Chapter 13
Lily
I cringe, and it's not because of my knee. It's because of the man manipulating it as he assesses the injury. Dylan.
I don’t even know why. He is tall, muscular in an athletic way, and very sweet. But I do not like this man's hands on my body. Any man, actually. Except for one. That realization only hitting home now. Thanks to Dylan.
Dominico. His touch on my bare skin is more than welcome.
It’s craved. Desired. Needed. Ridiculous.
Yet, my reality. Why can’t I want an ordinary man like this one bent before me?
Instead, he seems dull and two-dimensional.
Apparently, I prefer a man who dominates a room.
Whose presence is obnoxiously apparent. Have I been corrupted so thoroughly that I am now broken?
“Lily?” Dylan is looking at me with concern, and I realize he must have asked me something while I zoned out.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” He smiles, a dazzling smile, though it pales in comparison to the one I was graced with yesterday at the hospital by another man.
A man who rarely smiles, yet when he does, it steals my breath.
It felt like a rare moment I was fortunate to witness, and now it replays in my mind, something I cherish.
Like a child with a prized trinket, one I don't want to share, and for which there is no comparison.
“Does it hurt when I move it like this?” I shake my head and glance over at Matteo, Dante, and Nero.
We are in a beautiful, absolutely massive lounge with a large bar running the length of one wall, where Dante and Nero sit, sipping their drinks as if this is a show.
Matteo sits opposite us on the couch across from a stunning wooden coffee table.
His eyes track Dylan's every move, and he appears tense, his muscles coiled as if ready to pounce.
His gaze shifts to the other guys, and I notice Dante smirk as if he knows something I don’t.
Matteo feels as uncomfortable with this situation as I do, but I’m unsure why. Does he think Dylan will try to harm me? That thought sends my heart racing, but when I look at Dylan, he is focused on my knee, clearly not perceiving any of the anxiety in the room.
“Are you sure about this?” Matteo asks, and the cryptic question is answered with a wave of Dante's hand as he laughs and sips his drink.
“Dominico is here,” Nero states, placing his glass on the bar counter and swinging in his seat to face the other direction.
All eyes, except for Dylan's, who appears unaware, are fixed on the door.
Steps are heard, followed by the door swinging open.
I nearly jump in fright as the man who haunted my dreams stands in the doorway, his angry glare fixed on the man kneeling before me. Silver-grey eyes flick up to meet mine, narrowing as they shift from Matteo to Dante to Nero, before finally settling back on me .
“Get your fucking hands off her.” Damn. His voice cuts like a knife, and Dylan, who has been oblivious until now, stiffens at the sound.
“Now,” Dominico repeats, his voice lethal.
The carefree demeanor of the man who is slowly putting my foot on the ground has vanished, and instead, all the color has drained from his face. He appears frightened. I would be, too.
“I told them this wasn’t a good idea,” Matteo mumbles, his eyes on the two men at the bar as he shakes his head.
“Si-Sir, Mr. Sante, I’m Dylan. Doctor Andrews sent me.” Dominico tuts, taking a few steps towards us. He approaches like I imagine a leopard would his prey. Slowly, with no sudden movements, though his intention is clear. He wants to kill.
“He should have known better. Leave. Now. Before you exhaust my mercy and instead face the consequences of my malice.”
Dylan doesn't need to be told twice. I have never seen a man move so quickly. He has packed all his things in seconds and is practically sprinting out the door.
“What did I tell you?” Dante extends his hand as Nero grumbles, retrieving a rolled-up wad of cash from his pocket and dropping it into the waiting palm. He finishes his drink, stands up, and walks towards the door when Dominico orders everyone out.
Shit. This isn’t good. Dominico looks furious.
He strolls toward the bar and pours a glass of scotch or whiskey from the decanter, downing it in one swift motion. Efficient, concise, and deadly.
He turns around, his eyes locked with mine as he approaches. Now that he is closer, I can see a gash just above his eye, through his eyebrow, and his knuckles are busted up. He has been fighting. Was this normal? Who did he fight?
“What are you doing, il mio fiorellino ?” I blink a few times, still not fully understanding.
“Physio?” It sounds more like a question as I shift in my seat, the temperature in the room rising the closer he gets to me.
“Do you enjoy his hands on you?” What a strange question.
“Um, no, actually,” I reply honestly, a flicker of surprise crossing his features.
“Good girl.” A shiver runs down my body, and I blink several times, trying to understand how two words can cause such a visceral reaction. And such a physical one, as my panties immediately moisten and my core clenches.
He stands before me, forcing me to tilt my head back to see his face. He leans forward, and I shift back as he inches closer, his hands on the armrest caging me in. His face is so near that I can smell the liquor on his breath, and the familiar scent of cigars and spice overwhelms me.
