Chapter 4
Romeo
Lucia and I have been locked in this damn house for over a week now, and I can feel myself slowly coming apart with each passing day. I’m like a caged animal. Every sound sets me on edge, and my fear for her safety has skyrocketed since reading that fucker’s threat.
That note was sent to taunt us … to rattle us. It worked. It shook me to my core, because I don’t doubt he meant every filthy word. It’s playing in my head on repeat, and nothing I do can wipe it from my thoughts.
I know it got to Dante as well because he’s currently turning his home into a fortress. He’s even gone as far as building a safe room for his girls. It feels like he’s preparing for war.
And maybe he is.
Maybe we all are.
There’s been radio silence from that maniac ever since, but I can’t shake the feeling that this is just the calm before the storm. He’s not going to let this go.
He’s had months to prepare, so I’ve got no idea what he’s planning or how far he’s willing to take this.
When Dante shut down his marriage to the youngest Rossi daughter, it was a blow to Salvatori’s pride, and pride is a fickle bitch in the Cosa Nostra. He’ll want this union for no other reason than to save face.
From what I know, Giuseppe Salvatori’s previous wives all vanished, never to be seen again, before he conveniently moved on to the next. If he’d gotten his hands on Lucia, she would’ve been bride number five.
A cold chill runs through me at the thought of what would’ve become of her if this marriage had gone ahead.
I still don’t understand how her father could have thought it was a good idea. He knew precisely who Salvatori was and what he was capable of, yet he still went ahead and promised Lucia to him. It wasn’t just reckless; it was cruel and a complete disregard for his daughter’s safety.
That’s why we had no choice but to get her out of Italy and as far away from that sadistic bastard as we could. I can only hope it wasn’t in vain, because we’ve definitely stirred the hornet’s nest in doing so.
My biggest fear is that if that sick fuck gets his hands on her, he won’t show a shred of mercy. And if that happens, hell won’t even come close to what I’ll bring. I’ll burn this whole damn town to the ground to keep her safe.
I’ve brought Killer inside the house tonight—that’s how rattled I am by that note. There’s a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach I can’t shake, and if I somehow manage to sleep through an intruder, there’s no way they’re getting past him.
I reach for my phone on the bedside table. It’s just after 1 am, and I’m still wide awake
I roll onto my side and punch the pillow a few times in frustration, but just as I close my eyes, I hear the creak of a floorboard outside my room.
My body freezes as I listen intently, and a moment later, I hear a door softly click closed.
It has me instantly leaping out of bed and reaching for my gun.
I’m holding my breath as I stealthily move towards the door. My heart is hammering in my chest. If some fucker is in this house, he’s about to die.
The adrenaline pumping through my veins makes my hand slightly tremble as I reach for the door handle and slowly turn it.
The cocking of my gun only seems to amplify in the quiet of the night. The light is on in the hallway, so I peek out through the crack in the door, hoping not to be seen.
I’m in no way prepared for what I see. It’s not an intruder … it’s fucking Lucia. She’s wearing a skimpy pair of black underwear and a midriff camisole as she pads barefoot towards the bathroom and slips inside.
Fuck.
That sight may have been brief, but her exposed cheeks—that delicious fleshy part of her arse that I desperately want to bite—is where my gaze locked. It’s now seared into my fucking brain, and just what I don’t need. I’m already holding together by a thread.
When I hear the toilet flush and the tap turn on seconds later, I softly close my bedroom door and turn to rest my bare back against the cold wood.
I definitely don’t need to see a full-frontal version of her.
I already have one of those I can’t seem to forget.
Her and those perky tits in that barely there bikini she wore that day by the pool.
I’ve seen enough tits to last two lifetimes, so a nice body and a decent rack doesn’t garner much more than a spared glance from me these days.
Sure, I appreciate the feminine form and a woman with curves in all the right places, but nothing has ever stopped me in my tracks like Lucia did in that damn bikini. I swear, as soon as my eyes fixated on her, I almost swallowed my fucking tongue.
I blow out a long breath when I hear her bedroom door close seconds later, clicking the safety on my gun back into place. I should tell Lucia she needs to wear more clothes to bed, but I’m only dressed in a pair of tented boxer briefs, so that would be hypocritical of me.
