Chapter Forty-Five #2
“You’re fucking insane,” he panted, scowling. He picked up his pace, and her pubic bones screamed in agony each time he slammed inside.
A part of her hoped Achilles would burst through the door, rip this man off her, and save her from him and herself.
She wanted him to dry her tears and protect her. Wanted to know everything about his thoughts, where he spent his days, if the hate he had for her was real.
She wanted him to care, even though she didn’t deserve it.
Time crawled, and Achilles didn’t show up. Her disappointment turned into rage. Then, finally, to hollow resignation.
Tucker finished inside her. He pulled out too fast, causing her discomfort, and ripped off the condom he thankfully had the foresight to put on.
“Shit. That was insane.” He wiped his brow with the back of his arm, chuckling to himself as he began to get dressed. “You got anything to snack on over here?” He shoved one leg into his pants.
“No.” She wrapped herself in the duvet and sat on the edge, feeling unbearably cold all of a sudden. “Get out.”
“Can I at least have your number?”
“No. Out.”
She waited until he was out before she threw open the fridge and took out a drink. Grabbing the vodka by the neck, she shuffled back to her room.
Marco was still sitting on her couch, staring at the wall.
Three days later, she was out on a shopping spree with her friends. They were carrying their Chanel bags on Fifth Avenue when a fully tinted Hummer pulled up at the curb, blocking their way. The back door swung open, revealing Achilles’s face, covered in aviators. “Inside.”
One word, and yet it pierced through her breastbone and straight into her heart.
“Tier, do you know this guy?” Rosamund, a supermarket chain heiress, twisted her nose in disapproval.
“Unfortunately. He’s my longtime stalker.” Tierney tossed her bags into the vehicle and climbed inside. “I’ll see you tonight at the gala.”
They were still staring, shell-shocked, with their mouths hanging open, when the Hummer zipped into the busy New York traffic.
“Miss me?” Tierney cooed, plucking out her lip balm and dabbing it to her lips with her pinky.
Achilles texted on his phone, not sparing her a glance.
Even when he sought her out, he didn’t give her proper attention. What kind of stalker was he?
She wanted to scream. Make a scene. The only reason she didn’t was because she didn’t want him to see how deep he burrowed under her skin.
“Whatever you need, it’ll have to be quick. I have a hot date tonight.” She yawned.
“We’ll see about that.”
“You’re not my father.”
“I know.” His eyes were still on his phone, thumbs flying over the screen. “I’m much more involved in your life.”
The rest of the drive was spent silently praying for his early and painful demise. They stopped in front of an abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn. She’d been there once before, when the Ferrantes attempted to broker a treaty between the Irish and Tatum Blackthorn, a local billionaire.
Achilles got out first and didn’t spare her a glance, even though exiting his monstrous ride in heels was no easy feat.
They ambled inside. The place boasted a vast expanse of wooden floors and exposed brick walls. The only piece of furniture was a flimsy wooden chair.
Tucker Reid was roped to it, gagged and screaming into a red ball.
Her heart dropped to the bottom of her stomach. He looked like he’d been beaten so badly, the only reason she recognized him was that he wore the same black dress shirt as three days ago.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She dropped her shopping bags—which she could not remember why she’d brought with her in the first place—on the floor. “Untie him, you psychopath!”
Ignoring her rage, he strolled deeper into the room. “This the guy who touched you?”
She clamped her mouth shut, something between fear and rage dancing across her skin. She understood—even welcomed—a punch or two to the man who dared touch her. But kidnapping was a step too far.
“Is it him?” Achilles pressed, stopping a few feet from the man.
“Fuck y—”
“Answer me!” he roared.
She stared at him defiantly in a silent screw you.
“Come here.”
She did because she was afraid he’d start chopping body parts off Tucker if she defied him.
Achilles studied her. His eyes dropped from her face to her neck. She wore a satin scarf. He tugged it free. It fell to the floor, revealing blue and purple bruises.
Achilles closed his eyes. His nostrils flared. Every single emotion ran through his body.
“Is. He. The. One. Who. Touched. You?”
“Y—yes.” Her voice was small and frightened and drenched with shame. “But I asked him t—”
He turned to Tucker Reid, unholstered his gun, and shot him straight in the face.
She stared at Tucker’s limp head tilting sideways. The blood oozing from his forehead. Shock and hatred swirled inside her, each fighting for dominance. She had so many things to say to him. All of them could send her to an early grave.
Achilles stepped forward, eating the space between them, so close their noses brushed. “Never again, Tierney. You hear me?”
She tilted her chin up, refusing to give him her words.
“If you let another man touch you, just assume you’ve sentenced him to his death.”
“You’re sick,” she whispered.
“I know.” He grinned, his coal eyes burning with hatred. “Every. Single. One. You can try to hide them. Protect them. I’ll always find them, and I’ll always kill them.”
Her body trembled with rage. It consumed her so badly she thought her skin was going to explode. He pushed her into a corner. No one was going to defy him. He was Achilles Ferrante.
The joker of the underworld. The sadist everyone feared.
“Next time you bring someone home to get screwed, your bodyguard will kill him. That’s an order from above. I meant what I said, Piccola Fiamma. If I can’t have you, no one can. Stock up on those sex toys. Because you won’t be seeing another dick for a long, long time.”