“Keep me posted,” he says, before asking, “Does your mood have anything to do with tomorrow’s date?”
“No,” I growl out. Even though I’m lying. Tomorrow is my birthday. I fucking hate that another one is rolling by. One more year and still I can’t go to my parents’ graves and tell them I avenged them.
Seb nods just as the car stops in front of my building. I get out, looking back at Jeff pulling up to the curb behind Seb’s car. He followed us from the warehouse. I walk through the lobby, nodding at the greeting concierge. Vince is sitting on one of the chairs near the entrance. I acknowledge him with a nod of my head before getting on the elevator.
When I reach my floor, Carlo is standing outside the door to my condo.
“Any problem?” I ask.
“No,Capo,” he reports.
Really? “Did you check on him?” I ask, punching the code in the door keypad. I should improve the condo’s security just like Marco did.
“I did just as you asked, Boss. No contact.”
If he were in my crew, he’d have bled just like Jeff did for taking Fly and Enzino to that club. But judging by his black eye, Marco took care to make him understand the wrongfulness of his ways.
I slide the bloody neckties still in my fist around my neck again. I’m about as frustrated as I’ve ever been; I could take my anger through the stratosphere multiple times over at this point. I turn on the light. Silence. That’s what I’m used to. Returning to an empty apartment—physically and spiritually. Instead as soon as the door closes behind me, the sound of little nails scampering on the floor starts, and after a second, the creature comes running at me. Fucking hell. It stops at my feet, jumping, barking, spinning, and repeating. I’ve never had a pet. Never wanted one. I just don’t care for them. This one surely looks like its owner. Tiny, horny as fuck, moronically fearless, always hungry and fucking insufferable.
I ignore it and tie my hair into a short ponytail. Fuck, my hand hurts. It’s bleeding again. Fortunately, Marco wasn’t there when I cut myself on a piece of sharp metal inside the warehouse, or I’d have never heard the end of it. A few locks fall over my face, and I tuck some behind my ear with an annoyed huff. I fucking need a drink yesterday. I move to the kitchen and get the whiskey bottle out. There are empty containers of food covering half of the kitchen island. How many times do I need to tell that slob to clean up after himself? I pour the liquor into a glass. The dog has finally calmed down and is now lying on the floor on top of what looks like one of my cashmere sweaters. That fucking brat is going to pay for this. I’ll face-fuck his mouth so hard he’ll choke on my cum. My dick jerks at the mental image.
I’m unwrapping the white pocket square from my hand when I hear footsteps.
He walks toward me, holding a huge bag of avocado pretzels. “Oh, the jailer is back!” His accusing tone changes as soon as he sees my hand. “What the hell happened to you?”
You happened. Cazzo!
I growl an unintelligible response, throwing the bloody fabric on the counter before downing more whiskey. He’s all lively gestures, looking warm and edible. Wearing my fucking t-shirt, which reaches his smooth and incredibly strong thighs, as I recall them holding firmly onto my thrusting hips yesterday. I had a long, good taste of him, but instead of quenching my thirst, it made me crave that slutty ass more.
He shakes his head, the move drawing my eyes to the delicate lines of his collarbone, still red from my stubble. I feel the sudden urge to lick my way along it until the pale skin is covered in my marks. He turns around and walks away. Although his back is covered, I can still see all the crisscrossed scars—long, old white lines and some pink new ones—marring the entirety of his flesh. They tell a story of repetitive abuse. My stomach twists uncomfortably at the memory. Is it because of the ones I see in the mirror every-fucking-day?
Who did that to him? Is it possible that he asked for it? Was he forced? Pinned down, defenseless when he endured them? A murderous feeling awakens inside my chest. Fury not toward him butforhim turns me fucking confused and pissed at him and then furious all over again. I grit my teeth and quickly lock down the whole line of thinking. I need to get a fucking grip. I have a plan already, and I need to stick to it.
I pour more whiskey and take the bottle and glass with me when I plop down on the sofa. Enzino comes back and sits on the coffee table in front of me. A first aid kit is on his lap.
“I don’t need that,” I clip.
“You’re bleeding on the goddamn floor. Nacho is licking it.” He points at his dog lapping at the floor near the kitchen island.
I look at the back of my hand, noticing more blood dripping down.
“You got out of the bedroom,” I deadpan.
He grabs my wrist and stares at the wound, pulling on the skin too roughly. I grit my teeth against the sting.
“You were away for hours. I needed the bathroom.” He doesn’t hold back his annoyance at me.
“How did you do it?” I should have cuffed him before locking him in the bedroom.
“By myself.” He presses the cotton filled with disinfectant harder than necessary, making it burn like a bitch. Resentful brat! “Do not start pointing fingers at your crew. It wasn’t my first time.”
The way his challenging eyes are avoiding mine now tells me everything and nothing at the same time. What the fuck does that mean? I’ve been struggling with this powerful attraction toward him from the beginning, but this is different. I want to know more.
He applies a bandage and secures it before asking, “Is this all?”
I nod, downing the glass. He pours more for me and then goes to get another glass for himself before coming back.
“Am I going to be next?” He points at the blood on the necktie and shirt. “Because tortures are not needed, just ask.”