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Looking around, I'm dying for more, more to destroy, more terror to wreak.
The monitor.
Yes. That should go, too.
I tip it over, watching it fall and the tempered glass spiderwebbing out as it hits the carpet.
Oops.
And while I don't feel better or more calm, when I sit back in the leather chair, popping my heels on the desk and surveying my destruction, I'm a little bit appeased to know I made his life more difficult.
* * *
Finally, there’s a noise from the door, the lock clicking and the knob turning, and I look up, waiting.
It opens silently, and in walks Dante.
The door closes behind him and clicks shut, and then he's standing there, arms on his chest. I stand in turn, walking around the desk I was sitting at as if it were my place, until there are just five feet between us.
“Hello, fiorella. Creating trouble again, are we?” he asks with a low laugh, and I want to punch him.
I don’t speak.
Even though I spent an hour locked in here, going over what I would say, what I should say, I can’t do anything but take in the image of the man in front of me.
He’s so fucking handsome, that thick hunk of hair on his forehead from his fingers running through it repeatedly, the rest of the dark waves brushed back neatly. His white shirt has been unbuttoned a few at the top, letting me see the thick chest hair hiding beneath, the gold chain with the Saint Christopher medallion I like to play with when he’s lying in my bed at night on display.
The sleeves are rolled up, a single drop of blood on the cuff, and I wonder if that’s from whatever errand he was on for the last hour or from the scuffle on the floor.
His eyes move along the room, taking in my mess, and he just laughs.
The asshole laughs.
"You've been watching me for weeks on that stupid fucking monitor, haven't you?" I say. "I took care of it for you. Next time you want to watch me shake my ass, you can sit in the crowd like the rest of the piece of shit men."
"You'll be doing no such thing," he says. "I wanted a new monitoring system anyway. You did me a favor." I grind my teeth because some juvenile, childish part of me wants him mad.
Wants him to feel the rage that is in my veins right now.
Though, that might just be my daddy issues speaking.
“Come here, Delilah,” he says, a hand moving out, offering, asking me to take it.
Uh, fuck that.
“Were you ever really a customer?” I ask, the coldness in my words shocking even me.
“Delilah, let—"
"Were you ever really a customer?" I repeat, my voice rising.
"Let me—"
“Dante, what the fuck is going on. Or should I call you Junior? That’s your name, right? Or maybe Carmine?”
“Stop this shit, Delilah. My name is Dante.”
“But you’re not a Romano.”
