Run Posy Run

Chapter 1 – POSY

POSY

T oday is a great day. It’s finally stopped raining, the daffodils are blooming, and the town car is in the drive. Butterflies swoop to life in my belly.

I guess Dario’s meeting didn’t last as long as he thought it would.

I’m gonna make him steaks for dinner. I’ll light a few candles.

Wear the red dress with the slit up the side.

Maybe he’ll take out the pale blue box I found in his sock drawer when I was rummaging for a pair of wool socks to thaw my frozen feet.

Is he going to get down on one knee? I can’t imagine Dario Volpe ever doing that, even to propose. He probably won’t ask at all. He’ll drawl “marry me” while compelling me with his dark, hooded eyes.

Tingles skate over my skin. Dario’s a throwback, but damn, he does it for me.

I can’t wipe away my cheesy grin. Lord knows I’ve kissed a lot of frogs. I’m due a prince.

I skip up the polished marble stairs, swinging my shopping bags, and magically, exactly when I reach the top, Ray opens the front door.

“Perfect timing,” I sing, sailing past him.

I want to get a shower before I find my man and ask him about the steaks. My hair’s in a messy bun, and I’m not wearing my face. Dario’s second generation, but he thinks like my grandparents—you don’t leave the house looking less than your best. He’s a bespoke suit, not a tracksuit kind of guy.

I’m a few steps in when Ray wraps his hand around my upper arm in a punishing grip, jerking me to a halt.

I raise my eyebrows at my boyfriend’s driver.

That’s Ray’s official job. He drives like an old lady, though, and he spends most of his time skulking around the house.

I don’t question it. I was born and raised in a connected family. My lack of curiosity is genetic.

“He wants you in his office,” Ray says, his craggy face blank and his voice gruff. Ray’s never friendly, but this is different. Not good.

My stomach plummets.

“What’s wrong? Is Dario okay?”

Has he been hurt? It’s always a possibility. Dario’s a money man, but even money men can catch lead.

“He’s fine. Come on.” Ray’s already propelling me through the cavernous front hall with the crystal chandelier and the marble floors that shine like glass.

“Are you sure?” He’s scaring me. His grip is too tight—as if he thinks I might bolt.

“Don’t worry about Dario.” Ray won’t look at me, and the way he says it implies that I should be worried. Maybe for myself. I didn’t do anything, though.

I am not the kind of Catholic with the guilt.

My dad’s side of the family tried their best to teach me shame and how to be a “good Italian woman,” but Mom hated being nothing but a wife and mother.

She never had the balls to help herself, but she did her best to break the cycle.

She snuck me a copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves when I was thirteen, and when we were supposed to be going to confession, she’d take me to the park so I could play chess.

My heart twinges. I miss my mom every day. Dad, not so much. Life got easier once he was gone.

But these are bleak thoughts. I try to shake them off as we get to the imposing oak door to Dario’s office.

He mostly works from home, so he spends a lot of time in this room.

It’s more like a library. Tons of bookshelves and a workstation for his assistant, Miles, as well as Dario’s own gargantuan desk.

Dario’s bent me over it on several occasions. It’s a little too high for comfort.

I have the sense I’m not being called to the office for a quickie. Ray’s face is way too disapproving.

I draw in a calming breath. This is Dario. I didn’t do anything wrong. He loves me. I don’t need to worry. Whatever has happened, I can handle it.

Coming from a mob family and having been with my share of made men, I know that’s not entirely true, but the mantra soothes me enough that I’m able to smile brightly when Ray hustles me in and deposits me in front of Dario’s desk.

Ray shuffles off, and I hear the soft snick of a door shutting. My nerves jangle.

Dario doesn’t look right. He’s rumpled. His jet-black hair is always neatly combed back, but it’s tousled, as if he’s been running his fingers through it. His tie is loose, and two buttons on his white collared shirt are undone, one more than usual. My wariness surges.

“Is everything okay?” I blurt.

He stares at me, his brown eyes a dark pool. Dario is always inscrutable. He’s not an easygoing guy. That’s what I bring to the relationship—fun and relaxation. He’s always serious, but this glare is different than his usual baseline intensity. It’s smoldering. Angry.

Fear trickles down my spine. My palms grow damp.

He doesn’t answer me right away. I squirm in my flip-flops. I wish I’d been able to change before he saw me. He hates me in T-shirts and yoga pants. Whenever he catches me wearing them, he asks if I need him to increase my allowance.

I hate that he calls it my allowance. I do plenty around this house, and I’d still be working if he let me. But he’s right—he’s too important in the organization for me to be in public without protection.

