8. Vegarro “Vega” Moretti
VEGARRO “VEGA” MORETTI
Iplaced Sonnet in the guest bedroom at one of my secluded properties and left her unrestrained. But I had taken her phone and Apple watch from her.
The house sat on so many acres outside the city that nobody would hear her scream, but close enough that I could get here from the city fast. The property was registered under a company that couldn’t be traced directly to me, and the nearest neighbor lived beyond a wall of trees.
Sonnet lay in the center of the bed with her glasses folded on the nightstand. She looked peaceful, which didn’t match the woman who had tried to take out my eyes with her keys less than two hours earlier.
While she slept, I made sure the room had everything she might need.
I filled the dresser with lounge sets, T-shirts, sweatshirts, underwear, bras, and pajamas in the sizes she seemed to wear.
The bathroom cabinet had new toothbrushes, skin products, hair products, feminine supplies, and enough toiletries to keep her from needing anything outside the room.
I placed the snacks I had watched her buy herself on the dresser; popcorn, granola bars, and chocolate-covered almonds. Beside them, I stacked the books she had picked up at Da Book Joint but returned to the shelves before checking out.
I stood near the foot of the bed and studied her.
Beautiful wasn’t a strong enough word. I had seen more beautiful women than I could count.
Being tall, built, handsome, and paid meant I never had to search hard for attention.
Women approached me. Some tried to hide how eager they were. Most didn’t bother.
I had always had my choice. With Sonnet, I felt like the thirsty and desperate one.
She had done nothing to earn that kind of interest. But I still couldn’t stop looking at her.
Her lashes rested against her cheeks. Her full lips were slightly parted, and her hair spread across the pillow around her face. Even unconscious, there was something soft and innocent about her that made every possessive part of me pay attention.
Suddenly, her fingers began to move against the comforter.
I stepped back, watching as Sonnet’s eyes opened slowly. Confusion crossed her face as she looked toward the unfamiliar ceiling. She turned her head, spotted the furniture, then pushed herself upright.
Her gaze landed on me and the black pooh-shiesty mask covering everything except my eyes.
She screamed.
Before I could say a word, she snatched the lamp from the nightstand and threw it.
I moved aside as it shattered against the wall.
Then she grabbed the books next.
“Sonnet,” I warned as she launched one.
It struck my chest. Another missed my head.
She swept the snacks, toiletries, and water bottles from the dresser, sending everything across the floor. Then she jumped out of the bed, grabbed the wooden chair near the window and shoved it toward me.
I caught it before it hit my legs. “Are you finished?”
“Fuck you!”
She reached for the framed picture on the wall.
“Breaking everything in here will only leave you trapped in a useless room,” I argued.
She threw the picture anyway.
Glass broke across the floor.
I looked at the damage, then back at her. “Now you’re going to listen.”
“I’m not listening to shit!”
“You’ll remain inside this room unless I tell you otherwise. You’ll eat. You’ll stop trying to fight me, and you won’t approach any exterior door in this house.”
She stood on the opposite side of the bed, breathing hard. “What happens if I refuse?”
I stepped around the broken chair, and she held her ground.
That surprised me.
I stopped close enough for her to understand the difference in our size. She had plenty of fight in her, but I could overpower her easily.
“You’ll discover that I’m far more impatient and violent than you are.”
The threat sounded believable because it usually was. I had ended men for less than what she had already done to me. But I knew I would never hurt her, and already knowing that shocked me.
Sonnet stared at me for several seconds. Her shoulders gradually lowered, but her eyes remained alert. “When are you going to kill me?”
The way she was calm when she asked me that stole my attention. “Why do you think I’m going to kill you?”
She said nothing.
Instead, her gaze moved toward the covered window.
I took another step. “If you think you’re about to die, why aren’t you crying?”
Her attention returned to me. “Because death is nothing compared to the shit I’ve already been through.”
