13. Darragh
Chapter 13
Darragh
I ’ve been here since the afternoon. Like a ghost at the edge of the graveyard, I watched them put Dario Fabbri in the ground. Normally, I don’t give two flying fucks about shit like this. Dario’s dead as a doornail and I don’t actually care about making sure whatever they were able to scrape of him off the pavement makes it down into the dirt.
But it’s my first chance to see Valentina again. At least, my first chance while she’s not sleeping.
Her daddy’s been keeping her very close to home these days.
But she’s out in public view again now. For the funeral of the man I’ve recently learned was her fiancé.
She’s somehow managed to slip away from her handlers. I keep to the shadows, following silently beside her on the other side of trees and shrubs until we reach a gravel circle with a big fountain in the centre.
I don’t reveal myself yet. I want to see what she does.
She tosses her shoes off the ends of her toes. Then, in a movement so stunningly erotic it nearly causes me fucking pain, she pulls down her sheer black stockings, twisting her hips as she does so. I watch her slender fingers with those long, pointed nails. The same nails she shoved into my flesh two weeks ago.
Those wounds still haven’t fucking healed properly.
When her stockings are down to her ankles, she steps daintily out of them, revealing the smooth skin of her calves and bare feet.
I know she’s got a far better tan than my Irish ass could ever be capable of, but out here in the moonlight she looks paler, especially when contrasting her naked skin with the black dress, black hair, and her huge dark eyes.
This is the second time I’ve seen her in a black dress.
Like she’s in mourning every moment she spends in my presence.
Can’t really say that I blame her.
“I hope you don’t mind if I join you.”
Her voice slips softly through the night. Like silken fingers that caress your face.
Right before a slap.
I’ve never heard her voice before. Up on that rooftop, she didn’t make a sound.
I don’t like how her voice has disoriented me. I hate the way I nearly step forward without even telling my body to move, all because for a split second, I think her words are meant for me.
But she isn’t speaking to me. Her chin is tipped up. She’s speaking to the stone angel.
“Thanks,” she says softly.
She gets into the fountain.
Then, she takes off her dress.
I have to say, this wasn’t what I was expecting from the polished Titone principessa . Undressing and then splashing around in a public fountain on the night of your fiancé’s funeral, frankly, doesn’t seem like something she’d be allowed to do. It’s too uncouth, too impulsive.
The fact that I’m seeing this little slice of her indulgent rebellion leaves me smirking with satisfaction. She may think this is a private moment of freedom.
But really, this moment is mine.
Just like the rest of her.
I can’t yet explain why, but I’m enjoying getting to see all these different versions of Valentina Titone. I’ve seen her primped and perfect in published photos. I’ve seen her defenceless, lips parted with sleep in her bed. I’ve seen her dying and desperate as she stabs a part of herself into me.
And now, I see how she is when she thinks that no one’s watching. She’s not putting on a show for anyone out here. There’s something almost poignant about her moving through the water the way she does. She’s an exact foil for the angel at her side. One modestly dressed in flowing robes, body still and hard, pale stone. One stripped down to nothing but black, black lace, all heat and softness and movement. Perfect breasts, curving hips, and silky damp skin.
Valentina is slow and thoughtful in her movements, her face smooth and sombre. She draws her fingertips tenderly over the surface of the water, like she’s feathering them over someone’s back.
My back.
I inhale sharply, then swallow hard, my spine suddenly feeling like it’s on fucking fire.
Maybe I need to jump into the goddamn fountain too.
I almost do, but something seen from the corner of my eye stops me.
It’s a man.
I narrow my gaze at him in the darkness. I don’t recognize him. I don’t know if he’s a funeral attendee or a member of staff from the restaurant out on a break.
What I do know is that he’s got his gaze glued to Valentina’s pretty tits. He stands stock still, as if one tiny movement will dispel the vision he’s been lucky enough to stumble on.
Or unlucky enough. Because when he frantically undoes his belt and takes his cock out to stroke to the sight of her, he’s sealed his fucking fate.
I approach in silence, stepping soundlessly on well-watered grass. Despite my size, I don’t find it difficult to move quietly. Boxing and more than twenty years of taking lives in the shadows tends to keep a man nice and light on his fucking feet. Besides, the man is too hard and horny and focused on being quiet himself to notice me. He’s practically holding his breath, trying not to wheeze too hard as he tugs on his cock.
Pretty fucking pathetic to die with your dick in your own hand like that.
Disgust mingles with a throbbing rage as I take my knife out of my back pocket and flick it open.
By the time I step up neatly behind the other man, he’s on the verge of coming. I can hear it in his hoarse breathing. See it in the tension of his repulsive body.
I’m not going to let him. This moment with Valentina in the darkness was mine.
Only fucking mine.
A groan builds in the back of his throat.
It never escapes.
Because my knife is there instead. A flick of my wrist. A hard drag of the blade. A gurgle and a river of blackish blood.
I don’t let him fall. It would be too loud, and I don’t want to draw Valentina’s attention just yet. A quick glance through the shadows and trees tells me she’s completely oblivious to what’s going on, the sound of falling water covering up any small noises she otherwise might have heard. She’s sitting on the edge of the fountain with her back to me, kicking her legs languorously through the water like some fucking siren in a Renaissance painting.
I drag the man – now corpse – into a thicker stand of trees and dump him in darkness. I straighten up, then stare down at him in distaste, giving him a couple swift kicks until he’s rolled over onto his stomach and I don’t have to look at the putrid dick that was his death sentence.
I’m breathing harder than I should be.
Messy. Too fucking messy. I might be known in this town as Mad Darragh, but I’m not stupid. I don’t make a habit of slitting the throats of random assholes in public places if I can help it.
But I guess I just couldn’t fucking help it.
And that pisses me off. If it had been any other woman, I wouldn’t have even looked twice. I would have walked right on by and let the idiot have his furtive orgasm. Nobody compels me into doing anything I don’t want to.
I’ve never killed someone over a woman before.
It almost makes me want to kill her, too. As punishment. And a fucked-up form of self-preservation.
Because there’s something inside Valentina Titone that’s calling to me. It’s been calling to me ever since she sank her sharp little nails into my arm and locked those teary, fire-gold eyes on mine.
I think she’s interesting.
I think if I get to know her any better, I may even find her fascinating.
And that sort of fascination is fucking dangerous.
Already dangerous. Already making me messy.
Now, I’ve got an unexpected body to deal with and blood thick as paint on my hands.
I turn around and head straight for the fountain, not entirely sure if I’m going to wash my hands in the water…
Or drown her in it.