by S Williams
Sighing, I push out of the leather recliner and start to make my way to the room. I should try and sleep. I have no energy and I need to refuel, but my mind is thrashing with unwanted thoughts.
My body is yearning for him.
I can’t stand it.
I start to walk to my room, but stop at the door when I hear something crash. Brows narrowing, I pull my hand away from the doorknob to the bedroom, and walk toward the sound.
The crashing continues, getting louder with each step. I’m holding my breath when I see light seeping through the cracks of a door.
“Fuck!” Draco curses loudly, and I gasp, hurrying for the door. I grab the handle and push in, but there is another door ahead. It’s parted, so I can only see a sliver of what’s inside the room.
There is furniture made of black leather, mirrors on many of the walls, and glass tables. There are guns on a wall that I can see from this angle, and then Draco appears, walking by the door swiftly.
I hold back on a gasp, spotting his tall, broad figure. He’s shirtless, his skin and hair slightly damp, like he’s just finished taking a shower or a swim. A gun is in his hand, directly at his side, his finger wrapped around the trigger like he’s ready to fire it at any given moment.
My breathing becomes shallow as I watch him. I watch him curse. Watch him holler. I watch him unload the gun and dump all of the bullets on the floor, and then he flings the weapon, sending it crashing into one of the mirrors in front of him.
“La mataré!” he barks. I will kill her. “I will squeeze the breath out of her body! I will fucking end her!” He is in a blinding rage, and for a moment I panic, assuming he’s talking about me.
He grabs his cellphone, asking about the whereabouts of Hernandez, and relief strikes me. I realize he must have been talking about her. I close my eyes, still holding my breath for fear that he may hear me, backing away slowly.
When I’m out in the hallway and the door is shut behind me, I start to turn but bump into someone.
The person’s hands lock around my upper arms, and I let out an even louder gasp, my heart racing as I meet his bright green eyes. Emilio pulls his hands away, lifting one finger up and pressing it to his lips, shaking his head.
“Leave him, Patrona. Let him grieve,” he whispers. With a sigh, he looks at the door Draco is behind. Without another word, he steps away from me and turns around, walking back down the hallway, stepping around a corner, and disappearing.
I draw in a deep breath and hurry for my room.
He is losing it.
Unhinged.
Damaged.
Broken.
And we all know it.
And since he won’t let me help him, the only thing I can do is stand by and watch—watch as he self-destructs.
8
DRACO
I can’t do this anymore. She is driving me out of my motherfucking mind.
I see her walking around, looking for me, and I hide—I fucking hide, because I can’t face her. I can’t look into her eyes and know for a fact she feels just as awful as I do.
I have to hate her.
I have to forget her.
I have to hold onto that urge of wanting to choke the shit out of her just enough—just enough until she thinks she’s on the brink of dying.
If only I could. If only I had it in me. But I don’t. So instead I pretend to be a ghost to her.
I thought I could handle it—having her around. I thought I could ignore her—pretend she doesn’t exist—but that is fucking impossible to do. She’s around. I know it. I feel her. I hear her when she cries—which she does, every single night—when I stop by her door, just to listen.
She’s drowning her sorrows, bottle after bottle, and I am not doing a damn thing to stop it.
It’s not like me to reward or give solace for the fucked-up shit she’s done.
It’s not like me to forgive and forget. It’s not in my DNA.
She almost had me out by the pool—she was so fucking close to getting me to crack. Her sweet, wet pussy wrapped around me was enough to make me weak and almost enough to make me say the words: Okay, I forgive you.
But I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
I can’t.
I can’t fucking forgive her, because if I do, she’ll want to stay.
She needs to be pushed away. She needs to think I don’t want her. She needs to know that there are things far more important to me than whatever it is I feel for her.
I know what I am about to do is wrong. What I am about to do may cause her to hate me forever. What I am about to do is shattering me, inside and out. It’s ruining me—making my fucking chest hurts. She’s given me an ache I’ve never felt before.
Emilio appears at the door after making the first delivery, lips pressed thin as he pulls his gloves off. I’m certain there are a million questions racing through his mind, but he knows better than to ask them.
I set a clean glass on the silver tray with the champagne I told him to bring. “Take it to her,” I order, looking away. He picks it up right away, hurrying out of the room.
Never in my entire fucking life have I felt a burn this fierce in my chest—a fire this strong swarming in my veins. I down my tequila, hoping—no, praying—that it will make me go numb.
It does nothing but fuel my emotions, drawing out the darker parts of me again.
“Shit,” I curse, slouching down in my chair, shoving rough, thick fingers through my hair. I hear the voices in my head—the voices that constantly drive me to do the mad shit I do.
Don’t.
Stop.
Do not become weak for her.
Fuck her!
And then there is the other voice.
Go.
Run to her.
You fucking need her!
Go!
It’s overwhelming as fuck. Every battling chant, every consuming thought of her.
Mi reina. Mi patrona. Gianna.
