“Hands off the lady,” Salvatore says, threateningly.
The man raises his hands in surrender, and Salvatore finally notices the knife. He yanks it out of the man’s hand, studies it, then presses the tip of the blade against his palm. My entire body seizes up, but Salvatore doesn’t show any signs of pain. He takes the blade away, then shows me his palm, unscathed.
“It’s fake,” Salvatore declares, throwing the toy into the man’s face.
I’m struck dumb. Just seconds ago, I thought that knife was going to plunge into my belly. I wasn’t in any danger, really, though I’m still shaking with fear.
Salvatore points a finger into the man’s face, shoving him harder against the wall. “Don’t let me catch you causing problems on my street again.”
“Sure, sure,” the man says, grumbling a promise I’m not sure he understands.
Salvatore lets him go, then turns to me.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I watch the man scurry down the street, then turn blinking to Salvatore.
“Yes,” I say, breathlessly, but I don’t think I am. My hands are trembling. Adrenaline floods my stomach, making me a bit nauseas. “Thank you for helping me.”
“Of course.” Salvatore casts a disdainful stare at the man, who’s now two blocks away. “Filthy creep,” he mutters.
I wipe away the tears that have started to materialize in my eyes.
“He was completely out of it,” I explain. “Drugs or mental illness, probably both. He didn’t know what he was doing.”
Salvatore steps closer to me, raising an eyebrow. “Are you making excuses for him? He scared the shit out of you.” He takes my hand, holding it up to show me how it trembles. He stares at me, his dark eyes intimating that he takes what happened to me as a personal offense. Even in my agitated state, it’s undeniably hot. The thought of him throwing my attacker against the wall makes me shiver deep inside. I pull my hand away from him, blushing.
“Not making excuses,” I say, looking at my feet. “I’m just trying to understand.”
Salvatore squints at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. He quickly wipes the confusion from his face, and his confident, debonair smile returns. I flinch when I feel his arm slide across my shoulders.
“Come on. I’ll walk you home,”
His voice isn’t warm, per se, but it is a little softer. We’re silent as we walk. I’m rigid by his side, trying not to cry. I’m embarrassed about being so shook up over a toy knife. Salvatore probably thinks I’m a small town bumpkin, and not city-hardened yet. He doesn’t say anything like that. It’s my own psychological projection getting in the way. That’s how I see myself, so I delude myself into thinking that’s what other people see too. And Salvatore is a dark creature who exudes confidence. How could he not think that way about me?
Salvatore’s arm is steady around me. I’m too much in shock to fully appreciate how close I am to my landlord. Though this man is intimidating, being so close to him is actually a comfort. And he smells good, clean and fresh. We walk into the apartment building, down the hall, to my door.
“Thank you again,” I say, pulling away from him nervously. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
Salvatore chuckles. “You just did.”
“I know.” I blush. My shock has transformed into a nervous energy. I have the sudden urge to run a marathon, or clean my entire apartment, or- “Let me cook dinner for you,” I blurt out. I immediately wish I could take the words back. What have I done? I’ve invited this cold, dangerously sexy man into my home. I gulp, watching Salvatore’s face for a reaction. A part of me hopes he refuses. But another part of me hopes he accepts. Jesus, what’s wrong with me? Yesterday, I wanted to do everything in my power to avoid this man. One little scare on the street and I’m losing my mind. But I really don’t want to be alone, and right now, Salvatore seems like my savior.
At first, I think he’s going to refuse. He cocks his head to the side like he’s considering it. His mouth spreads into a smile.
“That would be lovely,” he says. He takes a keyring out of his pocket, unlocks my door, and swings it open. “After you.”
I rush past him into the apartment, slightly crazed, and glance over the living room and kitchen to determine its state of cleanliness. I wasn’t expecting a guest, and I don’t usually keep things especially tidy when it’s just me. Luckily, it’s not bad. I kick a few pieces of dirty laundry on the floor under the couch, and quickly sweep away the mail that’s gathering up on my kitchen counter.