After sliding my gun under my pillow, I lie back down and reach for my rock-hard cock, giving it an angry squeeze. I’ve somehow miraculously managed to refrain from jacking off to images of that woman, but I can feel my resistance slipping.
We are now on day twelve, and nothing much has changed. I’m hardly sleeping, which is not helping to curb my sour mood, and the air between Lucia and me is so thick you could cut it with a knife.
We’re still sharing meals together, and she’s yet to cook anything I haven’t liked. In all honesty, it has been the highlight of my stay here. Other than that, though, I’ve been avoiding her like the plague.
I don’t like how she makes me want things I can’t have. That’s why I need distance. Well, as much as you can get when you’re locked in a house with the person you’re desperately trying to avoid.
Every glance feels like a test. Every accidental touch is a reminder. It’s as if my whole body is wired to respond to her, even when my brain is screaming, “Fucking don’t.” And the worst part? She’s not even trying. She exists, effortlessly, painfully, and it’s enough to undo me.
Once my meal is done, I clean up and then go into whichever room she isn’t in and work.
Even that isn’t enough to escape her. Her delicate coconut scent seems to waft around in the air like a ghost, soft and persistent, impossible to forget.
It clings to the curtains, the furniture …
the inside of my damn lungs. It’s like a slow, agonising torture, and a reminder of what I can never have.
Lucia seems oblivious to the chaos running rampant inside me. If she isn’t prepping dinner, cooking, cleaning, or ruining my damn dog with all her love, she’s reading.
I’m really starting to hate those stupid books of hers. I made the mistake of picking one up the other day and skimming through the pages.
My biggest regret to date.
The hero in the story was some brooding, six-foot-five former Navy SEAL-turned-billionaire who rescues puppies and writes fucking poetry.
He was always saying stupid stuff like, “I ache for you, Raquel,” or “I need you more than I need air,” while single-handedly saving her from a group of armed thugs, one chiselled bicep at a time.
Does the dick even realise he’d die if he didn’t breathe?
What bothers me the most is that dreamy look she gets in her eyes while she tears through those damn chapters.
It crawls under my skin in the worst possible way, and don’t even get me started on how she zones out like the world around her doesn’t exist—like I don’t exist—because some pretty boy is whispering sweet nothings to the woman within those pages.
Maybe it’s irrational, but I hate that look because it’s not for me.
Am I jealous of some fictional character who probably cried every time his mummy left the room when he was a kid? Maybe. And I despise that, but more importantly, I hate how much it bothers me.
If backyard bonfires weren’t frowned upon in the suburbs, I’d drag every last one of those stupid books outside and light them up. A big, blazing, glorious fire. I wouldn’t even flinch as I watched the pages curl and blacken and poof into nothing.
Add to that the isolation of lockdown, and she’s got me completely twisted up inside, to the point I can’t seem to think straight.
It rained here all goddamn day. Non-fucking-stop. The kind of rain that seeps into your bones and makes everything feel heavier. I couldn’t even escape this living hell by taking my dog for a walk.
Instead, I spent my time pacing the house while Lucia lounged around with her nose buried in another book.
I’m currently in bed, letting the pitter-patter of rain hitting the tin roof try to lull me to sleep, but just as that hazy edge of slumber begins pulling me under, a sharp crack splits the air, jerking me upright.
My heart’s pounding in my chest as my hand instinctively slides under the pillow, and my fingers wrap around the butt of my gun.
My first thought is it was a gunshot, but when I’m halfway out of bed, a blinding flash spills through the room, bleaching everything white for a split second. Another crack follows right after, ripping through the sky.
I exhale all the air from my lungs as I ease back onto the mattress, but the calm doesn’t last. Two more booms explode overhead, so close and violent they rattle the windows in their frames.
That’s when the bedroom door bursts open. My arm shoots up on instinct, aimed towards the threat just as the light flips on, flooding the room and momentarily blinding me.
A sharp gasp cuts through the air as my vision clears. Lucia stands frozen in the doorway with her wide eyes locked on the gun now aimed straight at her.
“Please don’t shoot me,” she murmurs, holding her hands up in front of her.
“Jesus, Lucia. I’m not going to shoot you,” I grumble as I lower the gun and shove it back under my pillow. “What the fuck are you doing in my room?” My eyes leave hers, slowly perusing down her tight body. “And where the fuck are your clothes?”