25. Wynter
Wynter
D ressed in one of Bas’ white t-shirts that came to my mid-thighs and my boyshort panties, I roamed his home.
Unlike most bachelors that I’d heard stories about, Basilio’s place was spotless. I could go mess around in the kitchen, but it was probably safer that I didn’t. While I was good on the ice, I was terrible in the kitchen. I didn’t want to risk burning his place down.
I roamed from room to room. Admittedly, I was a tiny bit nosey. Earlier today, I was too worried about Davina and then got wrapped up in Bas to absorb this place but now, I had time.
His kitchen was grand and fancy for a bachelor.
Not that you’d catch me in it. But the rest of his house was the epitome of comfort with a feel of home.
An office with a large mahogany desk and matching furniture, a guest bathroom painted all black and white, and a guest room in dark earth-tone colors looked cozy though it didn’t compare to Bas’ own bedroom.
His bedroom walls were crisp white with a large bed draped with black satin sheets. It fit him perfectly, giving his room the appearance of a devil’s lair tempting women with the promises of sin, pleasure, and happiness.
I was floating on a cloud while scouting his place, the words of his proposal playing on repeat. Over and over again, making me gush. I’d marry him. And I couldn’t freaking wait.
Since I’d met Basilio, life had been different. I enjoyed it more. I appreciated free moments and relished in spending them off the ice. Besides, I promised Basilio I’d stay here. My hand reached for the necklace around my neck and my fingers twirled the skull pendant.
Tucking it under my shirt, I glanced around, my bare feet cool against the hardwood.
He touched something deep inside me, engraved himself on my flesh, into my marrow and there was no letting go.
I promised him I’d never leave and I intended to keep that promise. Despite the darkness around him, he also had light in him. Or maybe it was exactly his darkness that appealed to me.
I was so deep in my daydreams that I never heard the steps.
“Now I understand what has been keeping my son busy,” an unfamiliar voice drifted through the air. I whirled around and came face-to-face with a much older version of Basilio. A much darker, much crueler version.
It was peculiar because physically the son and father looked very much alike.
His jet black hair had silver strands all throughout.
Basilio was an inch or two taller than his father and though both were strong, his father looked stockier because he was shorter.
I had no doubt that Basilio would look like his father in his old age.
Yet, something about the cruelty in this man’s eyes differentiated him from Bas. Basilio could never become this man.
The ruthless head of the New York City Syndicate stood barely five feet away from me.
Uncle and Killian may have kept Juliette and myself blind to the underworld, but I'd heard enough stories about Gio DiLustro to know it wasn't smart to be alone with him. Or to be on his radar.
My heart tripped but I kept my face expressionless. After all, I have had years of practice.
Bas’ father leaned against the living room doorway, looking like he was in his own home. His own territory. Well, he was in his territory. This side of town belonged to the DiLustros. How many times had Uncle Liam warned us not to cross to this side of the city?
I could taste fear on my tongue as I stood there watching one of the most feared men in New York City. Unlike Bas, this man was all cruelty and corruption. Evil. It was in the wickedness of his gaze. In the darkness of the air that seemed to pulse around him with each slight movement he made.
“Basilio is not home,” I said firmly, though my heart thundered so hard it might have cracked my ribs.
“Home, huh?” He chuckled, though there was something menacing about his laugh. Predatory. “You already made yourself at home, I see.”
I didn’t like his tone. Being caught alone in Basilio’s home with this man was bound to end badly.
He hadn’t moved, but the way he eyed me, like a predator, I felt like he was too close. The room was closing in on me. His gaze lowered, eyeing my sparkly painted toes, then traveled up over my bare legs. I felt too exposed, too naked.
He took a step towards me, and instinctively, I took a step back. I didn’t want him any closer to me, though by the way he smiled, it looked like I made his day. This man liked a chase and right now he looked like a cat who was about to catch the canary.
My eyes darted around for my phone. It was on the coffee table.
Coffee table!
I saw it when Basilio gave me the necklace. He stored his handgun in it. His father didn’t bother looking away from me. He didn’t consider me a threat.
I shifted to my right, towards the table. He followed.
“How much?” My heart skidded to a stop and I blinked in confusion. He chuckled darkly. “How much to let me fuck you?” My heart pounded in my chest but I refused to show it. Bas would be home soon. He’d keep me safe. “Name your price. I’m willing to negotiate.”
