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“Fine,” he says finally. “Three weeks. Three weeks or I’m taking the mayor’s daughter.”
I release his shirt, pushing him toward the door.
“Get the fuck outta my office. Go work. Stop fucking the girls.”
And then he leaves, and I’m left to figure out how this new piece of the puzzle can fit in.
Thirty-Three
-Lilah-
“This is your new room,” Dante says when we walk into the Carluccio mansion that I’ve been to one other time for what I thought would be a one-night stand and the loss of my virginity.
The last strand holding me to my old life.
Funny how I thought it was a sign to get it over with, but it was truly just a sign to keep going.
Or maybe turn away and run. I’m still not quite sure.
“My new room?” I ask, looking around, but it only takes a few moments to recognize the things in this room—some of them are mine: frames with photos of my family, my old friends who dropped me as soon as I became less cool, tchotchkes that I’ve collected over the years, the black trunk I found thrifting with Lola once where I tossed all of my stripper shoes and clothes so I don’t have to stare at them when I’m not working. The bed isn’t mine. It’s a massive four-poster with elegant white sheets and a comforter, a light, white gauze hanging to create a pretty canopy. A vanity in the same dark wood sits in the corner, and I just know somehow, the closet holds all of my clothes.
“This is my stuff,” I say, moving around the room, touching things I recognize, afraid to touch those I don’t. When I turn back to Dante, he’s facing me, arms crossing his chest.
To the rest of the world, he looks like a tough mafioso, heir to one of the most infamous families on the East Coast. The glare, the lift of his eyebrow, the permanent lines of frowning and judgement etched into his face—it’s all there. The tee shirt—shockingly casual for the typically well-dressed man—shows his tattoo on the inner arm on his bicep.
I asked him once why he would put a tattoo on such a strange spot, not understanding the meaning of it - the well kept secret of the Carluccio family insignia.
Closest to my heart, he'd said. But not on my heart.
But me?
I see him differently. Not tough and uncaring.
He’s nervous.
He’s nervous because he has no idea how I’m going to act, respond, and the man—as crazy as he is—wants me to like this.
“My apartment?” I ask, mimicking his stance.
“In two weeks, you’ll have your full deposit and months paid out returned to you, including the rent for the two months you stayed in that shit hole.”
“I’m sorry?” I ask because that makes no sense.
“You should be sorry, living there. It’s a piece of shit apartment, not safe. Had soldiers there nightly, patrolling, keeping an eye on your front door.”
“I’m sorry what?” I ask again, this time because this is alarming news.
“Please, fiorella. Not now. For the love of fuck.” The look shifts again, and again, I don’t think the average person would see it, see the change.
He’s exhausted.
“Honey,” I say in a whisper, and he looks over his shoulder at the door and then back to me before moving to the door and closing it, turning the lock, and swiping the chain over it.
“That place was shit. Here, I get to you quicker. Here, I leave later. Here, I know where you are at all times.”
“For my safety?” I ask with an eye roll, but he’s moving, and I’m moving back until I hit a wall where he cages me.
“Yes, Delilah. For your safety. But also for my peace of mind. Things are about to go off the fucking rails, and I need to know where you are. I need you under my watch. I need that. Do you hear me? Do you understand?”