Salvatore doesn’t watch what I’m doing. He’s looking around, quietly studying my private abode. His silent meditation on my living space feels like an invasion, until I remember he’s my landlord. He’s probably checking to see if there’s any holes in the wall, or if all the lights are working.
After hanging my purse and keys on the hooks beside the door, I turn to him, wiping my sweaty palms on my pants. I’m hot and flustered. I’m sure my cheeks are burning bright red.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I offer. “I’ll get started on dinner.”
Salvatore nods, then takes a seat on the couch. In his nice suit, with his impeccable hair, and sculpted, handsome face, he looks out of place on my second hand furniture. The contrast makes him seem otherworldly, a god deigning to visit a mere mortal. Why is he wasting any time on me? It’s hard to believe, with his cold demeanor, that he’s just being a nice guy. He picks up a copy of the Journal of Psychology and Psychotherapy from the stack on the coffee table, and begins to peruse it. From where he sits, he doesn’t have a clear view of me in the kitchen, and I couldn’t be more glad.
I tie an apron around my waist, then grip the countertop, reminding myself to breathe. Whether the knife was real or not, my experience was still traumatic. In my vulnerable state of white hot emotion, I invited Salvatore to dinner. I can’t explain why, but I don’t trust him. I sense ulterior motives. But, there’s no getting out of this, so, I must cook. I’m comfortable in the kitchen. I’ve always been a cooking show junkie, and love to try out new recipes. Maybe I can forget about the devil in my living room, and lose myself in the food.
That’s just what I do. I’d planned on reheating leftovers for dinner tonight, but I’ll have to do better than that. I peruse my refrigerator, and find chicken stock I made last weekend, chicken breasts, frozen peas and corn, carrots, and puff pastry. And poof- I have all the makings for chicken pot pie.
I’m so absorbed in the preparation, that I don’t realize I’ve been cooking for over an hour until I pull the piping hot pie out of the oven. Why did I go to all this trouble? Is this an unconscious desire to impress him? Sigmund Freud theorized that the unconscious mind directly influences everyday behaviors. So what does that mean? Do I want to be close to the man who makes me feel on edge, scares me, even? I rub my temples and take a deep breath. I need to stop psychoanalyzing myself and get through this dinner.
I glance at Salvatore in the living room. He’s deep into my stack of psychology journals. I step out from the kitchen.
“It’s ready,” I say. “Sorry that took so long.”
Salvatore stands up, straightening his pants leg. “Smells good,” he says, sniffing the air.
As I lead him to the dining table, I notice that my apron, hands, and probably face are dusted with flour. When I go into the kitchen to retrieve the food, I try to clean myself up as best I can. I stare at my creation in the pie tin. The crust is just the right shade of golden brown. I hope it tastes as good as it looks.
At the table, I serve up Salvatore’s portion on a ceramic plate, the only one from my collection without a chip, and set it in front of him. He stares at it, cocking his head left and right to study it from every angle. I watch anxiously as he takes a first bite.
“It’s good,” he announces, going for another bite. While he chews, his face is analytical, like it’s something he’s never tasted before, and he's trying to figure it out.
I take a long drink of wa
ter, then fiddle with the pie crust with my fork. My nerves have killed my appetite. I straighten my posture, determined to make this a normal evening, and make an attempt at small talk.
“So what do you do?” I ask. “Besides own the building.”
I feel a chill as Salvatore directs his cold eyes at me. He shrugs, casually. “I have a controlling interest in several business ventures.”
“I see,” I say, though I really don’t.
Salvatore puts his fork down, then leans closer to me. “You’re a counselor?” he asks.
My stomach tightens. “How did you know that?”
He smiles with satisfaction. “It’s on your renter’s application.”
“Of course.” I push my hair away from my face, cursing myself inwardly. What is this irrational fear I have of him? Why do I feel like he already knows everything about me? Is it my lack of confidence, or something else?