I shoot out of my chair, glass still in hand, and throw it at the wall across from me. The glass splinters into pieces, sharp shards scattering all over the room. But I don’t care for the glass, because on that same wall, right across from me, is a mirror.
I see myself.
Face pale.
Dark, empty eyes.
Being away from her is destroying me. Being away from her makes me hostile. It makes me want to fight and ruin. Despite how angry I am, how I want to blame her, I can’t, because I want her so fucking much.
And that’s exactly why she has to go. All I can think about is having my cock inside her, my lips on every inch of her skin. All I can think about is how I want her to sigh my real name—the name only she can call me and get away with it. Her laughter, her cries, the way she calls for me in her sleep and doesn’t even know it…
Fuck.
She has to go.
9
GIANNA
As soon I walk out of the bathroom after my swim, my eyes shoot over to the flowers that appeared less than an hour ago. They are stored in a glass case, with a big, bold note taped to the vase that says: DO NOT TOUCH THEM.
They are a beautiful, bold indigo. No thorns like the Blue Betrayals. No darkness like the Chocolate Cosmos. These are vibrant and full of life. Too pretty not to touch. In front of the flowers is a folded card and a pair of gloves. I pick up the black leather gloves again, turning the note over to read it once more.
Death by Indigo. That’s what they are called.
They are beautiful, alluring. All you want to do is touch them—feel them. See how they smell. You can smell. You can look. But you cannot touch. One fistful without gloves can ruin your life. They are the deadliest flowers on earth. They are banned because one touch on one tiny finger could paralyze a whole hand.
They are poisonous and toxic. They are exactly what you have become to me.
I know the handwriting all too well.
This note hits something inside me. I feel another ache, deep, deep down
every time I read it. I feel a hand crushing what’s left of my heart.
My heart in his hand.
Crushing until nothing is left.
I get the urge to open the case—to touch them, to put an end to all of this.
But I am not weak. I won’t cave. He is angry now, but he has to forgive me. I am not his enemy. Not anymore.
There is a knock on my door several minutes later. I pull my gaze away from the sunset, telling the person to come in.
Emilio steps into the room with a silver tray in hand and a wary smile. “Would you like some champagne, Patrona?”
“Champagne? What are we celebrating? How I’m so great at fucking things up?” I ask, sarcasm laced in my voice. His mouth twitches. He just stands there, unsure how to respond. I sigh and answer, “Why not?”
Nodding, he steps up to a table in the corner and sets the tray down. He pours the champagne and then walks to me, holding the glass out.
When I accept, he says, “We all do foolish things, Patrona. Even the best of us—the strongest and most powerful—do things that don’t make sense sometimes. We are humans. We can only live and learn from our mistakes.” He forces a tight smile at me, and then he turns quickly.
He’s out of the door before I know it.
I sip my champagne, needing anything to pull me out of my gloomy mood. I walk to the closet and change into a silky pink gown, then shut off the lights, tucking myself beneath the sheets with my glass in hand. The pillows are plush and comfortable behind me.
From this spot, I can still see the ocean. If I listen hard enough, I can even hear it.
The soothing waves crashing to shore.
The soft swish.
I sip.
Sip.
Sip.
Until everything becomes dark and my body feels weightless.
I don’t feel anything, but I can still hear.
I hear a deep, heavy sigh.
Mumbling.
Whispering.
Arms wrap around me.
Lips are on my cheek.
Warmth is on my back, like someone is holding me.
I hear myself whisper his name, “Draco.” His name is a sweet, soft tingle on my lips.
“Damn it, Gianna,” I hear him murmur. And then it’s cold again.
Quiet.
He’s gone.
10
GIANNA
A hard gasp shoots out of me.
My eyes pop open, and I pant heavily, looking all around me. The space I’m in is familiar. Ivory leather. A sweet, cinnamon scent. I’m strapped into my seat. I’m on the jet again?
I’m still wearing the pink gown, but with a trench coat covering it. My lips feel numb. My body is tingling. I can’t get a good grasp on my breathing.
My eyes sting, tears blurring my vision, but then something catches my eye from the left.
No, someone.
Emilio is standing there. He’s been standing there this entire time.
“Emilio,” I breathe. “W-what the hell is going on? Why am I on the jet again?”
His face is sullen, and I see the guilt in his eyes. Though I ask in English, its like he can still understand my question.
“You put something in my drink, didn’t you!” I shout in the language he can understand.
“I didn’t put a thing in there, Patrona.”
“Then who did?” I demand, eyes still burning
He sighs. “I think you already know who did.”
“Draco?” I whisper, and he immediately pulls his gaze away. He turns his back to me and walks to the recliners behind him. With wide eyes, I slouch back in my chair, staring down at my lap. My heart is galloping in my chest, my palms sweaty. Sweat has even beaded up on my forehead and above my upper lip.
Despite it all, I stand up, focusing on Emilio. “Take me back to him. Now!”
His lips smash together. “You know I can’t do that.” He looks me over. “Please sit, Patrona. There is something he wants me to give to you.”
