dinners and family gatherings.
For a moment, I feel almost normal. Like I belong somewhere again. Like I’m more than just a prisoner playing house, trying to crack the code on my owner. Caught up in the feeling, I drift toward the stove, grab the large spoon set on the counter, and stir the sauce just to watch it swirl.
It smells divine.
I lift the spoon carefully out of the sauce, raise it to my mouth—
Slap.
The spoon clatters to the floor, sauce splattering like blood.
“What are you doing in my kitchen?”
The old woman from last night—Rosa, Dami called her—stands there like an avenging angel in her robe and slippers. Her scowl could make even Damiano tremble.
“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, hand pressed to my chest. “You scared me.”
She crosses her arms. “You keep the good Lord’s name out of your mouth, and tell me: What. Are you doing. In my kitchen?”
I flash her my most charming smile. “Looking for you, ma’am. Damiano’s bandage bled through. I thought you might want to take a look.”
The smile slides off her like she’s Teflon. Her expression doesn’t soften one degree. In fact, she gives me the kind of once-over that makes me feel like something she scraped off her shoe. “You made a mess,” she says, pointing at the sauce on the floor. “Clean it up.”
“I…uh, sure.” I grab some paper towels from the counter and crouch down.
But as I wipe up the spill, the robe I’m wearing falls open at my chest. When I glance up, she’s still watching me.
Her face gives nothing away, but she turns abruptly, muttering something under her breath that doesn’t sound complimentary.
“Dami’s still asleep,” I say as I finish cleaning. I use the too-cute nickname to make my story more convincing. “I didn’t want to wake him. But like I said, he’s bleeding again. So I wanted to make sure someone checked on him later.”
She grunts, noncommittal. “Let the man sleep.”
I straighten and toss the paper towels in the trash. Rosa has already turned back to the stove, stirring her pot with a new spoon like I’m not worth her attention.
“If you’re going to make a nuisance of yourself,” she says without looking up, “sit there.” She nods toward the counter. “Out of my way.”
I slide onto the stool, folding my arms on the cool marble countertop. “Is that for lunch?”
“Dinner.”
“It smells incredible.” She doesn’t respond, but I catch the slight flare of her nostrils. “Can I make an espresso on the coffee machine?”
“No.”
I sigh.
She sighs back, grabs a cup, and turns on the machine. The sound of beans grinding fills the silence between us, and then she makes me an espresso, the smell rich and promising.
“Flattery won’t work,” she says as she slides the cup to me. “Not on me. And not on him.”
Damiano, I assume she means. I take a sip of the espresso. It’s perfect—strong enough to wake the dead, smooth enough to make me moan. “You say that, but here I am with the best coffee in Turtle Bay.”
She almost—almost—smiles. She doesn’t correct me on the area, either. She goes back to her work and I rest my chin on my hand, watching as she twists off a handful of basil and gets out a new cutting board. She moves as briskly as she speaks, but she hasn’t kicked me out yet.
I sip my coffee, trying to find a way through her defenses. “Is Dami a good employer?”
Her knife hits the cutting board hard, chopping herbs like she’s got a problem with them.
I try again. “Have you worked for him long?”
Her hands pause. Something vulnerable crosses her face.
“The old Don,” she says, “after my husband was killed protecting him, I cooked and cleaned house for him. The new Don…he didn’t want to keep me on.”
“So Damiano took you in?”
She glares at me. “It’s not charity. He gave me work. I work hard for him.” Her voice drops. “When I had nothing left, he made me family.”
Family. Not employer and employee. Not master and servant. Family.
I wonder if Damiano feels the same.
“What about his driver?” I ask.
“What about him?” she returns coldly.
“He’s pretty quiet, huh?”
That gets a reaction. Her face tightens, and she sets down the knife. “Vito was the old Don’s driver,” she says. “The FBI visited him for questioning. They wanted him to talk. About the Family. About the business. He used a razor blade to cut out his tongue.”
I recoil. “Are you serious?”
“He was loyal,” she continues. “He proved that he would never betray the Family, no matter what.”
That’s for sure. Good thing the Feds didn’t give him a pen and some paper, or he might have started hacking off his fingers, too. Yikes.
I keep prodding. “So…why didn’t the new Don keep him on?”
She presses her lips together, hard. Then she says, “Signor Orsini treasures his loyalty. Vito has a home here for life.”