We continue to eat in silence for a few moments. I feel guilty about meeting his innocent question with suspicion, and for the secret I’m keeping from him. This man just helped me out of a sticky situation. If I’m honest with him, I can prove to myself that I’m not afraid of him. He’s not some supernatural creature that I unconsciously wish would drag me into his dark, unseen world. We’re just two adults in a business relationship.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” I say.
Salvatore wipes his mouth on a napkin, not hiding the intense interest in his eyes. “Oh? What’s that?”
I take a deep breath, then explain the funding cuts and my reduced salary as succinctly as I can. Salvatore listens to every word, nodding along as I speak. When I finish, he leans back in his seat, stroking his chin.
“I hate to hear that, Molly,” he says, compassionately. “We do have income requirements in this building. I’d love to make an exception for you, but that wouldn’t be fair to the other tenants.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”
“I wish I could do something.”
“How about a reference?”
“Absolutely,” Salvatore says, clasping his hands in front of him. “But I have to warn you, anything below this price point can be in a bad neighborhood. Everyone thinks LA is this glamorous city, and it is, but there’s a dark undercurrent here. You don’t want to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
The way he speaks, with his low, gravelly voice, paired with his intense stare, makes this feel like a warning. I sip my water to buy some time.
“I’m sure I’ll find something,” I say, choking on the water and coughing out the words.
Salvatore squints, drumming his fingertips on the tabletop. “Maybe we can work something out. Let me think about it.”
“That’s very understanding of you,” I say, with a polite smile. But why do I get the feeling he already has something in mind?
*
Salvatore
I’m at my desk, studying Franco’s finances, and watching my surveillance footage, but my mind is on Molly. Now it’s official. I want her. I want to own her. I want to watch her face as I spread open her creamy thighs, then claim her for myself. This yearning has taken root in my mind, and is growing just as strong as my need for revenge against the Mariano’s. With what I’m planning, I’ll be able to get both.
My dick hardens when I remember the taste of cream in my mouth. I never eat the kind of food Molly served me. My usual diet consists of fresh sashimi and chilled seaweed, plain salad and extra rare steak; foods that are cold, raw, and bloody.
Is that what you taste like, Molly? Like sweet, luscious cream?
Paying that dirty street urchin to harass her so I could swoop in and save her had been worth it. My skin crawls with excitement when I think of how she clung to me when I walked her home, how she looked at me like I was her knight, though a dangerous one. It was a calculated move to get her to trust me. But I like that she’s still afraid of me.
I can’t stop thinking about her, so I fire up my laptop and track her online movements. In her search history, I see she’s looking at listings for cheaper apartments. She’ll soon realize that there’s nothing there for her. I priced the apartments in this building strategically. The rent here is just a bit more than the lowest price point, and a hell of a lot nicer. It seems like heaven to renters used to seeing roach infested hellholes. I could charge a lot more, but this way, I’m always renting at full capacity, which gives me the biggest return on my investment.
I smile to myself. There’s nowhere for you to go, Molly.
I refresh the browser, updating her search history. Moments ago, she searched for the keyword “Salvatore Mariano.” I’m flattered, but I can’t have her finding out about me. I’ve already scrubbed the internet for anything relating to me, but I still can’t take the chance, so I cut her wifi remotely.
*
Molly
My wifi is down. Funny how it was working fine, then went out just when I was searching for him. Paranoia overwhelms me. I close the laptop, and shove it out of my lap. Salvatore’s been gone for an hour, but it’s like he’s still here. I can feel him. The room is colder than normal. I wrap up in a blanket to combat this. My psychology journals are in a neat, uniform stack. His work, since I usually leave them in disarray.
Is he watching me right now?
“You’re crazy,” I say out loud, shaking my head. I reason that I’m probably still reeling from the scary encounter I had earlier. Salvatore’s not watching me. He can’t monitor my internet. That would break so many laws. I repeat this sound rationale over and over to myself, trying to get myself to believe it.
