Chapter 29
Imogen
It occurres to me I’ve lost count of the number of days I’ve been in captivity. It’s as if my mind has convinced itself that I haven’t been. At least it’s never truly felt that way. Not entirely.
Being the daughter of a Made Man my life has always been on a leash. He’d loosen the rope, allowing me to study abroad, but tighten it to remind me I’ve never been free.
Have I deluded myself into believing that I have freed myself of the collar?
Days of being ignored and left to my own has prompted questions I wish to not have answered.
It is also when I miss ma the most. Terribly so. I long to hear her voice. Even more the embrace of her comforting and loving arms. There is something incredibly different from the love of a ma compared to others.
I draw my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around myself. If I hold myself tight enough I can imagine it’s her.
A long weary sigh escapes me.
I wonder how ma is managing. I know she must be going mad with worry.
More than likely ridding herself to tears each and every night.
Waking with despair that turns to bargaining with pa.
I know she has to be recycling the stages of grief without ever allowing herself to take the final step; acceptance.
God, I can’t allow myself to think of her. Not only does it bring me the greatest sorrow I know I’ll never be able to look her in the eyes if we are to ever be reunited.
How does one look in their ma’s eyes and tell them they’re falling in love with her son’s killer?
I’m certain disappointment and betrayal will greet me. A heart broken beyond repair.
I wish my heart could follow my head. But the poor bloody vessel I wear so openly begs to be seen by him. It wants to fit perfectly in his capable and tender hands.
I’ve seen the man the world has not. A man with faults yes but a man who has become vulnerable and soft with me. Possibly only ever with me.
And if I am to go by his mindset of fact then there is an abundance to support my claim.
No Made Man threatens his own, no Made Man kills his own, and no Made Man takes the time to care earnestly about someone who is just a bargaining chip.
I mean something to him. And god damn it I will get him to admit it.
Done licking my wounds and wallowing in my sorrows I set forth to his home gym. It’s six o’clock in the evening. Everyday, minus Tuesdays and Thursdays, Rico spends exactly one hour in his gym. This evening I’m joining him. And I’m determined for him to acknowledge me.
His home gym is sophisticated in style but practical in effectiveness. It reflects the man Rico is.
The cardio equipment of a stair master, stationary bike and treadmill face the floor to ceiling windows that overlook the city. And while I miss the charm, cobblestone streets and mountains there is a beauty to the city that never sleeps.
Followed by the cardio is a section specifically for free weights with a mirrored wall to watch one’s form. On the opposite side of the room is the lower body equipment. Finally, a fair enough space in the middle to do no equipment activity.
I spot him running on the treadmill with his soundproof headphones on and wearing only a pair of black athletic shorts.
Sweat glistens from his skin. The sheen of it pronounces his muscles, making him appear more of a god than a mere mortal.
His broadened shoulders taper to a narrower waist. He’s deliciously sculpted with defined muscles rather than hulking.
The sinews and cords of muscles are impressive throughout his whole body.
And I can’t help but not only gawk but also appreciate the view.
But behind the sheen of sweat I’m tempted to drag my tongue across I see what he’s possibly never allowed anyone to see before.
Scars.
Rough and reddened. Raised and jagged.
Too many to count.
While others seem to have been treated with care most of them appear to be as if they were neglected.
And they don’t just cover his back.
They’re on the back of his arms and legs, too. I’m led to believe if he is to turn around I would only see more.
A heaviness sits upon my chest as my heart flares with a visceral pain.
As if he can feel my presence the machine comes to a sudden stop. I feel like we will always be that way with one another. Always aware. Always sensitive to the other even if we are to be oceans apart.
He turns to look at me then, removing his headphones to rest around his neck. My heart breaks into millions of pieces. From his collarbone down are more scars.
I understand the men in this life acquire scars along the way but these ones. . .
These ones are different.
“Who did this to you?” I breathe. My heart bleeds in every word.
His chest heaves. And it could be from physical exertion but something tells me it’s more than just that.
