Chapter 11 – POSY #2
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” He raises a hand to me in dismissal and turns his attention to a half-filled coffee mug, sniffling and wincing before he gulps it down.
I take my cue and head off. That was by far the longest conversation Ray and I have ever had. I never would’ve pegged him for having such a romantic worldview.
I’m not Dario Volpe’s queen. And that’s a dumb thing to be intrigued by anyway. So I ran to nowhere last time. When I get a second chance, I’m gonna make it count. The world’s my oyster. Next time I get my chance, I’m going to Paris. Or Austin. Or Santa Fe.
I’ll figure out a dream, and it’ll become my passion, and I’ll never think about Pyle, Pennsylvania or Dario Volpe ever again. The idea feels like work, but I’m sure that next time I fly free, I won’t end up lost and lonely and clerking at a convenience store.
I don’t even remember why exactly I’m looking for Dario now. To tell him off, but my heart’s not in it anymore. I’m dragging. My body’s weirdly flushed and sensitive from last night, and what sleep I did get was broken by dreams of running and falling.
I have half a mind to go back to bed, but when I pass the guest room, I wander in. It’s an unremarkable room across from the master suite, tastefully decorated in cream and royal blue by—I imagine—Carolyn’s preferred interior designer. The panic room is through the walk-in closet.
Ray showed it to me when I first moved in. It’s not Hollywood quality. There’s no furniture, only a bunch of guns hanging on the wall, a hook up to the CCTV system, a trunk with food and water, a satellite phone, batteries, those kinds of things. It creeps me out.
I clear my throat as I come through the closet. I don’t want to surprise the man in the room full of guns. When I come to the open door, I linger. It’s wild how the outside looks like a painted wall, and underneath, it’s a bank vault.
Dario has his back to me. He’s laid out three guns on the metal shelf that runs the length of the far wall, and he seems to be deeply considering them. He hears me. I’m not being stealthy. He doesn’t acknowledge me, though. His back is stiff.
Is he still pissed? Is he picking out which gun to shoot me with?
It strikes me then—like the earthquake we had when I was a little girl, the only one in memory in this part of the state.
I was in our kitchen, helping my mother with the dishes.
All of a sudden, the floor shook, and my legs turned to jelly, but there was no rumbling, no crack of thunder, no warning.
Not until my mom’s painting of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane fell off the wall.
I’m not really scared of Dario Volpe anymore.
I know he’s not going to shoot me.
All my delusions have been ripped away, and I know that what he feels for me isn’t love, but it’s real and huge and powerful, all the same.
I’m his exception. So what does that make him to me ?
“What are you doing?” I ask.
His shoulders square, and he picks up a silver revolver as he turns to face me. I don’t bother to try and read his expression. It’s the default, the steely, implacable gaze, oozing arrogance.
“You need a gun.” He crosses the few feet between us and presses the metal into my palm. “What do you think of the weight?”
“Is this loaded?”
“Of course not.”
I snort. “Figures. You wouldn’t make it that easy for me.”
He gazes down at me, and it’s only because I have a sense of him now that I know something’s going on behind those cold eyes. He cracks his jaw and stalks back to where he’s laid out his selection. He crouches and opens a safe tucked under the counter, retrieving a small rectangular box.
“These are hollow point. You know to aim for the torso, right? The torso presents the biggest target.”
He thumbs open the round cylinder and loads the gun. Then he comes over and offers it to me, butt first. I’m not stupid. I take it.
I’m no expert, but I’ve shot off a few rounds over the years. Guys like going to the range. It turns them on. I know the basics. I keep my finger off the trigger and the muzzle pointed down. It’s light.
Dario takes a few steps back and stands, staring at me, waiting. For what?
My breath shallows. My hands tremble.
“Why do I need a gun?”
“Personal protection.”
I bark a laugh. “You’re joking.”
“You know I’m not.”
“I could shoot you right now. I could blow your head off.”
He lifts a shoulder ever so slightly. “Do you want to try the semi-automatic?”
“Is your head that thick?”
That earns me the ghost of a smile. “Sometimes, yes.”
“Why were you so nasty earlier?” I hate that my voice wavers. “Do you get off on hurting me?”
“No.” It’s a simple statement of fact. “I lost control.”
I don’t know what to say. I was expecting—something else.
He pivots until he’s in profile, picking up another gun and ejecting the magazine. If he were another man, I’d think he was avoiding meeting my eyes.
“You were a real dick.” It’s an understatement.
“I know.”
“I don’t throw your issues in your face.”