I sip my coffee, turning over in my mind what I’ve learned. This isn’t a household, it’s a—a pack. A pack of stray dogs who learned to work together to survive. And I’m the outsider who’s been dragged into their—
Several loud explosions ricochet through the room.
I jump, coffee sloshing as my adrenaline goes through the roof.
“It’s the back door,” Rosa says calmly. “That’s all. When the barricades are down, anyone knocking sounds loud.”
That was way more than loud. My heart is still racing hard enough to burst. “You can’t answer it,” I say, voice sharp. “The house is on lockdown.”
But Rosa is already at the security console, checking the monitors. “It’s just Sammy.”
“Who? Wait—”
But she’s already disabling the alarm and raising the steel barrier. I grip the countertop hard, trying to remember how to get back to Damiano’s bedroom. If I run now, I could make it to the stairs before—
A young man steps into the kitchen carrying a box full of fruit, vegetables, leafy herbs. About my height, lean, maybe mid-twenties with curly dark hair and black gauge rings in both earlobes. His leather jacket is a designer knockoff, and his jeans are tucked into cheap boots.
His eyes go straight to me and then narrow.
“Who’s that?” he demands.
“None of your concern,” Rosa says, but it lacks the sharpness that’s underlined everything else she’s said to me so far.
I guess this guy isn’t an assassin.
He puts the box down on the counter and Rosa begins looking through it, shaking her head and sighing at what she sees, even though it all looks fine to me. I walk around the island to extend my hand to the newcomer with a polite smile. “Hey. You’re Sammy, right? I’m Cal. Cal Clemenza.”
He recoils from me, lips pulling up in a sneer. His gaze travels over the robe and down to my bare feet. He turns his back on me to speak to Rosa. “The markets aren’t great right now, but I did what I could.”
With a sniff at his words, Rosa picks up the box and disappears into the walk-in pantry, leaving us alone.
I search for something to fill in the silence, make him talk. “Are you a friend of Damiano’s?”
“I’m a lot more than his friend,” he mutters, turning on me. He gives me another scathing up-and-down look. “And you’re not the first guy he’s used for a night. You won’t be the last. But I’ll always be here.”
What the actual fuck?
He’s glaring at me like I’ve stolen something from him. Obviously there’s history there—but that’s not my fault. And hell, based on what he just said, I think we can agree that Damiano’s an asshole.
But somehow I don’t think we’re going to bond over it.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but the guy goes to the security panel, ostentatiously shielding it from me with one hand as he puts in a code.
The barriers outside rattle down once more.
Sammy gives me one last glare and slips back down the hallway.
From somewhere deeper in the house, I hear a door slam shut.
Whoever Sammy is, he lives here. Just like Rosa and Vito.
Rosa returns from the pantry and doesn’t seem surprised to see him gone.
“Who is that guy?” I ask.
“None of your business.”
“He seemed…territorial.”
She snorts. “So are dogs. Doesn’t mean they own the thing they’re pissing on.”
Something in her tone makes me feel a little better. Not that I care about Damiano’s jealous exes. I don’t care about Damiano’s sexual history at all.
But I can’t help wondering how many men might have sat in this kitchen, wearing his robe, having a run-in with Sammy. I slide back onto the stool, a little shaken despite myself. I need to refocus.
“So, do you like working for Dami?” I ask again. She doesn’t answer. Just adds basil to the sauce and keeps stirring. “He seems like a good man,” I venture.
Her response is instant. “He is not a good man.”
I pause, coffee cup halfway to my lips. “Kind, then.”
“He is not a kind man, either. But he is loyal. To the death.”
Not good. Not kind.
But loyal.
I can work with that.
The voice that cuts through the room from behind me is just as startling as the explosive knocking was a few minutes ago. “Get on with your cooking, woman.”
We both freeze.
Damiano stands in the doorway looking like death in black briefs. He’s shirtless, pale, and the white bandage is crimson. He looks like he should be in a hospital bed, but he’s still menacing, eyes locked on Rosa with dangerous intensity.
“If your tongue gets any looser,” he tells her softly, “I’ll ask Vito to cut it out.”
Rosa doesn’t flinch. Just turns back to her sauce like he’s commented on the weather.
His gaze travels over me, taking in every detail—his too-large robe on my frame, the coffee in my hands, the way I’m perched on a stool at the counter.
I feel pinned like a butterfly to a board.
“And you,” he says, voice dropping to a growl. “Come with me.”
I set down the coffee cup and follow my owner like a well-trained dog.