Chapter 10 – DARIO #2
Everyone thought she would go quickly, that she had nothing to live for after all, but she lingered in horrible pain that the medication barely touched.
Behind the bleachers that day in March, Lucca had asked if she showed any signs of letting go. I was the only one who spent time with her besides her nurses. In her delirium, she spilled secrets, all the stories from her generation that had been long buried. It was fascinating shit.
I told him she was much the same. He asked me to kill her. He didn’t put it that way, of course. He spoke in euphemisms, his voice cracking, as weak as I’d ever seen him—then or since. He said if I did it, he’d owe me a favor.
When I got home from school, I gave her all that was left of her morphine, and when she fell into a peaceful sleep, I snapped her neck. It was my father’s fault everyone found out what I did. He was indiscreet in his shock—more at what I’d done than that he’d lost his wife.
It’s always boggled my mind how few people actually realize what I am—even when forced to face it head on. Posy knows, and I don’t think it turns her off. That must scare the hell out of her.
In front of me, Lucca clears his throat. He’s been patient while I was lost in memories. I’ll give him that.
“I remember that you owe me a favor,” I say. “I never collected, did I? Is that what this is? You give me a heads up, and we’re even?”
He flicks an invisible piece of lint from his immaculate, unwrinkled shirt. “No. I was wondering if you’d be interested in me owing you another favor.”
Now this—this I did not expect. “There’s nothing you have that I want.”
It’s not an insult, it’s a statement of fact, and Lucca takes it as such. “But you have something you want to keep.”
Posy. My fingers curl around the smooth metal arm rests. “It would be a catastrophic mistake if anyone were to try and take her from me.”
I knew this day was coming. I’d hoped Renelli would see sense, but it seems like he’s going to cling to his pride, and I’m going to have to burn this organization to the ground.
“I understand that,” Lucca says. “Renelli does not.”
“What is it you want me to do?”
“Nothing you aren’t already planning. I just ask you to adjust to my timeline.”
With that slight tip of his cards, what he must be planning unfolds in my brain, each step leading inextricably to the next, as clear as if he drew me a picture. We’re not brothers, but we aren’t unalike. He’s a devious motherfucker.
“You can ensure that Posy is safe?”
“You have my word.”
“If anyone harms a hair on her head, I will bring it all down. There will be nothing left.”
He inclines his head. “Understood.” He narrows his eyes.
“You know, Renelli is starting to believe you’re too dangerous to let live.
Too erratic. This thing with Posy is a test. If you’ve slipped the reins, he’s decided to put you down, too.
He’s been looking for an excuse since you maimed his little rat Ivano. ”
“And you? Do you think I’m too erratic?”
He crosses his legs and flashes his blinding white veneers. “Not at all. You’ve become very predictable. Almost domesticated .” He casts a glance at the door. “I don’t think I’m getting my espresso.”
“I don’t think you are,” I affirm, rising to my feet. He follows suit, slipping on his jacket.
“We understand each other?” he asks.
“We do.”
“Give my regards to Posy.”
I’m not going to do that. I open the door, catching sight of Sal hovering a few feet down the hall, tense as hell. That man really wants to shoot someone.
“What is it, Volpe?” he asks as he adjusts his scarf. “Why Posy Santoro?”
I shrug, and I take a shot in the dark. “I don’t know. Why Tomas Sacco?”
Fire flares deep in his dead eyes. A direct hit. Interesting.
Too late, he schools his expression, flips me off, and saunters through the hall. The only thing missing is the 80s soundtrack and the popped collar.
* * *
I retreat to my desk, wrap up some business, think about how the next part will unfold.
Renelli won’t move right away. He’ll want me to fall in line of my own volition, prove to everyone that he’s the puppet master, and despite the creaking knees, he still commands fear and respect. I have at least a day. Maybe a few.
If I send Posy away with Ray, she’d manage to ditch him in hours. She’s safer here.
Is she really sleeping this late? I bet she’s lying there, plotting. She can do that down here with me as easily as up there.
It feels good to abandon self-discipline and mount the stairs two at a time. I’ve got a picture in my head of her still under the covers, gasping and struggling into a seated position when I walk in, trying to hide her naughty fingers, slick with her own cream.
I throw open the bedroom door.
“Damn, Dario,” she snipes. “Where’s the fire?”
She’s sitting cross legged at the table, shoveling scrambled eggs in her mouth and reading a crumpled newspaper. I see that Ray’s been by.
“What are you doing?” It’s obvious, but I can’t think of what else to say. She’s supposed to blush. Stammer breathlessly. React somehow to what I did to her last night. I figured her out, damn it. I played her like a violin.
She shrugs, gesturing at the table with her fork and blinks her bright blue eyes. “Plotting your downfall. Eating protein.”
Cheeky little brat. I force my lips not to twitch as I take the seat across from her.
