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Maybe I’m the insane one.
I’ve been staring at him, gazing up at him, thoughtless and unguarded, my eyes tracing the faint white scar that highlights his cheek. I feel drunk, though the chaos killed my buzz a long time ago.
“Where are you taking me?”
Salvatore ignores me, like I’m a child asking stupid questions.
A dark Rolls-Royce stops in front of us, reflecting every light in its glossy shine. I grew up with my father’s wealth, had my car seat strapped in the back of armored Bentleys and Mercedes since I was a baby, but this level of luxury is new even for me. The driver opens the door for us.
“You’re driving,” Salvatore tells him.
It doesn’t surprise me that Salvatore usually drives even if he doesn’t have to. He seems like a man who always wants to be in control. But now, he has something else to be in control of—me. Instead of taking the wheel, Salvatore sprawls me across his lap in the backseat. It’s like he really can’t stop touching me, can’t stop looking at me. I’m trying not to be flattered by his sudden obsession, but he’s making it difficult. He looks at me like he’s never seen another woman before. Plenty of men have stared at me, have wanted me. No one has ever looked at me like that.
If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend this isn’t just some power grab by a maniac with a blood vendetta.
“Don’t hide from me,” he says, in a voice used to giving orders. I realize my arm is still clamped tight over my breasts. He pries it away, refusing to let me cover myself. He helps himself to my body as though he already owns it, scrubbing a thumb against my exposed nipple just to watch it turn stiff and darker under his touch.
My hitched breathing fills the back of the car.
“Nobody takes care of you, do they?” He asks lowly as his hands take their fill. The fact that he can guess this so easily is mortifying. Embarrassment flares in my face and creeps down my neck. He can’t know how inexperienced I am. The shame will burn me alive from the inside out if he knows.
But my body betrays me, his softest, simplest touches setting wildfires of desire after a long, 23-year drought of being deemed untouchable. The don’s daughter. A pursuit too dangerous to be worth it. I grew up terrified of the damage I could cause to perfectly innocent people.
Even in my one and only relationship, no matter how much I teased him and tempted him, he refused, and even after I had left my father and his way of life behind, I feared what would happen if I ever crossed that line.
The coward.
But Salvatore isn’t afraid, and he puts his hands on me wherever he wants them.
I can’t bring myself to tell him to stop when all I want is more. I have the bizarre urge to tell him to stop playing nice, that I can take him.
I’m definitely the insane one. í.
The streetlights flicker across his face, casting him in half light, half shadow. When I first saw him, he didn’t seem real. A little too old for me, and a lot too dangerous. He has a touch of silver at his temples, and a strong jaw that I would guess rarely quirks into a smile. He is everything awful I crave in a man but have always been too ashamed to admit.
I’ve spent my whole life resenting men like him, denying the way they make me feel. But there is something about Salvatore—I can’t deny him. I can’t hide the way I want him, the things I want him to do to me.
My mind wants him to let me go; my body wants him to hold me tighter.
I am at war with myself and my own shame.
A light flares up in the dark. Sal lights a cigarette for himself, clenching it between his teeth. He offers me one.
“I haven’t smoked since I was 13,” I object. He holds it out regardless. I sigh and take it.
Screw it. Maybe it will help with the nerves. Or maybe I’ll just puke on him. I put it between my lips as he lights it for me, shielding the flame with his hand. There’s an old-school charm in it that I try to resist.
“You’re calmer than I thought you’d be,” he says, as I grimace around that first drag.
“This is the second time I’ve been kidnapped today,” I explain, blowing the smoke away from him. The cold rush of nicotine settles in my veins, helping ease me into this strange reality.
“It gets a little stale. Early bird gets the theatrics.”
“Kidnapped?”
I don’t bother clarifying, instead asking an offhand, “You don’t like Christmas music, do you?”
Suddenly, his fingers are on my jaw. I am forced to look at him, and there is no humor in his eyes when he asks, “Who kidnapped you?”
