“You look like you got lost on your way to a grunge concert.”
“Fortunately, no,” I said, filling out the form. “I would be pissed if I missed it.”
“What did you do to your hair?”
“What?” My lips formed a pout. “You don’t like it? I did it for you. I heard you like blondes.”
“You been thinking about me?” he drawled.
“Every day, every hour. You’re always there, like a fungus, or an incessant bug swarming around my head.”
A corner of his lips tipped up.
Setting the clipboard down, I leaned a hip against the table, rested the pen against my chin, and looked around the ballroom. “By the way, where is your blonde?”
I followed his stare to the woman in question, who was talking to another in the middle of the room. She wore a classy white cocktail dress and a tight chignon. Her posture was perfect and her current smile was tight. I bet she’d never let her hair down.
“She looks . . . fun.”
When I caught the corner of his disarming smile, something hot and hesitant flickered to life in my stomach. The feeling immediately brought a bad taste to my mouth.
I pushed off the table. “Okay, well, you have a decent night. I would say great, but I’m doing this new thing and trying not to say what I don’t mean.”
“Sure you don’t want to donate the shoes off your feet before you go?”
Glancing at my thigh-high boots, I clicked my heels together like Dorothy. Unfortunately, it didn’t take me home. “I would, but I think your girlfriend’s mamma would throw them away.”
I looked up to see his gaze trail from my boots to the few inches of naked thigh. It was clinical, assessing, and hardly lascivious. Still, the touch of his stare burned, like an ice cube melting on bare skin beneath a summer sun.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said, taking a large drink of what I was now sure was water.
“I would say poor girl, but . . .” My eyes sparkled with that new thing I’m trying as I began to walk past him.
His next words, dripping with something bitter and sweet, stopped me in my tracks.
“Trouble in paradise?”
My grip tightened around the pen I still held.
I swallowed and rubbed my bare ring finger with my thumb.
My marriage was a mockery, and I could never escape it—divorce didn’t exist in the Cosa Nostra—but I wouldn’t be chained by a diamond on my finger, by a symbol of love, when there was none. At least, none returned.
I turned to him, expecting to see triumph, but as I met his gaze, my heart stilled before tugging in an unnatural way.
There was something dark and genuine behind his eyes, and I didn’t realize until later that he was letting me see it. The steady drip, drip, drip of blood. The clanks of metal and fire that forged him.
He was up to his neck in blood.
I wondered if, even then, beneath his fake gentleman persona, his black suit and white shirt, he was covered in it.
“What have you sacrificed to stand here today?” The thought escaped me, pushed from my lips by an invisible force. “Your soul?” I stepped closer, inches away, until his presence brushed my bare skin. Running the tip of the pen across his palm by his side, I whispered, “Just how much blood is on these hands?”
He ran his tongue across his teeth, flicking his gaze to the side before bringing it back to me.
Bottomless. Blue. My heart beat heavy, because I knew if I stared too long I’d be trapped beneath ice.
“Someday,” I breathed, tilting my head, “it’s going to catch up with you.”
His gaze narrowed in distaste as it fell to the pen I’d bitten between my teeth. It took only a second to connect the dots. Germs, most likely.
I licked the end of the pen like a lollipop, tucked it into his front jacket pocket, and gave his chest a pat.
“Have a lousy night, Allister.”
Taking a step to leave, I realized how parched his stare had made me. I stepped backward, grabbed the glass from his hand, and downed the contents.
I choked.
Vodka.
The burn in my throat drifted to my chest as I headed toward the exit. Just as I pushed the door open and cool October air enveloped me, I came face-to-face with a familiar set of eyes.
“Going somewhere?”
I tensed and tried to step around him, but my husband’s hand found my own and stopped me.
“Let me go,” I gritted.
Antonio pulled me closer, wrapping an arm around my waist like we were the most normal couple in the world. As if there wasn’t a twenty-five-year age gap between us, as if he’d wooed me instead of having signed a contract for me, and, most importantly, as if he hadn’t cheated on me and then tried to apologize with a box of fucking chocolates.
I struggled, but his hold only grew tighter.
“Make a scene, Gianna . . .” he warned.
Antonio was like his son, only wrapped in pain and delivered with a side of righteousness, even as the cross around his neck singed a hole through his skin. After two years of marriage, I didn’t believe he could even feel sympathy, and I knew it was how he’d climbed the ladder to be one of the most feared men in the United States.
As for why he was revered—well, when Antonio was warm, he was like the sun. Everyone wanted his attention because, when he gave it, it was absolute, as though you were the only one who had ever mattered. Regardless of the heartache he’d caused me, the walls I’d put up and some I still maintained, I wasn’t a match.
Now, I had to figure out how to give up the sun.
“I really don’t like waiting around for you.”
“I really don’t like you fucking my friends.”
“Watch your mouth,” he chastised, walking us back into the hotel.
Sometimes, it felt like a scream was trapped in my throat, one that had been struggling to get free for the past twenty-two years. It had a voice, a body, fiery red hair, and a heart of steel. I was terrified she would escape, that her echo would burn this world to the ground and leave me standing alone, in smoke and ash. I pushed the feeling down, down, until a light sheen of sweat cooled my skin.
