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“Yes,” I hold my breath, crossing my fingers.
On a mission to free myself through rambling.
“You want my cock in it so badly?” he cocks his eyebrow.
“What?” I cough out and blink repeatedly as the picture of his length shoved into my mouth sprints through my mind.
Abort mission.
I clamp my lips. Insufferable grouch.
“It's good to see we are beginning to have mutual understanding,” he shoves me slightly into the car, and I sit, defeated.
“Seat belt,” he closes the door.
I hate his commanding tone and the fact that I am strapping my seatbelt on instead of trying to open the door and escape. I'm just being logical. He has a gun somewhere, so just one pull, and this will end quickly.
I inhale and almost choke on the oak scent blanketing the charcoal-black interior of his car. The scent is dry, woody, with hints of a sensuous undertone. Like the grouch rounding the car and climbing into the driver’s seat.
He straps his seat belt on and turns on the car, the engine purring gently to life. He takes one hand to the steering wheel and wraps his cosmic tattooed fingers around it, and with the same debonair charisma, he starts to drive us out of the alley and into the ever-buzzing streets of New York City.
My mind is moving in a spiral right now, thinking of any clue that might make everything that's happening make sense to me. I don't know if he wants to take me somewhere quiet to kill me, Idon't know exactly how he intends to do it, I don't know why he is delaying it or saying he does not want to kill me.
“Benedetto, I know I messed up, I know I shouldn't have humiliated Romano like that with Tiziano,” I hug my purse to my stomach with both hands.
“It's a little too late for that Rosaline,” he keeps his eyes on the road ahead, which is a good thing. What is not a good thing is him calling me Rosaline instead of Rose.
“Rose,” I mumble. I don't like how he calls me in a way that makes it sound like he named me. As if the name Rosaline is his to call.
“What is that?”
“It's Rose, not Rosaline,” I look to the side, watching as streetlights swing past us.
“Okay,” he shrugs briskly with one shoulder.
I didn't think he was going to listen. Maybe he can be reasoned with after all.
I rush my words, “I was saying I'm sorry, that I know you want to kill me for what I did to Romano and I know I deserve…”
“Shut up, Rosaline,” he clips and turns to the left as we get to a crossroad.
I nod like it's an answer and kill the thought immediately. He cannot be reasoned with.
He navigates through a one-way street that brings us out to an empty pedestrian street. It looks unlike New York City, with its usual heavy traffic and many harlequin splashes.
“Are we leaving New York?” I look behind me, feeling my stomach wall jam. It starts to vibrate and I swallow down a lump in my throat.
“Take it,” he sucks his teeth in a fit of irritation.
Take what? My mind does a reboot and the vibration registers as my phone and not my stomach walls. I don't see a difference though. I'm visibly trembling. And it's with shaky hands that I open my purse, adjust the rim of my oxblood mini slit dress and pull out my phone to look at the screen. My father is calling.
Benedetto stretches his hand out to me, and I suck in the oak-soaked air as I drop the phone on his palm. I’m feeling lightheaded. The streetlights and cars moving past us are beginning to blur out.
He receives the call, and puts it on loudspeaker, only looking at the screen slightly to do that before returning his eyes on the road.
“Rose,” I can smell the fog of fear from the creakiness of my father’s voice.
“Rose!” Lawrence screeches.
