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Now I’m going to have to make him.
The narrow home has a hallway to the right, where I hear a door open. “Hello? Is someone there? I’m calling the cops!”
What a baby.
Domani beelines for the homeowner, his stature intimidating enough to make a man piss himself. He slides a pen from his pocket. “Are you right-handed or left?”
“Huh? Get out of my house!” Michael shouts.
“Right-handed, then,” Dom guesses. He grabs Michael’s left hand and twists it back, jerking it up so hard that something snaps.
My twin covers the man’s mouth to stifle the scream, in case the neighbors are close enough to hear. “You scared my sister, so you’re going to sign this, and then you’re going to die.”
I love that my family is claiming her as their own.
I take Michael’s right hand and place a pen in it, slamming the papers to the wall so he has something sturdy on which to write.
Domani smashes Michael’s lanky body to the wall beside the papers, jerking what I’m guessing is now a broken arm in case Michael finds a wave of bravery and considers trying to escape.
“What is this?” Michael asks, then squeals when Dom twists his left arm harder.
“Sign it!” I shout, pressing his right hand to the page.
It doesn’t take more than two broken fingers on his left hand before Michael is willing to sign anything to make the pain stop.
How I want to draw his pain out for weeks on end. I want to coat him in the fear he instilled in my pussycat. But Jessica has been through enough, so I don’t hesitate to pull my piece the second Domani throws Michael to the floor. My twin rolls up the signed document for Antonio to deal with, and then backs up so I have a clear shot.
The weasel is crying while he tries to get away from the two psychos who broke into his house, his fear making the sight that much sweeter. If my pussycat was a sadist like me, she would savor this image of the man who tormented her sanity trying to squiggle away like a little bitch.
It takes a single shot that I will never regret, and Domani and I are out the door without a glance behind us.
But not before I grab my baby’s hairbrush. My woman will never have to come back here ever again, because I am a man who takes care of what’s mine.
10
It’s a thing of mercy that I return to Jessica’s apartment before she decides she can talk herself out of being with me. While I am exhausted as I stroll into the quiet space, she is still resting, her limbs languidly tangled in the sheets.
It gives me enough time to download a tracking app on her phone, so I can find her if needed. Maybe that’s not standard for most relationships, but I take no chances with her safety. Jessica is mine now, and she will be protected as such.
I love that it is nearly noon, and she is still sleeping. I knocked her clean out, and she’s enjoying the benefits of being fucked by a Moretti man.
There is precious little I would not do to make her life better, including shower her ex’s blood off my body before properly greeting her. I’m exhausted, but even now, my focus is solely on my pussycat. I don’t know if she normally eats breakfast, but I’m going to make for damn sure that she at least gets lunch today.
I fish through her fridge, quietly pulling out a carton of eggs. She’s a healthy eater, I can tell, and her budget is next to nothing.
No matter. This is the last day she’ll have a mostly empty fridge. Tonight, I’ll cook her whatever she likes so she knows she’s my queen.
I crack four eggs into a bowl, whipping them with a fork while I add what little I can to make this meal something to smile about. I love Jessica’s smile. Everything about her is a reason to get out of bed and start the day fresh.
I wonder if any of those men in her sexy books ever made their woman a meal the next morning.
My pussycat sleeps like the dead after I’ve knocked her out, so I take my time poking around her apartment, checking for details I can commit to memory.
There’s a small stack of books beside the shitty couch. Classics from the library, by the look of them, with a spy novel thrown in for good measure and a worn paperback with a shirtless man on the cover. I thumb through the parts that fall open easily, so I can commit the choreography of her favorite scenes to memory for recreation in my bedroom later.
She doesn’t own a television, though I can’t tell if that’s by choice or if she’s given up all luxuries due to necessity. There’s not much food in her fridge for proper detective work, but I don’t see any meat, so I make a mental note that my woman might be a vegetarian.
I debate switching to tofu and beans for her, but I think I’ll need verbal confirmation before I do something that drastic.