I look at him sideways, eyes shifting over to the windows. Surrounded by clouds. Up in the sky. Something tells me it’s too late to do anything.
With a hard sigh, I finally sit, and Emilio takes the seat across from me and leans forward. He extends his arm, holding out something in his hand. A cellphone. I glare down at it warily, taking notice of the folder in his other hand.
“Jefe wants me to make sure you listen to this before you land,” he says softly.
“What is it?” I ask, voice dry, thick.
He sighs, making the screen light up and unlocking it. He scrolls through and then stops, handing it to me with the screen up.
It’s showing the voice recordings. With a tilted brow, I take it, eyeing him briefly before looking down at it.
There are four recordings on here.
Emilio stands, handing me the manila folder. I blink up at him, taking it and placing it on my lap. “I’ll let you have your privacy,” he says softly.
I swallow hard, but my throat is still dry, desperate for moisture. I’m too anxious to hold off on listening to these. I press play on the first recording, and Draco’s voice fills the small space around me.
“Gianna Natalia Nicotera.” He sighs, long and hard. “You are confused. Angry. Probably downright pissed. I don’t expect you not to be. You’re wondering what happened, and why I did it. Well, I’ll tell you what I did. I dropped a small dosage of rohypnol in the champagne, enough to keep you barely conscious. You probably don’t remember what happened after you drank it. I really wish you wouldn’t remember any of the events that happened before this.” His voice breaks a little, just barely. But I can hear it. I can hear the agony in his voice, how much this is hurting him, and my throat thickens, chest heavier now.
“I am not a good man, Gianna. I am a fucked-up man. I sell drugs and kill for a living, and I consider that the norm. I’ve punished women and never gave it a second thought—not until you.” When he says that, my heart beats faster. The recording ends so I go to the next.
“There is one thing I wish, and that is me wishing I had never ordered my men to take you that day. I think having you killed would have been better, because even as I record this message, I am fucking torn. I am torn between doing the right thing—which is sending you away from danger—and keeping you here with me and risking everything I have worked so hard for. If I had kept you around, it would have cost me. They know who my heart beats for now. She knows the great lengths to which I will go to keep you safe…and because of that, I couldn’t let you stay. You are a liability to me, Gianna. Yes, you broke my heart, and yes, I trusted you, and you betrayed me, but despite all of it, I love you so much, and I don’t think that will ever change.”
A tear escapes me, but I swipe at it quickly, holding the phone tighter, clicking the next recording.
“You’re wondering where you will go. Don’t worry. You’ll be with family—family that I know you trust, not the motherfuckers that will try to marry you off to a worthless family to rebuild the Nicotera name.” He pauses. “Open the folder Emilio gave to you.” I place the phone on the arm of the recliner, opening the folder.
I frown a little as I flip through them realizing all of the images are of me. They each have time stamps on them, some going way back to when I was first taken. Some are in color and some are in black and white. There is one with me on the beach. One of me at the pool. One of me eating breakfast with Mrs. Molina and laughing.
There is even one of me sleeping in Draco’s bed in only my panties, no bra, the sheets halfway across the backs of my thighs. I question if he took these images or if someone else did. But he would never let anyone get that close while I was naked and vulnerable this way. It had to be him.
“I sent these images and more to your family to let them know you’re safe. All but that last image anyway. I sent a new image to them every single week to let them know you were still alive and well. That you would stay well, as long as they didn’t come looking for you
. I threatened that if they did come looking, or if I found out they hired someone to come for you, I would kill you.” He blows a heavy breath. “I wouldn’t have killed you,” he murmurs, and I sigh in relief. He knows me too well.
“You may not understand at first, but I’m not doing this for myself, Gianna. I’m doing this for you. I don’t give a fuck about this life anymore. I don’t give a damn about running this empire, but my pride will not allow it to fall that easily. I refuse to let that bitch win. The truth is, I wanted to run away with you—to a private island I bought—and fucking marry you. I wanted to have a child with you. I wanted to create an entire fucking life with you. These thoughts alone make me feel pathetic, but I don’t fucking care because it’s what I want, and it is the truth. I wanted to make you my fucking world. But at the end of the day, my reality is this: being El Jefe. All of the world should know that I am not to be fucked with. And that’s why Hernandez has to die. But I cannot go after her with you around. Your family will protect you. You’re probably out of the country by now. Your familia will be waiting on a private runway. They will pick you up, and they will most likely try to ensure that you never see or hear from me again.”
My heart breaks when those words run through my ears. Never see him again?
I play the final message.
“Even if I die—even if I lose everything in the process—it will not matter. You will be safe. I will make sure all of your threats have vanished. You will no longer have to worry about watching your back in this world. You will finally be free. You’re probably wondering why I couldn’t tell you this face-to-face. I just…couldn’t. I am no coward. I am known for facing my issues and handling them like a man. But you are an issue I can no longer face. You are my heart. And I cannot say goodbye to you.”
I break down without even letting all of his words sink in. The tears have completely blinded me, but his voice continues, making me weak, each word crippling my heart.