She said it without drama. No trembling lips. No attempt to make me feel sorry for her. She sounded certain, as though she had compared the options and decided dying didn’t deserve the energy fear required.
The answer disturbed me. It also made me want to know every person responsible for making her feel like that. I stared at her face, trying to decide what kind of life could make a twenty-three-year-old woman speak about death like it was a vacation.
Then my attention dropped to the thin blouse stretched across her breasts and the curve of her body beneath her work pants.
My dick hardened.
The reaction was immediate and unwelcome.
She was frightened, trapped, and glaring at me like she wanted to rip my throat out.
I had no business wanting her, but that didn’t stop me.
Her defiance pulled at something primitive in me.
I wanted to crowd her against the wall, tear the mask off, and make her focus on nothing but me.
I should’ve stepped out and let her burn through the rage.
Instead, I stayed too close because walking away from her already felt harder than it should have.
Something about her pulled at me. Even furious, terrified, and determined to fight me until one of us bled, Sonnet made me want to be near her.
I found myself standing within reach because distance felt like punishment, and Sonnet moved fast. She grabbed one of the water bottles from the floor and swung it at my face.
I caught her wrist, but she twisted beneath my arm and drove her elbow into my ribs with enough force to make pain flash hot through my side.
“Fuck!” I barked.
Her knee came up next, catching my thigh before I could move back. Then her nails scraped across the side of my neck. “Let me the fuck outta here!”
“I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“Then open the door!”
She shoved both hands against my chest. When I didn’t move, she snatched another book from the floor and swung it hard into my ribs.
Pain cracked through me again. It felt like she’d bruised something.
This woman fought like she had been practicing for this her whole life. I respected it, but I also couldn’t let it continue.
I caught her around the waist and pulled her back against me before her fingers could close around it. She screamed, twisting, kicking, and throwing her head back toward my face.
“Sonnet, stop.”
“Fuck you!”
Her heel slammed into my shin.
I tightened one arm around her waist and pulled a small cloth from my pocket with my free hand. It was damp with a sedative compound.
The moment she saw it, panic widened her eyes. “No!”
I covered her mouth and nose. She fought me with everything she had left. Her nails dug into my forearm. Her body bucked against mine. Her muffled scream vibrated through my palm.
Her movements weakened first. Then her hands slipped from my arm.
Her body sagged against mine, and I caught her before she could fall.
For a moment, I stood there holding her unconscious weight against my chest. Her body was soft against mine, and this was the closest I had ever been to her without her fighting me or looking at me like she wanted me dead.
Though I had seen Sonnet through camera lenses, photographs, and distance, none of that compared to having her in my arms. She was real there and beautiful in a way no picture had been able to warn me about.
I lifted her carefully and placed her back on the bed, making sure her head rested against the pillow before I moved her hair away from her face.
Then I looked at her. Even knocked out, with anger still faintly creasing her brow and tears drying near her lashes, Sonnet was beautiful.
Her full lips were parted slightly, her smooth skin looked so kissable and soft against the bedding, and her hair spread around her face like the fight had never happened.
I had wanted her from a distance. Up close, wanting her became something harder to ignore.
Sonnet didn’t have any parents, siblings, cousins, or relatives to notice she was missing.
Her job didn’t even have a real family member listed as her emergency contact.
Dior, her best friend, was her emergency contact and the closest thing she had to family, which meant he would be the first person asking questions once he realized she’d vanished.
I asked the Cartiers’ tech genius, Jamil, to access her email and send a resignation letter to her employer.
The message explained that Sonnet was dealing with an unexpected personal crisis and needed to leave immediately.
It was apologetic and detailed enough to discourage follow-up questions.
Her supervisor responded within an hour, confused but accepting.
Dior required a more personal conversation. So, I stood inside his condo that evening wearing black gloves with my face masked. His place was dramatic with gold accents, velvet furniture, and framed photographs of him in poses that made every hallway look like an album cover.
The sound of keys scraping against the lock pulled my attention toward the door.