“What are you doing here?” He deflects the question with another. So very unlike him.
I take a step closer and when I see him not retreat I don’t stop until I close the distance between us.
My hand hovers over his chest. I ache to comfort him. Just as I’m about to gently caress the scar on his left pectoral he snatches my wrist in his hand.
“Don’t,” he warns tightly. There’s a dark edge to his voice. One I’ve never heard from him before.
I swallow. Not because I’m afraid of him. Never afraid of him. I swallow the ball of emotions sitting at the back of my throat.
“Rico.” My voice shakes. Tears of anger and sorrow burn at the back of my eyes. I want to avenge him. Hunt down the man responsible and make him feel all of my wrath.
“Don’t, Imogen.” I look up at him through my lashes. His eyes are impenetrable. “Don’t pity me.”
“I don’t pity you, Rico.” His jaw tightens. “I sympathize.” Tears threaten but I blink them away. “How could someone do this to you?”
“You don’t think I deserved it?” He challenges. Except within that challenge I hear the underlying message. Someone made him believe he did.
“Your scars aren’t new, shadow.” He softens momentarily at the nickname. “They’re old. You can lie and say they’re from you being a Made Man but these scars you bear hold a different story. They hold a greater pain.”
His eyes cast to the side. Distancing himself once more. “Scars are only scars. None greater. None lesser.”
“You and I both know that isn’t true,” I argue softly. “I know the world may see you as cold and unfeeling. I know you wear this mask to protect yourself when you’re in crowded rooms and in front of others. You think no one can understand you but I do. I’m here telling you that I understand you.”
When he looks at me his eyes are filled with torment. He even takes a step back. It feels like a physical blow. “Imogen, I’ve told you. Don’t.”
My stubbornness won’t allow me to. And so I charge forward, determined for him to see the inevitability of us like a raging bull.
“There’s whispers of you, you know. Whispers of the Grim Reaper who collects the souls of traitors and enemies to bring upon The Devil of the East Coast’s feet.
Every single soul you’ve taken has been for him.
So take one for yourself. Claim a soul as yours and never release it. ”
“What are you asking of me?”
Swallowing, I take a step forward. The tips of his shoes brushes the bare of my feet. A parallel to how we were weeks ago. And when I look at him I know he’ll be able to see everything. I’ve always been labeled an open book but I will never be as vulnerable as I am at this moment.
“Take my soul. Collect it. Keep it. I was damned the moment your lips first spoke my name.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.” His voice takes on a gravelly tone as doubt seeps in his words.
“Think what you may but I am in sound mind and body. I know what I want. I know who I want. You’re my sweetest consequence, Rico.
I know what choosing you will bring me. Yet despite everything I can’t turn you away.
End this, Rico. Rid yourself of these metaphorical chains that bind you and come to me. ”
“I can’t quite figure you out, Imogen.” I’ve never seen him so troubled. His perfectly crafted world has become a means of chaos. “And yet you’re the only person who has cracked open parts of me I never thought were humanly possible.”
Daringly, I smooth his furrowed brows. He doesn’t just allow the touch, he welcomes it. My heart flips.
“What have you done to me?” He breathes.
“I set you free.”
A strangled noise emits from the back of his throat. One of pain. Of want. Of need. Before I can decipher this newfound hunger in his eyes he engulfs me in his arms and slams his lips on mine.
He kisses me with a fevered passion. His tongue demands entry and I’m all too eager to oblige to his command. I open my mouth and his tongue strokes against mine.
His kiss is deep, consuming. Mind bending and leg weakening. Rico isn’t a man who kisses with only his mouth, he kisses with his whole body.
No part of me is left untouched by his eager hands. They palm my ass, run up my side to squeeze my breast, cup my chin to plunge in his tongue deeper and land tangled in my hair to leave a pleasurable ache to my scalp.
I’m burning up. Ready to combust at what they call second base. A make out session has never left me this breathless and wanton before.
