Chapter Three #4
I brush my fingers on the side of my head.
There’s no blood, but I can feel a bump.
No headache or vision loss. I should be fine.
I look out of the tiny window. The closest building seems abandoned, and the squirrel disappeared from the dead tree.
I grab the cell and notice a few texts from Rami.
No body of a boy was found in any park in the city or around, but he heard someone saw some gangster-looking men carrying a long black bag outside Bronx Park.
One of those men had long scars on his face, and another matched the description of Don Sebastian Leone.
On top of that, Doppi’s nineteen-year-old son is missing.
I text Rami.
Me:
Do you think the dead body in that bag was Doppi’s son?
While I wait for a reply, I try to dry my hair with the damp towel.
Rami:
Yes. It’s too much of a coincidence and the secrecy around it also makes sense
I search my mind for the boy’s name or face.
I met him a couple of times when I went to Coretti’s to see Aurora.
All I remember about him is a cocky boy wearing too much cologne.
But why would someone kill Doppi’s son? He was a soldier, the lowest rank.
He probably knew nothing about the family’s deals.
Luca asked about it, so it seems he wasn’t the one to kill him.
Me:
Keep an ear on the streets. Let me know if more details are leaked
Rami:
Will do. Did you change your mind about the rescue team?
Me:
I’ll stay put for the time being
Rami:
You’re nuts
Tell me something I don’t know. But sometimes you need to choose the lesser evil.
I power off the cell again to keep the battery life for as long as I can.
Then I look at my wrinkled clothes on the ground.
I’d walk out ass naked without a hint of shame, but what about the phone?
The idea of wearing my lace panties one more time is kind of gross.
I could go commando, only wearing the skirt.
A sudden, booming knock makes me jump and hide the phone behind my back. The door opens just enough for him to throw some clothes inside.
A scream almost leaves my mouth when I hear Luca’s guttural voice. “Hurry the fuck up.”
The sound of his receding steps makes me suck air into my lungs again.
I hurriedly close the door and then grab the pair of sweatpants and the oversized t-shirt off the floor.
I huff at the thought of wearing anything so ill-fitting before I realize they are Luca’s.
Didn’t expect him to possess even a smidge of kindness toward me.
They’ll be way too big for me, but I can make it work in my favor.
I wear the chest chains again, then make a quick knot on the hips and a little tear on the collar of the extra-large t-shirt so that the white fabric smoothly rides down one shoulder instead of swamping me.
I’d like to ignore the huge boxer briefs in favor of going commando, but I still need a place to stuff my phone in.
Another knot and the underwear stays up—barely.
The black sweatpants, they are more challenging to style and in need of some deeper thought.
I settle on letting them ride dangerously low on my hips—pulling at the front laces—and then rolling up the bottoms so I won’t trip over them.
I quickly wash my panties and hang them on the shower rod—imagining Luca’s face when he sees them is satisfying enough. I give myself a last look in the mirror—damp hair, fresh face, and loose shirt showing the body chain underneath.
When I emerge back into the kitchen, Luca’s searing gaze as he takes me in makes my last-minute, forced fashion choice worth it. I didn’t expect a compliment or a smidge of flattery from him, but an angry growl while pointing at the sofa leans too much on the other side.
Still, I don’t say anything. I’m fucking starving, and I don’t want to make the wacko even more irate.
Even though my sole presence seems to do that.
I walk as slow as a snail, though. Pettiness is such a great way to vent.
I abruptly stop a couple of feet from the sofa as I’m hit by a dizzy spell.
My body sways, and I would have lost my balance if it weren’t for something keeping me upright.
“What the fuck?” Luca’s voice is so close I realize he’s the hard something near me.
I open my eyes, and his chest is an inch from my face.
It has just the right amount of curled hair to run fingers through.
I feel the softness in contrast to the hardness of his pecs under my palms. St. Michael is the archangel on the pendant around his neck, protector against evil—ironic really.
I bite my lip as I watch the way his nipples tighten in the cool morning air.
I still feel a little lightheaded, but I’m not sure about the reason anymore.
