Chapter Five #4
Fucking neat freak. After I comply once again, I move tiredly toward the sofa but he grabs my arm and drags me into the bedroom.
The massive bedroom. He sets me on the king-size bed and then restrains me to the headboard, but this time there’s a chain between the cuff around the board and the one on my wrist. At least I can finally sleep with my arm along my side.
Because that’s what we are going to do, right?
Sleep? Or maybe he’ll go lie down somewhere else.
I don’t say anything before he leaves the bedroom.
Still thinking about the text from Rami I saw in the bathroom before.
He found out a body was actually discovered in Bronx Park—which, if I recall correctly, is part of Leone’s turf—and that the police detective who responded to the call didn’t report it.
No news there, families have a lot of people from law agencies in their pockets.
What made me freak the fuck out is the way the corpse was described: naked, covered in knife cuts and stabs, and missing his fingers.
Rami seems to think it’s Doppi’s son and I can only think of one person who would commit such a horrifying act on Coretti’s right-hand’s son. Mario.
He couldn’t do it. He’s not in New York.
He’s in hiding, isn’t he? It doesn’t matter that he has the eerie ability to always find me.
My hand covers my mouth as a sudden wave of emotions surges on the back of my eyes as tears threaten to spill.
No! No. I swore no more tears for that fucker.
I take a big breath, the smell of lavender invades my chest. I look around.
There’s a small, cute plant on the windowsill.
Odd for Luca to have it in his nearly empty bedroom.
There’s only a chair and this bed with two matching nightstands.
On one, though, there’s a framed picture of a woman smiling at a man.
I lean toward it to study it. The man looks a lot like Luca.
It must be his parents. He has his mother’s eyes.
Rami said they died when Luca was a kid. Did Mario hurt them? Him? Did my father? Is that why Luca hates Enzinos so much? I wouldn’t blame him. I hate them, too, and for less.
I turn my eyes to the nightstand near me and just now notice a bag of chocolate, some candies, and a bottle of water there.
For me? It has to be since they are on my side.
What the hell is going on? Did Luca hit his head during the shooting?
I can’t seem to find another explanation for this attentiveness toward me.
The lollipop, the whiskey, letting me eat without handcuffing me somewhere, getting my things from the other apartment, and then leaving them in the bathroom, laying me down in his bed, and placing snacks near it.
He isn’t grateful toward me for saving his life because he thinks it’s a scheme, like I’m some kind of mastermind.
Though I’m partly flattered, I just acted on instinct when I saved him.
It was just a survival mechanism. He’s the alpha asshole during a dangerous situation, and it’s an innate impulse to keep close to him, to increase my chances of survival.
I would have probably done the same with any alpha.
So, what’s up with his confusing as fuck behavior?
I lie down on my side, taking all the space I want after being forced to live on that tiny sofa from hell.
Damn this mattress is divine. I pull the blanket over me.
I can smell a hint of Luca’s smoky scent on the soft, fresh sheets.
The metallic clink of the chain makes me wince when I move my arm.
My head is hurting a little. My eyes burn like they always do when I’m in need of sleep, so I close them.
Not long after, I hear muffled footsteps in the room.
Then the bed dips behind me. What I can only call an accidental butt graze happens before everything turns still.
It’s odd to share a bed with someone. I’ve never done it before. I always thought it would be bothersome. But maybe because of the way he protected me—for whatever reason—I feel all the tension in my body melting away as I hear his steady breaths behind me.
“Did you find out who shot at us?” I whisper after a few more minutes of silence. He still didn’t give me a straight answer.
“Not yet.” His raspy voice feels so loud in the ample room. “But I will.”
I feel the threat in his statement. I want to remind him that he was the main target of the shooting, so it might be something entirely related to him, not me. But my trembling lips don’t part—old habits die hard—because there’s a tiny part of me that keeps telling me I’m wrong.
“Why did you warn me?” he suddenly asks.
I frown. “You mean when I pulled your chest hair?” Better than his necklace, I could have broken it, and since he never takes it off, it must be of some value to him.
His grunts make me snort. But the mirth is short-lived.
“I…I don’t know,” is the most sincere answer I can give him. Because survival mechanism aside, I really have no idea.
Stockholm syndrome, perhaps?
Inner snort. Nah.