6. Dante
Dante
P hil Pinelli, age thirty-two, official occupation: general contractor licensed with the city of Chicago. Unofficially, he disappears people for the Chicago chapter of the Seraph. I rake my hands down my face, scratching at the five o'clock shadow beginning to emerge on my chin.
I should be upset with Melody calling the police on me—and inviting Rafaella into her home— but she unknowingly gave me incredible intel.
Phil Pinelli's uncle, Charles Pinelli, died in a botched home invasion a little over six months ago.
He was brutally murdered, with his hands severed.
They were later found in the sink's garbage disposal, torn to shreds.
According to the reports, there was another occupant home during the invasion.
A woman, named Melody Autumn Crawford. Her mother, Nanette, held multiple press conferences urging the attackers to bring her daughter home.
I scowl at the screen, watching the middle-aged woman send out her tearful pleas.
Melody Autumn Crawford. I should have caught that in my research. Though there wasn't a father listed on the birth certificate, I'd wager a guess his last name is Gutierrez.
A miracle, it seems, that she's turned up in the city unscathed. No stranger to murder, as well. She tried to stab me in her rattletrap car. And Charles Pinelli was stabbed over forty times.
"Melody, you naughty girl," I whisper with a smile at my computer.
"Sir?" Valencia pokes her head into my office. "The Ridgeway Arms deal is nearly done. I just need your signature."
My mind swirls with thoughts of Melody's devilish deeds as I sign my name on the dotted line over and over, through a thick stack of closing documents.
She's a dangerous woman. She doesn't need an arsenal of guns, just a knife.
And she came home today with a shiny new toy.
Though her connection to the Seraph gives me pause.
Her cousin by marriage is a low-level grunt, body disposal, general kidnapping, that sort of thing.
I'll need to look into the deceased as well.
Though Melody didn't pull the Seraph card with Rafaella. Is it possible she doesn't know? She's totally unaffiliated? It can't be—they wouldn't let someone that vicious go free.
I sigh as I sign the last page for Valencia. My future wife would be in the Seraph. It's just my luck.
"Everything alright, sir?" Valencia tosses her hair and flashes a bright smile.
"Perfectly," I respond and point to the door. "You're dismissed."
A frown flashes across her face for a split second, but she quickly neutralizes it and nods. "Of course. If you need me…."
"I know where to find you." I finish for her and turn back to my computer.
Melody hasn't touched any of the food I left for her.
I watch her mill around the apartment, aimlessly wandering back and forth from each of the rooms. She's whispering something to herself.
Unfortunately, the built-in microphones of my surveillance cameras aren't strong enough to capture it.
She's quickly become my favorite show. This murderous woman who'll be my wife, by choice or by force.
She'll bear my children. Though, if I'm to be honest with myself, the thought of forcing her to carry my heir brings a nasty taste in my mouth.
I've never forced a woman before. I never had the need to.
I won't start with her. She's obviously in distress, and I'm going to wave a golden ticket in her face. She'll happily jump into my bed. Especially with the deal Roman and I are drawing up. I grin at the screen, watching Melody take the salmon out of her fridge. Got her.
Roman assured me the paperwork is rock-solid.
I'm simply waiting for the exact right time to spring it on Melody.
I watch her climb into her bed—the bed I shared—and scroll mindlessly on her phone.
I didn't allow myself to think about slipping into her bed throughout my whole day, but now that I'm home, the memory comes rushing back.
Her ample curves are burned into my mind's eye. The peaceful expression on her sleeping face, contrasted with the murderous fury I know she contains, sets my desire aflame. And the thought of her beautiful stomach swollen with my child nearly sends me into ecstasy.
As if she knew what I was thinking, she rolls over and reaches into the drawer of her nightstand.
"Fuck," I groan as she takes out the little bullet vibrator. I hear a faint click over my phone's speaker, followed by a soft buzzing.
Melody's eyelids flutter closed as she slides her hand down, down, down into her red panties.
I want to scream at her, force her to take them off, but I'm frozen.