“What’s wrong?” His hands tighten on my hips as I detect suspicion in his voice.
“Nothing,” I automatically reply, dropping my arms to my sides.
“Talk,” he orders.
Contrary to Jack Enzino, Luca seems interested in me—for obvious, vile reasons.
“You know that tone doesn’t work on me. I grew up around thugs. That is actually my love language,” I try to tease him so he’ll let it go like he did in the bathroom. But he never does what I expect him to.
“Now, Art.”
Hearing my name from those lips for the first time makes me want to comply. But not yet. “Thought you knew everything about me, munchkin.”
“Stop deflecting.” His flared nostrils tell me he means business.
“My blood sugar drops when I forget to eat,” I confess. “It’s nothing.”
“Forget to eat? You never stop,” he counters with a flat tone.
“I did yesterday,” I remind him. An apple and some vodka wasn’t enough.
He just stares at me for a moment, studying my face. I lower my gaze, my cheeks feel warm, because I’m fucking embarrassed. I don’t care about my hypoglycemia; it’s just that I grew up a certain way, and hiding my weaknesses is one of the reasons why I’m still alive.
He lifts me off my feet so suddenly my hands end up on his bare shoulders. One moment I’m in the air, the next I’m sitting on the sofa. He’s quick to cuff both my hands around the sofa’s armrest. He heads to the kitchen without saying a word and comes back with a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast.
Praise Jesus, thank you.
“You need to free me unless you want to feed me, cutie,” I say, while he sits on the coffee table with the plate on his lap. He puts a mug in my hands and just looks at me as I lift my hands up—as much as I can—and awkwardly bend down while trying to get a sip of coffee from the mug.
It’s too hot and too bitter.
“Did you put some cyanide in it? Is that why it tastes like burnt tires?” I barely finish my sentence before he shoves a spoonful of scrambled eggs into my mouth.
If I weren’t ravenous and weak, I’d spit it in his face.
That sharply defined nose and the firm lines of his jaw would have looked ridiculous with pieces of food stuck to it.
And that cleft? I’m just noticing it, the dark stubble covers it pretty well, but at this distance, I can see the Superman dimple clearly.
His eyes are on the plate, but I remember how rich-green and icy they are, and those scars… is it wrong to think they suit him?
He stabs some bacon with the fork and pushes it impatiently into my mouth. “Eat.”
I part my lips, unable to say no to food.
“Is this you being gentle with me, cookie?” I tease. He’s like a bull in a china shop or maybe his lack of care is because it’s me.
“Not used to having people do things for you?”
My eyes snap to his as soon as his words register. Because it’s true.
“I’ve been living by myself since I was thirteen.” I purse my lips as soon as the words come out. Why did I say that? To make him feel sorry for me? Yeah, that must be it. My crafty brain is ahead of me.
He doesn’t say anything; luckily, he seems indifferent about me.
Nothing new there, everybody is. I accept a bite of toast. The food is passable, but I’m eating it like it’s a gourmet course.
I thought I’d hate this, the let’s feed the captive just to exert control thing, but part of me loves to be taken care of—even in this fucked-up situation.
My thoughts are all jumbled as he continues feeding me.
I really despise him, but I perch on the cushion, letting my eyes trail down his bare skin.
Man! Is my nose bleeding? Too many dirty images at once.
And, that thing in his pants…the fuck is that?
What kind of weapon is he carrying around?
A bazooka? How can he even function dragging a third leg all day long?
“Always with food around your mouth,” I hear him muttering, before he thrusts a napkin at me.
I almost spill the mug of undrinkable coffee all over my lap.
I glare at him and then, without averting my eyes, I use my tongue to lick the corner of my lips clean.
His eyes follow it for a moment, but I don’t see any real reaction.
“Are you made of rocks?” His dick surely is.
He doesn’t give me a reply.
“It wasn’t a rhetorical question,” I try to keep going, but more food is pushed inside my mouth.
By the time the plate is empty, I feel contentedly full. A soft, nervous thank you comes out of my mouth.
He halts his steps. “Don’t,” he hisses, before he resumes his trip to the kitchen.