“My issues aren’t self-destructive.” He draws back the slide and peers into the gun’s chamber.
“I didn’t see you worried about my self-destructive tendencies when your cock was in my mouth.”
“I didn’t fully understand then.”
“Understand what?”
“That it bothers me when you’re unhappy.” His jaw tightens, not like he’s embarrassed by the admission, but more in reaction to the idea itself.
He doesn’t like the thought of me being unhappy. My mind doesn’t quite know what to do with this information. It explains some things and makes other things even more nonsensical.
“If you don’t want to make me unhappy, why did you kidnap me?”
“It bothers me more when I’m unhappy.”
It’s the obvious answer, but it still feels like a slap. I want to wrap my arms around my middle, protect myself somehow, but I’ve got this damn gun.
“And Renelli would have found you eventually,” he goes on. “You weren’t safe. And you were miserable in that shitty little town.”
“I’m clearly not safe here, either. Not if I need a gun.”
“Here you have me.” He finally turns to face me again, to skewer me with his cold brown eyes. “I can’t love you, Posy, but I can destroy anyone who threatens you. I can give you anything you want. I can make you feel good.”
He falls silent. It feels like he’s waiting for an answer, but it wasn’t a question.
“You’re cruel to me.”
He says nothing, but then again, what could he say?
“I should want more for myself.”
The muscles in his throat tense.
“What’s the difference between degrading myself for some crumbs of affections and whatever this is that you’re offering me?”
Silence.
I stare at him. He could play the devil in a Hollywood blockbuster. He has the swarthy complexion, the hooded eyes, the chiseled bulk and electrifying presence that makes your pussy tingle although you know he’s the definition of unattainable.
His clothes drape perfectly. Not a scuff on his shoes. The edges of his beard are razor sharp. He’s unreal. This whole thing is unreal.
And then he closes the space between us, easing the pistol gently from my grasp. He bends and brushes a kiss across my forehead, and then slips the semi-automatic into my hand.
“Aim for the torso,” he says, voice low and silky. “And if you shoot, don’t stop until the magazine is empty.”
I raise the gun like Giorgio Busco taught me way back when, wrapping my left hand around my right, aligning the dots, and squeezing my left eye shut. I aim for his head. He’s so close, it’s a big enough target.
“Give me your wallet and the passcode for your debit card.”
“No.” He doesn’t move. I relax my elbows to try and stop my hands from shaking. My throat is bone dry.
“I’ll do it,” I warn, adjusting my sweaty grip.
“You won’t.”
Shit, shit, shit. I don’t think I can. Why can’t I? Why am I so weak? My nose tickles and my eyes pool with unshed tears.
I take a step forward, stick the muzzle into his chest, right above his heart.
“Say you’re sorry.” My voice wavers.
“I’m sorry,” he says. No hesitation. No reaction.
“What for?” I demand.
“Everything.”
“Then give me money and let me go.”
But I don’t want to go. I don’t want the power. I don’t want to make the decision because I pick wrong, every single time, and I want Dario Volpe. I don’t even want things to go back the way they were. I want him like this—unapologetic and cold and obsessed.
“No,” he says, his voice a gritty whisper.
Our eyes are magnets. I step forward, inch by inch, until we’ve reversed positions, a slow-motion dance.
I don’t know what I’m doing, and then I’m doing it.
I set the gun down next to the others, and I lean back against the ledge.
I grab the sides of my cotton dress with my sweaty palms, and I watch him watch me draw it up.
I lick my lips. He exhales so very softly. Sparkles dance in irises gone as pitch black as his pupils. If you didn’t know him, it’d read as emotion, but it’s not. It’s impulse, as primitive as hunger.
I show him my pink panties with the little white bow. They’re damp in the middle.
“Yes,” he exhales in a hiss.
He drops to his knees.
He’s beautiful, strong, powerful, hard thighs straining his finely trailered gray slacks, his crisp dress shirt as white as fresh snow. Every line so elegant, every button, belt loop, and seam so exquisitely wrought there can be no doubt it’s bespoke.
He’s money, and he’s danger, and he’s at my feet.
Yearning and mistrust swirl in my belly, stoking my nerves, sensitizing every inch of my skin. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband and drags my panties to my ankles.
“Step out.”
I do. He tosses them away, stroking rough palms up the back of my legs, lingering behind my knees, then molding and kneading my ass. Shivers fly in the wake of his touch. I heat for him. The swirling becomes a throbbing.
He wraps his finger around my ankle and tugs up. “Put this on my shoulder,” he urges, guiding my foot to rest in the crook of his neck.