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Or he would die.
“Excuse me, Boss,” he corrected.
“You’re here now, anyway,” Anteros said, leaning forward just as a flicker of movement in the monitor caught his eye. Gabby had entered his room. Frankie turned on his bed, surprised to see Gabby. She looked afraid, even, like Gabby shouldn’t be there. That made sense. After Anteros had sent Gabby there, he hadn’t informed Frankie of his decision. Anteros hadn’t been sure himself. Frankie had no idea that just before entering his office, he’d sent for Gabby.
“Emilio?” Anteros questioned.
“There is little chance for reelection,” Rhys replied and Anteros’s gaze drifted back to the monitor. Gabby sat on the edge of the bed, one leg crossed, one hanging off, and Frankie sat forward, grasping the blankets.
They talked animatedly, laughing sometimes.
“That’s as expected,” Anteros said absently.
“But with Africa,” Rhys continued. “Soon you’ll be earning enough that this entire problem will seem like nothing. There have been some problems, however…” While Rhys continued, Anteros focused on the monitor. For a second, Frankie looked straight at the camera, straight at it, her stare level and knowing. It was as if she was locking eyes with Anteros. Then she turned back to Gabby and laughed.
Gabby got up minutes later, on schedule. Anteros had only planned for a fifteen-minute visit. When Gabby left through the door, Frankie's joy dimmed like a slowly dying light bulb.
Anteros stood up from his desk, declaring the meeting over.
Rhys’s eyes widened and he sputtered in disbelief. “Forgive me, Mr. Drago—uh, Boss—but there is still plenty to discuss. I’m not sure you fully heard me before. There is the matter with Lucia and—”
Ignoring him, Anteros walked out of the office, pushing Rhys along with him. “Lucia is dying in Italy and I don’t believe in ghosts.” Lucia often stirred the pot from Sicily, but she was not a real threat to him or to anyone. She was older than Lucio, an unmarried woman with no children, and stuck in Sicily. The most she could do was complain.
“But…” Rhys started.
“I’m sure whatever you have to say can wait.” Anteros looked to Rhys, eyes hard, indicating it wasn’t up for debate.
“Yes, Boss.” Rhys lowered his head. “It can wait.”
“Nikolai can show you out.” Anteros gestured to Nikolai, who was waiting by the stairs, then walked beyond him. He could punish Nikolai later, deal with whatever Rhys was worried about another time. He stalked down the hallway room with single minded-intent and pushed open his door. Frankie jumped up, still holding the sheets against her chest. He prowled over to her.
“I think you owe me,” he growled into her ear.
“Please…” she whispered. “I’m on my period.”
Frankie slunk in a corner against the opposite side of the shower, back practically melding with the wall of rocks and stone. His shower was more than big enough for two, it could comfortably fit five and had, on occasion. Her apparent need for space was obvious, but she wasn’t hiding from him. Where her small hands used to immediately reach to cover her petite breasts and slit, now they just hung down by her sides.
Progress.
A ghost of a smile came to his lips, but just as quickly, Anteros clenched his jaw. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. In a few days he would have to kill her.
This was just about scratching an itch.
“I’ve never seen your bathroom,” she commented, cutting off his train of thought. She looked around the shower, pulling her lip between her teeth. “This is nice. Swankier than mine. Didn’t think that was possible.” Looking away, she brought one arm in front of her chest and tugged at her other arm.
She was nervous.
Anteros motioned with his hand. “Come.” Frankie chewed on her lip, but did not fight back—at least, not entirely. She took a step forward but didn’t come all the way. She paused, looking up where she stood directly beneath two rain showerheads.
She looked back to him. “Are you going turn on the shower or…”
“It will turn on when I tell it to,” he said tersely.
“Oh.” She shifted, tugging on her arm again. “How sci-fi.” Anteros fisted then unclenched his palm. Her standing there was maddening. It was like a drop of heroin in his blood—enough to grip, tether, and tease him, but not enough to bring him to salvation. It cemented with bitter certainty what her death would feel like, reminding him what he would need to do before then.
There was only so much time he had left with her; he would have to use up every bit of her until she was nothing save a husk, until his blood was so saturated with her that it wouldn’t matter that she was gone.
“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want,” he stated, voice hoarse. Her eyes flashed, but she only bit her lip harder, those full, ruby lips.