After what feels like an eternity, he exhales and cracks his angular jaw.

“Come. Sit.” He pats his lap. The gesture’s affectionate, but it doesn’t match his eyes or the tension radiating from his body.

My mouth goes dry. Something’s very wrong. He never wants to snuggle. Not even after sex. Something inside me says I should stay where I am.

But this is Dario. He’s a dangerous man, but not to me. I’ve dated bad men before. Too many. Dario isn’t like that. He’s hard—and insensitive in a manly-man kind of way—but he’s never intentionally cruel. He’s never raised a hand to me, and while I annoy him all the time, he doesn’t yell.

I ease around the desk and hesitantly perch on his knees.

He drags me back until I’m plastered to his chest, his arm curled around my waist. I inhale the spice of his aftershave and his natural musk, and some of the worry seeps from me.

This is my man. I’m where I belong. I relax against him, letting my legs dangle and rest against his.

“You love me, don’t you, Posy?” he murmurs, his breath hot on my ear.

“Yes, baby. Of course I do.”

“And you’d never betray me.” His voice lowers, and his hold tightens, pressing uncomfortably on my lowest ribs. I shift, try to give myself some breathing room. It doesn’t hurt—quite. But it’s not pleasant either.

“Never.”

He grips my chin in two fingers and turns my head so he can reach my lips, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. He closes his eyes, something awful contorting his features. The expression is there for only the briefest second then gone.

“What’s going—"

He shushes me. “I want you to watch something with me.”

His laptop is in front of us. He taps the mouse, the screen comes to life, and as soon as I see the split screen, my heart drops, the air whooshing from my lungs.

There’s no way. It can’t be. I blink, but the image is still there, grainy and poorly focused but unmistakable. That’s me looking into the camera, clumpy black mascara starting to run, trying so hard to look sexy and failing so badly.

I buck to get free of his arms, but he wraps a second arm across my chest, pinning me flush to his chest. His rapid heartbeat thumps against my back.

“That’s you, isn’t it?” he says.

My face burns and tears fill my eyes. “Turn it off.”

“No. I like it. You look pretty with brown hair. Is it a wig?” His voice is ice cold, preternaturally calm.

On the screen, a woman moans. It’s me. I’m moaning. In pain.

Blood rushes to my head, and my stomach heaves. “Stop it, Dario,” I whimper.

“No. Watch it with me.” His voice is mocking. Mean. “I only got it a few minutes ago. Frankie ‘accidentally’ airdropped it to everyone in the organization. I imagine everyone’s watching it right now. Forwarding it to friends. You’re gonna go viral.”

Oh, Jesus. This isn’t happening. Hot tears streak down my cheeks, and I can’t wipe them away because Dario has me pinned. I’m trapped, watching a younger, dumber version of myself trying so damn hard to not look like she’s suffering.

Acid scores my throat. I can’t puke. I have to breathe through this until it’s over.

How is it even possible? Giorgio swore he deleted the video when I got hinky about it. I watched him delete it off his phone. And I believed him, didn’t I?

And how did Frankie Bianco get the video? Are all my exes sharing revenge porn? This video has been around for years. Has everyone seen it already, and it’s just new to Dario and me?

Fucking Giorgio Fusco. Except for his dick, you can’t even see him. He could be anyone. But that’s my face. Clear as day.

“Can you make them delete it?” I whimper. It’s too late, but how can I live with this picture in everyone’s head? In Dario’s head?

I can’t tear my gaze away, horror and shame slamming into me in waves as my brain leaps from one nightmarish thought to the next.

Even with the split screen, it’s clearly an amateur video. On the right, I’m grimacing in pain, teeth clenched to stifle my screams, tears in my eyes. Giorgio has my ponytail wrapped around his hand, and he’s yanking my head back to make sure I’m looking straight into the camera.

On the left, Giorgio’s struggling to wedge his cock in my ass.

There’s a muffled rumbling, Giorgio’s voice, though you can’t make out his exact words.

“Yes,” eighteen-year-old me lies. “I love it.”

Another mumbling.

“Your cock in my ass. I love your cock in my ass.”

In the here and now, I rock my full weight against Dario’s unrelenting grasp. “Let me go. I can’t watch this.”

“Oh, no. There’s two minutes and thirty-six more seconds. I watched the whole thing. You can watch it with me.”

“Why are you doing this?” I sob, straining to see his face. He’s a possessive guy, but he’s not unreasonable. He’s the least emotional Sicilian I’ve ever met.

“Everyone’s doing it, Posy. Everyone is watching you beg for a cock in your ass.”

“He said he deleted it,” I blubber.