Maybe we can work something out.
What, exactly, will that be? I pull the blanket tighter around me. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m slipping into something I can’t escape.
And even though he’s not here, he’s close. I don’t feel alone. Salvatore’s gotten under my skin.
Chapter Six
Molly
At work the next day, I challenge myself to go as long as possible without thinking about Salvatore. As a result, I end up thinking about him more. When Greg asks why I’m so distracted, I give him the lame excuse that I’m tired. He suggests I drink more coffee, then goes back to his work. I consider telling him about Salvatore, and everything that happened yesterday. But I know what Greg would say. He’d get all excited, tell me to hop in bed with my landlord, then start planning our wedding. My fear though, is that he’d make me admit that I have a crush on Salvatore.
There, I admit it. It’s a tiny crush, a fledgling crush. I’ve had them before, though not since college. I know that if I don’t nurture it, it will go away. Salvatore is handsome, successful, and, yes, sexy in a dark and mysterious way. I can’t blame myself for finding him attractive. But I can’t expect him to feel the same way about me. And I’d be afraid if he did.
Later that morning, I have another session with Mike. We’re making such good progress, that I’m finally able to focus on something other than you know who. At the end of our appointment, Mike tells me that he’s ready to check himself into a rehabilitation program. I happily escort him to our information desk, where I start to gather glossy brochures for affordable programs in the area. While I’m focused on this, a startling chill runs up my spine. I don’t even have to turn around to know he’s here.
“Good morning, Molly.”
The low tenor of his voice reverberates in my core. My toes and fingertips tingle. I turn around slowly. There he is, that dark apparition, wearing a suit the color of a black hole.
“Everything cool, Ms. Wright?” Mike asks, glancing from me to the demon who haunts me. I almost want to ask Mike if he sees Salvatore too.
With a sigh, I force myself to smile. “Yes, Mike, thank you. Cora can help you find the right program.”
I call over Cora, a spunky recent college grad with purple frosted hair. She gladly sets about helping Mike.
“Hello, Salvatore,” I say, cheerfully. “Is there anything I can h
elp you with?”
Salvatore surveys the space with his dark eyes. I can feel Greg staring at me. God only knows what he’s thinking, but I’m sure I’ll find out after Salvatore leaves.
“Is there anywhere we can chat?” Salvatore asks. His mouth twists into a smile. “Privately.”
I fight to keep my knees from buckling beneath me. “Sure. My office is right this way.”
Salvatore follows me down the hallway. I can hear his every step, thudding in time with the beating of my heart.
“Have a seat,” I offer, when we walk inside.
“Thank you,” he says, though he doesn’t sit down. I decide to stay standing too. Salvatore levels his eyes at me. I feel like an animal caught in his snare. “About your rent,” he begins. “I think I’ve figured something out. Though, I have to warn you, it’s an unconventional proposition.”
My mind sets off, spinning a thousand wild scenarios all at once. “Oh?” I say.
Salvatore shoves his hands in his pockets, making him appear more vulnerable. “My Uncle Franco, whom I’m very close to, is old and not well. I’m afraid he doesn’t have much longer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, though I’m dying to ask what the hell this has to do with me.
“You see, Uncle Franco is an old-fashioned guy. I’m his favorite nephew, and he’s been dying to see me married and settled down.”
“Okay,” I say, cautiously.
Salvatore strokes back his hair, hanging his head down and softening his eyes. “What I’m asking is, for you to come dinner with us, just one night, and pretend to be my girlfriend.”
I blink, looking down at the floor. After what I was expecting, I’m a bit relieved that that’s all he’s asking.
“I told you it was unconventional,” Salvatore says when I hesitate to answer. “I know it’s strange, but you’d be doing me a huge personal favor. And I’ll discount your rent for one month.”
Beware the Devil (Mafia Soldiers Book 3) Page 3