“I don’t want to see another man's hands on you, Lily. Ever again. This is the only warning I will give. The next time, they die. Do you understand?” I stare at him, trying to comprehend his words. What does it matter to him, anyway, who touches me?
“Say you understand,” Dominico prompts, his eyes darting around my face and dropping to my lips as I moisten them.
“I understand. But it's not that I wanted him to. I don’t like anyone touching me except—” I clamp my mouth shut as my eyes widen with the realization that I almost revealed my secret.
“Except?” he prompts, raising his hand and trailing a finger down my cheek. My eyes drift close and then fly open as the unconscious action becomes conscious.
“Except?” Fuck, he isn’t going to let this go.
His hand holds my chin as he glides the pad of his thumb along my bottom lip.
“Except you,” I finally whisper, earning me a wicked grin .
“Do you like me touching you, il mio fiorellino ?” The answer to his question is clear as a shudder runs through my body.
His use of the term of endearment, my little flower, and the smirk on his face almost have me combusting into flames. I have never had a pet name before. A term of derision, indeed, but never anything as sweet as this. Did I want to be that? His? Yes. Hard, dangerous, yes.
I realize I am leaning in just as he rights himself, standing tall before me.
“Come. There is something we must do first, and then we will go out.” Once again, I am swept up into strong arms.
“I can walk. My leg is much better.” The words contradict what my body is saying as I snuggle into him.
Damn, this is beginning to feel more and more like home.
The small space between his arms and chest feels so big, so powerful, and so safe that it puts the one-by-one-meter box I was kept in as a kid to shame.
In there, I felt trapped. I feel safer in this smaller space, where I am now cradled, than I ever have. Freer than I have ever been.
This was a far more dangerous place to be—a place where hope bloomed.
It was bound to come crashing down, perhaps sooner than I think.
Almost no one is around as we walk through the mansion, but just because I can't see them, doesn't mean they aren't there.
The door we approach has an intricate design carved into the wood, and when we enter, the smell of smoke and spice, along with the furnishings, informs me we are in Dominico's office.
He places me in a chair opposite him and rounds the desk to sit behind it.
Shit. Suddenly, I don't feel so safe anymore.
Not when he holds a cigar up, snips the tip, lights it, and then leans back in his chair, staring at me in that intense way that makes me squirm.
Smoke swirls, permeating the air. I feel like I cannot breathe, but it is not because of that.
I'm not in this office for no reason. I wonder how many people who have sat in this same chair are now dead.
Whatever he wants with me, I will probably find out now.
Stupidly, I thought that perhaps, just maybe, he cared for me.
Wanted me around for something other than business.
How naive can I be? But his following words are not what I expect.
"We saw the X-rays." I nod slowly, acknowledging his words as I wait for the rest.
"The old injuries, where are they from?" I suspect he already knows, but a man like him wants to hear them from the source.
To judge their validity, to gather information that words cannot convey.
Emotions. Reactions. Things he can use. I'm under no delusion that the Don of the Mafia is not a shrewd man.
He has not gotten to where he is being cute and cuddly.
There was also no point in lying. He would see that for what it was, too, but the punishment might not be the kind I like.
"My parents." He nods and then puffs, his gaze never leaving mine.
"More, il mio fiorellino. I need more than that ." Of course he does, I already knew this.
"What is it you want to know? How they used to lock me in a crate when I was smaller, just because I asked for some butter on my bread?
The few times they actually bothered to feed me.
Or that my father molested me when my mother was passed out, which was more often than I liked, and when I told her, she beat me so severely, I thought I might die.
I actually wish I did. Perhaps you want to know how father rented me out to some of his buddies for a six pack, buddies who smelled of beer and took much more than a six pack is worth.
Is that what you want to hear, Dominico?
How I became so broken? So broken that when I tried to escape it, I landed right back in the same situation, except my crate was replaced with a much more luxurious prison. "
Tears brim in my eyes as I choke back a sob, all these unwelcome memories flooding me. Drowning me.
Does he even care?
"Your parents are dead. They suffered immensely. Everything they did to you was done to them a hundred times over."
My eyes flare, and my heart dips into my stomach. I should feel bad about it. But I don't.
Silver-grey eyes reflect the same lack of remorse mine do, and he must recognize this.
"Good. Let's move on then."
As quickly as he wants to brush over this incident, I can't.
"You killed them for me? Why?"
"Because they are scum and they hurt you."
How much should I read into that?
"Now, speaking of scum," he says, turning the screen on his desk to face me.
Dark blue eyes stare back at me.
It's him .