We passed the ballroom doors and, as I glanced inside, my gaze collided with Allister’s.
The exchange was a blur of heat, the burn of liquor, a flicker of pitch-black as his eyes dropped to Antonio’s grip on my arm. And then it was gone, replaced with gold wallpaper as we walked down a hall toward the terrace.
We stepped outside, and I sucked in a breath. The night was cold and dark, but instead of rubbing my arms for warmth, I let the icy breeze bite into my skin. Maybe I was a masochist, or maybe pain was one of the only things that made me feel alive.
The terrace was empty, save for two guests from the benefit smoking a cigarette.
“Give us a moment, yeah?”
It wasn’t a question, no matter how my husband had voiced it.
The men shared a hesitant look but didn’t take more than a couple of seconds to drop their cigarettes and head back through the double doors that led into the ballroom. Light fanned across the terrace floor before the doors closed and darkness consumed us once again.
A distant memory swept into the present.
“How could you love such a terrifying man?” my ex-best-friend Sydney had asked me as we sat on my husband’s office couch together and he talked on the phone.
I’d only had to think about the question for a moment.
“He listens to me.”
I guessed he listened to her, too.
“Care to explain what this is?”
I turned to Antonio to see he held a small, round compact in his hand. My heart beat in the base of my throat. Here was one of those walls about to come tumbling down.
“What is it, Gianna?” he bit out.
“Birth control pills.”
“Why do you have them?”
“Birth control.”
Antonio’s eyes blazed wi
th anger, like two flames in the dark. We were devotedly Catholic, and birth control was frowned upon by the Church. But I knew what bothered him even more was that he wanted another child. Another son to rule his empire.
“How long?”
I looked him straight in the eye. “Since the day we were married.”
Since the night you stepped on my heart.
The slap across my face was immediate. It whipped my head to the side and knocked the breath from my lungs. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.
“The things you make me do, Gianna,” he growled. “Do you think I want to hit you?”
My bitter laugh carried on the wind.
The sad part of it all was I only knew from TV this wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
He chucked the pills over the railing. “No more, do you hear me?”
I shook my head.
“No. More. Or, I swear, I’ll cut you off. No more money, no more secret trips to Chicago—and yes, I know you’ve been there.”
My heart froze to ice and shattered.
“You know your papà forbade you from visiting your mamma.” Softness laced through his voice. “I haven’t told him, only because I know what it means to you.”
She’s sick. I couldn’t say the words because I knew they wouldn’t be steady.
“I have to see her.”
“I know.” He stepped closer, the smoky scent of his cologne reaching me. “I know everything about you, Gianna. Where you go, what you do, who you speak with.” He ran a hand into my hair, and I fought the urge to jerk away because he’d only pull the strands. “You’re mine. And I look after what’s mine.”
“If you care about me at all, Antonio, you’ll get your filthy hands off me and give me a divorce.”
“Do you think I would take just anyone for a wife? I wanted you”—he pressed his lips to my ear—“so I took you, and I’m going to fucking keep you.” I tried to pull my head back, but his grip stayed strong. “I allow you free rein, Gianna, but test me, and I will lock you up so fast. Do you understand me?”
“If you think I will even sleep with you now, you are delusional.”
“You’ll cool off.” He ran a thumb across my cheek. “And when you do, you’ll realize you want children, too, cara.” His grip found my chin, a rough caress. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re not wearing your ring. You’ll put it back on when you get home, or you’ll wake up tomorrow with it glued to your finger.”
The glow of the ballroom highlighted his gray suit as he left through the double doors.
A tremor started in my hands.
The doors closed, and his words came out to swallow me with the shadows.
No more secret trips to Chicago.
No more secret trips to Chicago.
No more secret trips to Chicago.
The tremor moved up my arms, creeping into my vessels and veins. I shook from the inside out. My lungs tightened, and every breath closed them a little more.
Black spots swam in my vision.
I grasped the terrace handrail, the stone like ice beneath my fingers.
In. Out. In. Out.
Light fanned across the terrace, alerting me that someone had stepped outside.
I squeezed my eyes closed, tears escaping my bottom lashes. Gianna, Gianna, Gianna. I tensed and waited for it. I waited for the world to recognize how damaged I was on the inside. To crack me open and see everything my papà had from the beginning. A different part of me, one quiet but strong, wanted to shout, to scream, to let her rule with a steel heart and red hair.
“Do you want to know my favorite?”
My grip tightened on the railing.
In. Out.
“Andromeda.” Allister moved closer. “An autumn constellation, forty-four light-years away.” His steps were smooth and indifferent, but his voice was dry, as though he found my panic attack positively boring.
His attitude brought a small rush of annoyance in, but it was suddenly swayed as my lungs contracted and wouldn’t release. I couldn’t keep a strangled gasp from escaping.
“Look up.”
It was an order, carrying a harsh edge.
