Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
I Think I’m Dying From A Mystery Disease
Raf
How many have you had?
Where is Marco?
I hope you’re not going for a repeat of the last time you were drinking. I’m not there to save you this time.
Chiara, answer me.
I’m clutching my phone, rereading the last four messages I sent her for what must be the millionth time while pacing my bedroom.
Pacing? I never pace. I have perfected the mask of cool, calm, and collected.
Yet contrary to this, I’m wearing a motherfucking running track into the rug in my bedroom because all I’ve been doing in the almost hour and a half since I sent those messages that I can see she has read and not responded to is fucking pace.
I’m irritated that I can’t sit still or go to sleep until I have answers.
Pissed off at myself that I need answers to texts I shouldn’t have sent in the first place.
Like some needy boyfriend wanting to know where his girlfriend is at every second.
I’ve never been that man. Didn’t give a shit where Victoria was or what she was doing.
But Chiara? She’s undoing me, and I’m absolutely disgusted with myself for giving into the urge to make contact, and not just that, but I sent a slew of messages one after the other in the way she does, which totally drives me crazy.
She drives me crazy. The insatiable urge to have her, protect her, kiss her, know more about her is making me feel crazy.
Even after placing Sophia between us as a roadblock.
Yet the compulsion to know she hadn’t done anything stupid or been harmed in any way made me act without thinking.
The buzzing in my brain would not let up after seeing the selfie she sent.
Skin glistening with sweat, a sultry smile, and sweet nipples poking through the flimsy fabric of her low-cut top that any one of the too many guys in the background could have feasted on, and the thought alone makes me steam.
I push the sleeves on my sweater up for some relief, but it’s short-lived when I take a better look at the selfie and note that while she may have had her glazed emerald greens directed into the camera, the guy with the bleach-blond buzz cut had his eyes firmly on her like she was his next meal—and she had no idea.
I feel like insects are crawling all over my too-hot flesh, and icy dread is running through my veins simultaneously.
I contemplate how I could get to L.A. instantly.
If rocket travel was an option I would’ve paid whatever exorbitant fee required.
Instead, I message Marco, pretending to be trying to get in touch with Chiara about finalizing the details for the Law Gala, skipping the bit about how we had been texting and that she just left me on read.
I know Marco would never let anything happen to her, but my lizard brain can’t rest until I know she’s tucked up in bed. Alone.
Seconds tick by. Then minutes. Five. Ten. Fifteen.
I forward the selfie Chiara sent me to Avery. I want him to run a face check on the creep in the background. Unhinged? Maybe. Resourceful? Definitely. Have resources, will use them.
My phone pings, and I almost drop the damn thing in my haste to check the message.
Marco:
I’m just going to take it upon myself to read between the lines. *Sends image*
I open the image and see it’s Chiara tucked into bed, still clothed and makeup on.
She’s going to hate that, but I can’t help but feel relieved that he didn’t see one inch more of her tanned, toned body with skin so soft.
Even knowing he’s smitten to his own detriment with my sister, I can’t deny that pang of jealousy and this desire to claim her that is becoming more insistent.
Dangerous given the vow I made never to trust my heart to another woman let alone the agreement I made with her cousin.
I chastise myself. The assignment is to allude to attraction, but certainly not take it any further and definitely not give into it.
Another symptom of this mystery disease I’m convinced I have is the unrelenting voices in my head. I mean, I don’t think I’ve spoken this much to other people let alone myself.
I zoom in on her face, and like that night when I had her cradled to my chest, her expression looks troubled even in her sleep. There’s a black streak down her cheek that outlines the path of a tear that’s dragged her mascara along for the ride.
Why was she crying?
Marco:
Thank you for looking after her, Marco. You’re welcome, Raf. *Middle finger emoji*
Marco:
Tipsy and a little jittery after some creep tried to hit on her at the club. I didn’t get a good look at him, but he didn’t get very far. I intercepted and took her straight back to the hotel, and as you can see in Exhibit A, I put her to bed. Your “pretend” girlfriend is safe and sound.
She’s not my pretend girlfriend. She’s my perpetual inconvenience. Tell her to text me tomorrow.
Marco:
If she was awake I’m sure she would tell me to write, “Yes, Daddy” *insert salute emoji*
You’re almost as insufferable as Luca.
Marco:
Someone’s gotta keep you in check, brother. She’s fine. I’m staying on the lounge to be safe.
Thank you.
I don’t know why I thanked him, and he doesn’t needle me about it.
Just one more week and she’ll be back in New York, close and within reach.
I placate myself like some overbearing lover before I chastise myself, again, for behaving in this way.
I need to keep my wall bricked high and strong and patch the cracks if I’m going to make it through this self-imposed hell of an assignment that I brought upon myself.
Avery:
Name is Damiano Russo, but also goes by other aliases . Moves around a lot. My search brought up a lot of different images, and it seems our mystery guy likes to change his appearance frequently. But he never disguises his eye color, so our image matched.
Let me take care of it.
Avery:
I need to loop in Marco.
He’s already on high alert. I’ll tell him. Once I’ve spoken with AJ.
Avery:
I won’t keep things from him.
I know. I just need to check if this is AJ’s doing or a separate problem.
Avery:
Twenty-four hours.
Got it.