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“Why should I listen to you?”
“Because I’ll stick your hand in the fire just to watch you scream.” I looked up at her, telling her not to call my bluff.
She made the right decision and sat down. “I know how to thread, but I’ve never done stitches before.”
“I’ll guide you.” I grabbed the tweezers, dug them into my flesh, and then pulled out the bullet. I tossed it on the coffee table where guests drank their brandy. Then I covered the wound with a thick gauze, immune to the pain because I’d been shot so many times. My ink made the bullet holes difficult to see, but the women I bedded loved to touch them with their fingertips while I fucked them against my headboard. Once enough pressure had been applied to slow the bleeding, I poured a bottle of vodka over it then told her to start stitching.
She listened to me and got the job done.
Then I wrapped it in gauze and secured it in place.
She set her instruments on the table, which were caked with blood. “I despise myself for what I just did.”
“Third-degree burns are brutal. You’d be crying on the floor right now.”
Richard, my caretaker, stepped into the entryway sitting room. He was an older man that I’d found living on the streets in Milan. He lost his wife to cancer, and his only son died in a car wreck. He had been laid off from his job and never got back on his feet. Without having any will to live, he settled for the frozen streets of Milan. So, I offered him a job working for me. “Sir, is everything—” He stopped talking when he spotted Vanessa.
I’d told Richard to stop calling me sir, but he never listened to me. Sir was a bullshit title for an egotistical jackass. I was a murderer and didn’t deserve to be addressed so properly. I made my living without honor, and I didn’t want to pretend there was anything honorable about me. “Richard, remove all the guns stowed in the house and lock them up in the vault. Turn off the Wi-Fi and shut off cellular service. My guest is a fighter.”
“Of course, sir.” Richard took the instruction without thinking twice about it. “Anything else?”
“I’m starving. Make dinner.”
“Right away.” He walked off and left us alone in the entryway.
I grabbed a bottle of scotch and poured myself a drink. I downed it in a single gulp, wanting the liquid to burn a fire in my belly. I refilled my glass.
Vanessa watched my movements. “You’re being rude.”
“Really?” I asked without interest. “Did this rudeness just start now? Because I’ve been a dick since the moment we met. Unless your standards are changing in real time.”
Her green eyes burned with irritation. “If you’re going to kill me, can I at least have a drink?”
“You want scotch? Not some fancy Barsetti wine?”
She snatched the bottle and drank straight out of it. She took a long drink before she set it down, a few drops collecting on her lips. “Now what?”
“What? You want me to kill you right this second?”
“What are you waiting for?” she countered.
“I’ve got to do it the right way. I want it to sink into your father’s brain and never disappear.”
Her eyes narrowed with unbridled hostility. “What did my family do to you?”
If only she understood how beautiful she looked when she was angry. It was a shame I’d have to kill her and drop off her body at the Barsetti doorstep. She was paying for the sins of her parents, but the same thing had happened to me. “They ruined my life.”
“How so?”
“They killed my father. My mother was left with nothing because his enemies took everything. She turned to prostitution to take care of us. And then a client murdered her and left her body in a dumpster. I was ten at the time.”
Despite the unfair circumstances she was in, Vanessa’s eyes actually softened into a pitiful look.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I killed the guy. Left his body in a dumpster.”
“I’m sorry about your mother.” Vanessa didn’t hesitate to talk back or tell me off. She was honest and violent. If she apologized, it was only because she meant it. The fact that she could see past our differences and actually empathize with me made me feel a little guilty for what I was about to do to her.
But that wouldn’t change my mind about it.
“But if my parents killed your father, it must have been for a reason.”
It was. And it was justified. But it resulted in my life becoming a shit show. “My father took your aunt as a slave and killed her—”
“Bones?” Her eyes were the widest I’d ever seen them. “Your father was Bones?” She seemed to make the connection because she glanced at my sleeve of tattoos.