“You slept late. I exhausted you.” No matter how she’s acting, that’s a fact. I smirk as I select the cribbage set from the low shelf under the picture window. Since we’re both here, we may as well play a round.
She huffs. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Then get back in bed. Take off—that—” What is she wearing? It’s some kind of thin cotton dress. I can see the hard points of her dusky nipples. Is it a nightgown? A sundress? Hell if I know, but she’s not wearing it out of this room.
“I’m only good for sex or cribbage, is that it?” She’s playing it cool, teasing, but I know she believes this. I’m not going to indulge it.
“Most women are mediocre at both. You should be proud.”
“Just because you finally give a shit about my needs in bed, it doesn’t mean I like you. I think I hate you more.”
My hands freeze on the game board. She’s not being a smartass now. She’s trying to conceal it, but there’s real hurt in her voice. I didn’t appreciate what I was going to be walking into this morning. She’s—upset.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because if you care now, you could have cared then, but you didn’t bother. I was a sure thing. No effort needed on your part.”
“I made an effort. You were happy.” Her face was softer then. Not open. Never open. But she smiled all the time. She skipped around the house. It was annoying as hell, her sneakers squeaking on the marble.
“ Carolyn made an effort. She swept me off my feet. Best relationship I’ve ever had.
” Posy folds her arms, squishing those ripe tits to her chest. “She knew my taste better than I know myself.” She hikes that adorable, wobbly chin.
“You lived in your office and brought me out to play with when you got bored.”
My temper flares. I should ignore it. She’s here. I’m not letting her go. She’s not actively fighting me. Why do I care if she comforts herself with a little petulance? If it soothes her hurt pride, why not let her nurse her hurt feelings?
“I had a net loss of three million the first month we were together.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize I’m saying them.
She stiffens. She thinks I’m blaming her. In fairness, with the men she’s chosen, it’s a reasonable assumption. Weak men blame women for their shortcomings. My gut sours. I don’t like what her past has taught her.
“It was my fault,” I explain. “I thought Miles was capable of taking the reins, and he wasn’t. Obviously, I wasn’t going to give up time with you—”
“The games weren’t going to play themselves,” she snarks.
I arch an eyebrow. She lifts a shoulder and tries to look acerbic.
Her vulnerability slams me in the chest. She’s as fragile as spun glass.
She can run, and as weak as she is, she can take blow after blow.
But her feelings—they’re so tender, so easily bruised.
She allows herself to be crushed, over and over again.
Is it masochism? Whatever, it’s the irony of my life. The only person whose feelings I care about, and she’s the equivalent of an emotional eggshell.
“I developed a system. Trained Miles. I figured out a method that accounted for his relative lack of expertise and ameliorated the risk.”
She’s staring at me. She doesn’t understand what I’m saying.
“The month that I hardly saw you? I built a trading system. When I decide to take it to market, it’ll make me a billionaire.”
She rolls her damn eyes. “Congratulations?”
“It was an effort .” I enunciate the word.
“You figured out a way to get what you wanted.”
“Yes.” I’m getting bored with the self-pity. It’s destructive. She’ll be happier when she allows herself to let it go. Maybe I should give her a nudge. Or a shove. “Why did you suck my cock until you gagged?”
She freezes, her face blanching as if she was struck.
“You did it so many times. I didn’t even have to ask. You fell on your knees and let me fuck your face until you cried. Why, Posy? Did you like almost puking on my cock?”
Her mouth is gasping on air.
“And why did you let me take your ass whenever I wanted? You hated it. You breathed through like fuckin’ Lamaze class.
But if I told you to get on all fours, you always did.
Or remember on the sofa, facing the mirror?
I told you to bounce up and down on my cock so I could watch, and you did, and you couldn’t sit the next day. ”
Her face isn’t frozen anymore. It’s contorted, her lips drawn back in a horrified grimace. There’s a sharp pain in my chest. Weird.
“Why did you let me use you like a whore, Posy?” I give her time to answer, but she can’t seem to find words. “It’s because you figured out a way to get what you wanted. You just want to be loved, and you’ll do anything for it. Does it even matter to you who’s giving you your fix?”
It’s an interesting thought. I rub my chest. The pain is more like a burn. My breakfast must be disagreeing with me.
I think she gets my point, but just in case, I drive it home. “You played porn star for that loser boyfriend. You played whore for me. Does it matter who’s giving it to you, Posy, as long as you can pretend that you’re in love?”
She couldn’t possibly have loved me. She didn’t know me. I don’t fault her for that. I’m careful to conceal what I really am, and with her, I was meticulous.
The burn is spreading to my guts. I need an antacid, and I don’t think Posy’s up for a round of cribbage. I stand and pat her stiff shoulder. She jerks from my touch. My stomach turns.
“Don’t worry about it. I pretend, too. And if it makes you happy to believe that I love you, you can.”
I walk out, heading for the kitchen. When I reach for the pink bottle in the corner cabinet, my hands have the slightest tremor. I don’t know why.