The gun and coffee table temporarily forgotten, I stared at him in shock.
“I don’t have a price,” I choked out, swallowing a lump in my throat. “This has nothing to do with you.”
He leered at me with a cruel smirk on his face. The way he looked at me sent a shiver of fear down my spine. His mouth pulled into a big menacing smile that raised the little hairs on my skin. Terror unlike any before clogged my throat.
I wasn’t prepared for this. To fight. To defend myself.
My heart thundered against my ribcage. For the first time in my life, I was scared because the way this man looked at me promised nightmares and retribution. The man didn’t like to be denied.
“Everyone has a price.”
And this was where my infamous Irish temper kicked in. I squared my shoulders and glared at him.
“Well, I don’t,” I spat back at him. “I don’t want nor need your filthy money.”
In two big strides, the man was in my face. I pissed him off. This was the scary, ruthless, and crazy mobster. He literally towered over me, working his intimidation.
But what had taken me aback was the hate in his eyes. What could I have possibly done for this man to hate me so much? Hate was usually personal and this man had only just met me.
Using all my strength from years of training, I kicked him between his legs and sprinted for the coffee table.
I wasn’t fast enough or I didn’t hit him hard enough.
His hand grabbed my arm and yanked me back.
Losing my balance, I fell to the floor. My head cracked against the hardwood floor. Stars danced in front of my vision.
It was peculiar the thoughts that ran through one’s head when in panic. I didn’t think about my mom. I didn’t think about Basilio. I didn’t think about surviving. My only damn thought was not to break anything or get a concussion so I could continue my training.
My priorities were screwed up. Or maybe the ice skating and training had been ingrained into me for so long, I didn’t know how to think about anything else.
My fingers locked around the table leg and I gripped it hard as I scrambled onto my knees. I was desperate to get away from him. I wasn’t quick enough. His hands grabbed my hips and jerked me backwards.
Losing my balance, my knees gave out and my head hit the corner of the coffee table. Stars swirled in my vision again.
Fuck!
His harsh laughter filled the room. It pierced my eardrums. It sent fear down to every cell of me. I felt sticky liquid trickling down my temple, red dripped in front of my vision.
I couldn’t give up. I had to fight.
His hand wrapped around my throat from the back, his body pressed against my ass and with horror I realized the man was fucking hard. The bulge in his pants couldn’t be mistaken for anything else.
The next second, I was flipped onto my back. My head hit the floor again. I jerked against him, fighting him off, but it didn’t seem to faze him at all. His fingers ripped the shirt straight down the middle.
My head snapped to the side. He backhanded me; my cheek burned, my vision blurred, and my ears buzzed from the force of it. My mouth filled with blood, the metallic taste overwhelming. It was on my tongue, in my throat. I could smell it.
Tears blurred my eyes, whether from the pain of the slap or the icy terror, I didn’t know. I had never been hit in my entire life.
“Don’t worry,” he hissed against my ear, his other hand fisting my hair and yanking it backwards. “I’ll break you in. I knew your mother was alive. That lying, filthy Irish whore.”
I blinked, confused at his reference to my mother.
But I couldn’t ponder on it. His breathing was hard, his breath vile against my skin as he pried my thighs apart. Fight , my mind demanded. Fight.
The sound of the zipper was ominous. His penis flopped out and I jerked back, twisting around. Bile rose in my throat and threatened to empty my stomach.
I had to get away from him. I crawled on my hands and knees. “I can fuck your ass too. I’ll break you in, girl.”
I struggled against him. I elbowed him hard enough to hear his grunts and his disgusting breath on my neck. Glass shattered, a vase from the coffee table. His hands gripped my hair and yanked my head back so hard, sharp pain shot through my neck and down my back.
Nausea curled in my stomach. His laugh sounded in my ears. He reached for my panties, peeling them down my legs. His fingers were between my legs and I tasted vomit in my throat, the acid of it burning it raw.
I jerked my head back and headbutted him. I never saw his fist coming, nor his hand that choked the life out of me. Ignoring the pain on every inch of me, I headbutted him again. His grip loosened just enough for me to jab my elbow into his gut.
I took advantage of his recovery and started crawling, the glass cutting into my palms.