With no fight in me, I complied and tilted my head. Tears blurred my vision. Stars swam together and sparkled like diamonds. I was glad they weren’t. Humans would find a way to pluck them from the sky.
“Andromeda is the dim, fuzzy star to the right. Find it.”
My eyes searched it out. The stars weren’t often easy to see, hidden behind smog and the glow of city lights, but sometimes, on a lucky night like tonight, pollution cleared and they became visible. I found the star and focused on it.
“Do you know her story?” he asked, his voice close behind me.
A cold wind touched my cheeks, and I inhaled slowly.
“Answer me.”
“No,” I gritted.
“Andromeda was boasted to be one of the most beautiful goddesses.” He moved closer, so close his jacket brushed my bare arm. His hands were in his pockets and his gaze was on the sky. “She was sacrificed for her beauty, tied to a rock by the sea.”
I imagined her, a red-haired goddess with a heart of steel chained to a rock. The question bubbled up from the depths of me.
“Did she survive?”
His gaze fell to me. Down the tear tracks to the blood on my bottom lip. His eyes darkened, his jaw tightened, and he looked away.
“She did.”
I found the star again.
Andromeda.
“Ask me what her name means.”
It was another rough demand, and I had the urge to refuse. To tell him to stop bossing me around. However, I wanted to know—I suddenly needed to. But he was already walking away, toward the exit.
“Wait,” I breathed, turning to him. “What does her name mean?”
He opened the door and a sliver of light poured onto the terrace. Black suit. Broad shoulders. Straight lines. His head turned just enough to meet my gaze. Blue.
“It means ruler of men.”
An icy breeze almost swallowed his words before they reached me, whipping my hair at my cheeks.
And then he was gone.
I grasped the railing and looked to the sky.
My breath came out steady.
The knot in my chest loosened.
The tremor in my veins became the hot buzz of an electric line.
And then I did it for everyone who couldn’t.
I did it for every bruise.
Every scar.
Every slap against my face.
Most of all, I did it because I wanted to.
I screamed.
Days bled into nights.
The next few months slipped away, consumed in a whirlwind of parties, vacations, races, and weekend spa retreats. Drugs and booze were as easily supplied as the silver platter of fresh fruit and croissants that sat on the twelve-seater dining table every morning.
I was young.
Pampered.
Full of ennui.
I imbibed anything that made my heart race. Made me forget. Made me feel alive.
Sometimes, it came in the form of a Colombian-imported powder.
And other times . . . blue.
“To live the life of luxury.”
That drawl slid into my blood and warmed me from the inside out.
I lounged on a chaise near the pool in a shimmery gold gown, my hair pulled into a messy updo, a dress strap sliding down my shoulder. It was an unseasonably warm March night, and I was taking advantage of it.
I bit into my strawberry as my gaze met Allister’s. “Jealous?”
“Closer to apathetic.”
The glow of the pool lights cast him in shades of silver, blue, and shadow. Navy suit and tie. Polished Rolex and cufflinks. He stood in front of the terrace doors of my home, a tumbler in hand. His warm gaze took me in, from my hair, to the bowl of strawberries and glass of tequila on the table beside me, to my red velvet stilettos.
“Don�
��t tell me my husband’s stories were boring you.” Antonio had a way with words, keeping others on the edge of their seats, yet I couldn’t force myself to listen to the same tale over, and over again.
“Seems they couldn’t hold your interest either. Though, maybe that’s just because you knew the part about him fucking his twenty-year-old virgin bride was coming up next.”
I flinched. Antonio must be angrier with me than I’d thought.
I hoped he’d made it sound more exciting than it was. There’d been nothing romantic about my first time. It was cold and mechanical, leaving a hollow hole in my chest that I’d tried to fill by gaining my husband’s love. What a joke that had been.
“Isn’t it in your job description to feign interest in everything he says?”
His gaze flickered with something akin to dry amusement, though he didn’t respond. He stepped onto the terrace, tension outlining his shoulders. I couldn’t help but think he was weighing his options, and it seemed he would rather tolerate my presence than go back inside.
“Did his crassness offend your tender sensibilities?” I asked.
“Not exactly.”
His eyes came my way, filled to the brim with cold, cold fury. It dimmed to something warmer as his gaze slid down my neck and bare shoulder.
I shook off a shiver. “Will you avenge my honor, Officer?”
“Not sure I see a point when you don’t have much left.”
I pouted. “And just when I was beginning to think you cared.”
“Don’t hold your breath, sweetheart.”
“Strawberry?”
When he looked at the fruit in my hand like it was offensive, I sighed. Then bit off the tip and licked the juice from my lips. His gaze followed the motion, warmer and heavier than the swipe of my tongue.
“Why do you dislike my husband so much?”
“Yes . . . why?”
I froze at the sound of Antonio’s voice.
Allister looked positively unmoved that my husband had heard me, not even turning around to grace his employer with his attention nor deigning to answer the question. Antonio never cared when I spoke with men, but I wasn’t sure how he would react to me being alone with one of his employees.
The Maddest Obsession (Made Book 2) Page 4
