Chapter 4
FOUR
ISABELLA
I fight to break free, but Anthony's hold is as immovable as a boulder.
His chest is a wall against my back, the heat of him bleeding through the thin silk of my dress.
I spin and lift my leg, wanting to knee the bastard in the balls, and yet before I can reach my target, he whips his hand down and holds my thigh still.
"Why so feisty, Bells? You used to love being held down."
I shake my head and finally break free of his hand across my mouth.
My lips sting where his palm crushed them, and I taste the faint salt of his skin on my tongue.
"What do you think you're doing? Get off me and let me go.
" I would kill him for this and gladly. The man just doesn't know when to stop.
"I want to know what's going on with you and pretty boy out in the restaurant."
I try to wiggle out of his hold, but he has me pressed firmly against the wall.
I look around. Where are we anyway? A storeroom?
The air smells like bleach. Stacked crates throw long shadows across the concrete floor, and somewhere above us a bare bulb sways on its cord, sending the whole room rocking like the deck of a ship.
"I'm fucking him, that's what's going on." Anthony flinches at my words, and I bite back a smile of satisfaction. What does he expect me to say? That I have little clue, but if he wants to know what's going on, I'm going to be honest.
"Anything else? I can't help but think it's a coincidence that you've been dating him for as long as the Dragunoviks have been in New York."
"He's not Russian mafia." I meet Anthony's eyes and narrow mine.
"Ah, so you've heard of the Dragunoviks. What do you know of them? Have they requested a meeting with you yet?"
"What?" I rip my hands free of his hold, but I know I'm only free because he's let me go.
I step away, moving farther under the dim lightbulb to see him better.
The light catches the silver at his temples—a new feature—and the faint scar across his jaw that wasn't there before either.
Time has been generous to him in all the ways I hoped it wouldn't be.
I ignore his handsomeness. My weakness is the small dip in his chin I used to run my thumb over.
"I've not met the Dragunoviks." I pause, steeling myself to be immune to him and everything he once evoked in me.
"Have they met with Lucien?" If the Russians are going to partner up with the Morettis, I need to know about it.
At least while I run the Romeros. But soon, very soon, I will be out of this life, away from everyone I've ever known, and free to raise my daughter in peace and safety.
"Now, why would I tell you that?" He crosses his arms, and I want to scratch his eyes out. So cocky. So arrogant.
"Urgh, you've not changed, still the same asshole as ever." I start for the doorknob, but his hand closes over mine, stopping me from turning it. His hand is large and strong, and I fight not to shiver at his touch.
"Oh, I've changed. I'm no longer so trusting or blind."
I absorb his words. I know what he's referring to.
The baby we made together, which he didn't want to be born.
The one he'd told my family to abort because there were already too many Romeros in the world.
My hand twitches at my side, the old instinct to press against my belly even though it's been years, even though there's nothing there to protect anymore. Nothing he ever knew about, anyway.
After all these years, I still can't believe he didn't have the balls to tell me to my face those cutting words. That he instead told my brother to pass on the message before hightailing it back to New York, where I haven't seen him since. I thought he loved me. That we loved each other.
He never loved me. He used me, pretended every emotion under the sun just to break a Romero's heart. What kind of monster treated people like that? It seems Anthony Moretti wore that mask very well.
I’m such a fucking idiot. The kind of idiot who still flinches when someone says his name in a crowded room.
"Well, hallelujah, neither am I, asshole, so move out of the way and let me out."
"Not yet." He moves toward me. I back up, not wanting him to touch me.
My shoulder blades hit the cold metal of a shelf, and I have nowhere left to go.
"Can I get a guarantee from you that should the Dragunoviks request to speak to you, you'll refuse?
It would be in your best interest if you did as I ask. "
"Or what?" I taunt. "I don't do anything you tell me to do. You lost that right years ago. Now fuck off."
"Language, Bells." He wedges me against the shelf and slips his finger over my mouth, silencing me. His touch reminds me of a darkness I loved about him, that he took what he wanted and rarely asked. "You shouldn't swear. It's rude."
"If you don’t let me go right now, Anthony Moretti, I will kill you the first chance I get."
He claps a hand over his chest as if I've mortally wounded him.
I can't stand the thought he believes my words to be untrue.
I would kill him. I have no loyalty, no love for this man anymore.
The day he told me to kill our child, that affection died.
Whatever he sees in my eyes now must convince him, because the smirk slips for half a heartbeat before he masters it again.
"How fast can he make you come?"
I start at his question. What is he talking about? The man is like a riddle. "What?"
"You heard what I asked."
I do hear, not that I want to answer, but then, I want to hurt him, and if there’s one way to hurt a Moretti, especially Anthony, it’s to hit his pride. "Faster than you ever could."
I gasp when he clasps my neck, his strong, large fingers squeezing and making it hard to breathe.
My pulse hammers against his thumb, and I know he can feel it.
I hate that he can. I try not to show fear or excitement.
He won't physically hurt me, I know this, no matter what's transpired between us. Emotionally, it’s another matter entirely.
"Faster than me? I doubt it."
"Really? Has your technique improved?" I smile, even as his fingers tighten further. "I should hope it has. You were pretty quick to come yourself, sometimes to your detriment."
"Meaning?" he growls.
"Meaning I hadn't come, and you were already asleep at my side.
Didn't really invoke much passion in me.
You were kind of boring, actually." None of what I’m saying is true.
In fact, it couldn't be further from the truth.
He'd always ensured I'd come, multiple times in fact, when we fucked.
He was good in bed, but hell will freeze over before I say those words to him again. Ever love him again.
"You're a fucking liar." His lips are but a breath from mine. I can smell the beer on him, the cedar of his cologne, and underneath all of it the scent that used to mean home before it meant ruin. His anger radiates off him in waves. I love that my taunt wounded his pride. No matter what he says to contradict my words, they will eat at him, and he’ll wonder if there is any truth in them. That’s enough for me.
I want nothing more than to aggravate his peace.
"And so are fucking you." I push him away, and he lets me go. I wrench open the door and start back toward the bar and restaurant. The noise of the dining room, the laughter, the clink of glassware hits me like a surge. I find Richard sipping his wine and looking around as if he’s wondering where I got to.
"Sorry, there was a long line for the ladies' room."
"That's okay." He leans over and kisses me softly.
I know Anthony has followed me into the room and is back sitting with his cousin at the bar.
I don't have to look to feel his stare landing between my shoulder blades. I clasp Richard’s coat lapels and deepen the kiss.
He’s a good lover, kind, considerate, and I'm never disappointed, but there’s something missing.
Passion perhaps? That fire that makes your stomach clutch deliciously, and your heart pump hard in your chest. That kind of desire that makes warmth pool between your legs.
Oh, I miss that feeling and haven't felt that with anyone since that fucking asshole currently sitting at the bar made me feel that way.
Richard pulls me against him and breaks the kiss, dipping his head to my neck. "Shall we take this home?" he suggests.
I giggle, something I never do, but if I'm going to piss off Anthony Moretti, then that's the kind of game I'll play. "Yes, I think it's time we leave."
I look across to the bar as we stand, and I find Anthony watching me with a face as hard as stone.
His glass is frozen halfway to his mouth, the knuckles of his other hand white against the dark wood of the bar.
His eyes are cold, hatred stares out at me, and I grin at him.
I hope he knows I'm going home to fuck someone who isn't him.
I hope it hurts him.
It won't, but a girl can dream, right?