When his lips leave mine I all but ache to feel them once more. Then, ever so gently the pad of his finger traces the features of my face. It’s as if he’s drawing me to memorize for the day I won’t be by his side. The corner of his mouth lifts to present a barely there smile.
“Your beauty is unmatched, la mia gazzella,” he says in reverence.
My heart soars from hearing my special nickname.
I can’t believe I ever hated it. Nothing sounds sweeter from his lips.
“Your skin flush. Lips red and swollen. I’ve never had a favorable color before but I think it may be red.
” He twirls a piece of my copper hair in his finger.
After winding it he releases it and places it behind my ear.
His finger lingers on my lobe before he tips my chin up and plants another kiss on my wanting and swollen lips.
My hand clamps on the back of his neck as I hike my leg around his waist. I feel the evidence of his arousal hard and heavy against my core.
I moan into his mouth and he swallows the sound. With a slight bend of his knee he hooks his hand under my knee and picks me up effortlessly. I wrap my legs around him as he drives us backwards. My back softly hits the mirrored wall.
“Touch me,” I beg in between kisses. He slides his hand up the inside of my shirt and cups my bare breast. “Rico, please.” I need more stimulation. Anything to bring me closer to pinnacle bliss.
“Please what, gazzella?” He nips at my jawline.
“Take me.”
“Right here?” He breathes.
“Yes,” I moan. I shift my hips against him and his cock twitches.
A strangled noise emits from the back of his throat. Showing the restraint of a saint he pulls back and I whimper. “You want your first time to be against the wall?”
My heart gallops in my throat. How will he take this? Most Made Men are promised virgins. It’s archaic and barbaric. They can sleep with whoever they desire but we are meant to keep ourselves pure. Hypocrisy at its finest.
I lick my lips nervously, only hoping he doesn’t hold those views. “I’m not a virgin, Rico.”
“You’re not.” I can’t figure out his tone. My defenses start to build.
“Is that a problem?” I challenge. “Because if it is—”
He silences me with a hard closed mouth kiss. “Fuck,” he curses under his breath. When he looks at me I see an inferno. “It’s only a problem for the boy you lost it to. Who was it?”
I raise a brow. “I don’t kiss and tell.”
He pinches my chin between his fingers. “You’re going to tell me who you lost it to.”
I roll my eyes. “He wasn’t anyone special.”
“It doesn’t matter. He touched you. I want his fucking head.”
A bubble of nervous laughter escapes me. “Rico, you’re being irrational.”
His lip kicks. “I am irrational when it comes to you.” His hand comes to collar my throat. My pulse jumps when he applies pressure. “Give me his name.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
I purse my lips. “The names of the women you slept with. If you can remember them all.”
One second my back is against the mirrored wall and the next I’m down on the mats with my wrists bound above my head and his hand still on my throat.
His nose skims along mine. “You want the names, little warrior?”
“Fair is fair,” I tell him in a sultry tone.
“The only name on my list will be yours.” His lips brush against mine with the confession.
My brows pull together as I stare at him wide eyed. Surely I mustn’t have heard him right. He’s a Made Man. A criminally handsome successful Made Man. It doesn’t seem plausible. Until it does.
“You’ve gone unnaturally quiet,” he says softly. “Does this disappoint you?”
The vulnerability in his voice has me framing his face tenderly in my hands to reassure him. “No. I’m not disappointed at all. Are you disappointed?”
“No,” he says and the pressure on my chest lifts with relief. “I do, however, feel a burning jealousy.”
It should be disturbing that I find pleasure in that. “If it makes you feel any better he was lackluster. I didn’t even finish.”
He lowers his hips. I feel him at my aching and wet core. “He didn’t please you?” I draw my lower lip in by my teeth and shake my head. He hums in response. I lift my hips and he hisses. “I want to please you, but I don’t know where to begin.”
“That’s okay,” I assure him but he doesn’t seem to like my reply.
“Teach me. Teach me all the ways to please you. Make my name synonymous with pleasure. Every moan. Every whimper. The ache that pulses between your thighs. I want to own all of them.”