My cock strains against my zipper. Forcing myself to move, I quickly unbuckle my belt and kick my own pants off.
I lay back in my bed, one hand on my cock, the other holding my phone.
She nestles the little vibrator against her clit and arches her back. Her breasts heave with every breath as she toys with herself. I'm choking my cock; I've never been harder in my life. She makes me insane. I have a primal need to chase her down and shove my cock into her warm cunt.
I need to fuck her. I need to breed her.
"You're fucking mine, Melody," I gasp out as she rolls her eyes back in her head.
I watch her thighs quiver and quake as she gets closer, but she pulls the vibrator away at the last second, gasping and moaning.
God damn, she's teasing herself for me. Not wanting to spill my own cum before she does, I release my stranglehold on my cock and pant along with her.
She's exquisite. I study those pillowy thighs, spread-eagle on her crimson sheets, committing them to memory. She is everything. She is divine. Divine and dangerous.
I was right. She is the perfect woman for me.
She taps on her phone screen with a thumb, and the tinny sound of women moaning comes through my phone speaker.
Fuck , she's absolutely perfect. Melody even knows she belongs to me already; she's not watching anything with men .
I hear the women murmur sultry things to each other as they fuck on her screen.
She burrows the vibrator between her thighs and presses down on her clit. Her eyes roll back in her head and her legs quake—I stroke myself faster and faster, I need to match her pace—and she detonates.
I see the moment her orgasm hits its peak as she furrows her brow, grimacing, like it's bordering on pain instead of pleasure.
Whining, panting breaths spill from her lips as I spill from my cock, spraying my seed onto my stomach.
She yanks the vibrator away and clicks off the screen of her phone.
The pornographic noises abruptly silence.
Melody tosses the vibrator back into her nightstand drawer and pulls up her cheap, fuzzy red blanket. God, she's mine. She's perfection. I was right.
I was lying to myself—and Roman—when I said I just wanted to verify she could be trusted. Oh, no. She's my obsession, my possession, and it's almost time to snatch her up.
It's become a nightly ritual for Melody and I to come together. I think she even knows it. Why else would she angle her body perfectly, exposing that wet cunt to me and my cameras? It's perfection, and I can't wait to taste her.
Roman, however, is becoming a bit perturbed at my obsession with my phone.
I watch her in meetings, with one earbud in.
I watch her at my desk. I watch her at home.
I've memorized her schedule with the diner.
Though I'm not sure how she's making enough money for her responsibilities.
She rarely leaves her home except to go to work.
She must know that I'm taking care of her. Her weekly grocery delivery arrives at noon on the dot, every Wednesday, and she doesn't even look suspicious anymore. Which means she's letting her guard down.
Excellent.
Though it's taken all of my willpower to not force my way into her apartment every night, I can tell she's getting used to the idea of me. Being my wife. Birthing my children. Being mine .
But my resolve is growing thin. I need to be near her. I need to smell her delicate soap, I need to touch her hair, I need to run my hands along those gorgeous curves.
I need her.
"Mr. Lyons?" Valencia enters my office without knocking. Irritating thing.
"What?" I snap, scowling and looking back to Melody's surveillance.
"I… well. I've noticed that you've been more, um, reclusive recently." She chews on her lower lip and approaches my desk.
"And?"
"And I wondered if… there was anything, um, extra. Anything extra I could do for you." Valencia perches herself on the edge of my desk, leaning towards me.
I quickly minimize the camera feed. "Valencia."
"You can call me Val, sir. All my friends do," she says with a smile.
"Valencia," I respond, irritation seeping through my voice. "Get. The fuck. Out."
Her eyes snap open wide. Her mouth falls open, stammering. I can almost see the thoughts racing in her mind, and the panic rising in her chest.
"I'm so—I didn't—shit, I'm so sorry," Valencia babbles as I stand up and open my office door.
"Get out. Consider this your last warning. If you behave in such a way again, you will be terminated. Get. Out!" I roar. She scurries away with tears running down her face.
I plop back down at my desk, waiting for Roman to inevitably make an appearance. Three, two, one.
"Sir?" Roman pokes his head in, hesitating, waiting for me to allow entry. I wave him in. "Is there anything you need?"
I sigh and shake my head. "No. Valencia thought that the position of Goetic Wife was still open. I educated her."
Roman flops down in the visitor's chair across from me. "All this attention will surely go to your head, sir. Though I can't imagine she—or any of the other women here—will make that particular mistake again."
"I imagine not." I drop my head into my hands and huff out a sigh. Roman hums thoughtfully, tapping his knee with a pen. I hope I don't have to fire Valencia. She's excellent at her actual job, and the sight of Roman—big, bulky, practically made of muscle and scars—doesn't send her screaming.
"So, your decision has been made?" Roman pipes up. I smile.
"Oh, yes. Melody's the one."
"Good for you, sir. Though, if I may, I still think she has issues."
I laugh, and Roman joins me with a faint smirk. "She absolutely does."
Unable to keep myself away for long, I wait until Melody leaves in a flurry to go to her job. The Shindig Diner, all the way out in the northwest part of the city, could be called a historic institution.
I call it a shithole.
And yet, in the fluorescent lights, Melody smiles at an elderly man who lists out his order. She doesn't look up from her notepad when the door swings open. Another server smiles at me and gestures around the dining room.
"Sit anywhere you want, hon. We'll be with you in a second." The woman's voice is scratchy, a bit ragged, like she's been smoking a pack a day for the past thirty years. She probably has. I force a tight smile and slide into a booth.
I track Melody as she flits about, ping-ponging between the occupied tables and the register. Finally, after about five minutes—but who's counting—she smiles in my direction.
I grin back, showing my teeth. Her eyes flit down to the fabric sticking out of my suit pocket—black cotton with white skulls—and her smile falters as she gets closer. Fuck, she's close enough to touch. I can smell the cherry vanilla body wash. I can almost feel her hair in my grip.
"You're a hard woman to find," I murmur.
Panic overtakes her. Those honey-brown eyes blow wide in fear, and I can see her pulse feather in her throat. I gesture to the other side of the booth. Silently, she sits. Her gaze doesn't leave my face for a second.
"Who are you?" Her voice is just above a whisper. This is unexpected. She doesn't remember me? How strange. But I can roll with that.
"No one important," I say, matching her tone with a smile.
"Please. Not here," Melody pleads with tears in her eyes. "I can have a break in five—we can walk the cemetery. Just… not here."
Very interesting. But I can be flexible, if I want to.
I nod, and she stands. She stares at me, hard, like she's trying to figure out who I am.
Her eyes are bloodshot from holding back the tears and her lower lip quivers.
My vicious little thing inhales a wavering breath and turns on her heel, heading back to her other tables.
I watch her glide from the kitchen window to the dining floor, delivering greasy plates of food with ease.
Every time she glances in my direction, she falters in her steps.
I grin. I'm not a modest man, and I know I have an effect on women.
A thin sheen of sweat coats her brow, just like when we met.
"Sharon, I'm going on break!" Melody finally calls from the register and takes one last fearful look in my direction.
I rise with a charming smile and exit the diner, following the sidewalk around to the wrought-iron gate of the centuries-old cemetery. She appears—without her server apron—with a red flush down her cheeks and neck.
"Listen, I don't know what you think I did. I don't know how you found me—I didn't—" Melody babbles on, but I raise a hand, and she quiets.
"It wasn't easy, but I'm not a man who gives up at the first obstacle." I grin and she swallows a whimper. Lies. I found you within moments. "Tell me this, Melody. Do you like roses?"
Realization dawns on her beautiful face but is quickly replaced by a very confusing rage. She clenches her fists and power walks down the cemetery path, huffing out infuriated breaths. It's adorable, and I follow.
After a few moments pacing through the verdant greenery and weathered headstones, she turns off the gravel path and slumps against a gnarled tree.
"How did you find me?"