by Bethany-Kris
“It is, yes.”
He eyed his father from the side, but Angelo was otherwise distracted by staring up at the inky sky. It was one of the good things about the estate being outside the limits of the city and away from all the pollution and lights—one could actually see the stars.
“Go on,” Caesar urged.
“Oh, now you want to talk?”
“Can we not play games? I did what you wanted today—played along more than enough. I won’t be doing any of that after this moment, though. Especially not when it comes to Canada, or that bullshit arrangement you came up with.”
Angelo’s lips flattened into a grim line, and his gaze drifted from the sky to Caesar’s face. “You know that everything I do is for your best interests because I love—”
“Let’s not and say that we did.”
“Impossible.”
Caesar chuckled. “And yet, you’ve never asked me why.”
Not why he hated his father.
Not why he was the way he was.
Not why he did the things he did.
None of it.
No one ever cared to ask.
She did, his mind whispered.
Aria De Rose.
She had asked.
She had looked him right in the eyes and asked. Like she had any right to do so. Like she knew there was something the rest of the world didn’t know. Like she could see it, and all his effort to hide it was for nothing.
Why do you hate women?
Such a simple question.
It owned a far more complex answer.
It wasn’t just women he hated—he simply found it easier to hate them than men, usually. But typically, he hated everyone. No one was special.
That was all.
Angelo sighed, and leaned back into the chair. A false appearance of relaxation if there ever was one; Angelo rarely relaxed around his oldest son. He was always prepping for Caesar’s next fuck up in one way or another.
“You have access to the De Rose whore, don’t you?” Angelo asked.
Caesar’s brow lifted. “I’m sorry?”
“Raffaele Ferri’s wife—Aria, yes? The one you were fucking. I assume he doesn’t know about that—or if he does, it was something they had planned.”
“I don’t think he knew, no,” Caesar said.
He still wasn’t sure why, though. Or what Aria’s reasoning for that had been other than to blackmail Caesar. Surely, she was causing enough damage between their respective organizations without adding him to the mix, too.
Apparently not.
“Regardless,” his father said with a wave of his hand, “do you have access to the woman, or not?”
“You told me to stay—”
“You’re not answering my questions, Caesar.”
He cleared his throat. “I could get access to her, if I needed to, yes.”
Aria was out of the city—had been since yesterday. Some shooting had caused her husband to send her away for protection. Shame the foolish Camorra boss didn’t realize his wife had already signed and sealed her death warrant when she fucked with Caesar. There was no way in hell he was going to allow that woman out of his sights for too long.
She might plan something.
Caesar needed to know what it was.
“I want the Ferri man to answer for what he did to Alice … and Daniele,” Angelo murmured. “I am tired of trying to play the diplomat here.”
When have you ever been a diplomat?
Caesar kept his thoughts to himself.
Angelo wouldn’t appreciate them.
“I think starting with the man’s wife will really drive a point home,” his father continued, “and since you seem to have some … knowledge about her, and a way to get to her, I figured it might be best to put this in your hands. One thing for you to do—surely you can do it, Caesar. Without fucking up, I might add.”
Caesar heard his father’s words.
He didn’t trust them, though.
“And what does giving me this job have anything to do with Canada and the new arrangement?”
“I will nullify it,” Angelo answered. “No marriage—your latest misdeeds will be entirely forgiven. We will hit the proverbial restart button, and start fresh, so to speak.”
Like he needed forgiveness.
His father just assumed he wanted it.
“You’re to kill her, and then we can draw in her husband,” Angelo said, shrugging his broad shoulders. “You know how I feel about killing women … either way, you can do this, and then I will give you what you want, too. How does that sound?”
Hell, he’d do it even if dissolving the marriage thing wasn’t on the table.
Caesar owed Aria after everything …
“I will need a couple of days,” he told his father.
Angelo nodded. “Under—”
The bitter, drunken laughter coming from the French doors leading out to the back deck stopped Angelo from saying more. Caesar was surprised to find Daniele had actually moved from his spot in the chair where he’d stayed for most of the day, not to mention, that he’d moved just to come spy on them.
“You’re going to forgive him?” Daniele spat out, half-stumbling out the doors, yet managing to right himself at the last second before he fell on his face. He pointed his glass—full again with whiskey—at Caesar, and didn’t seem to notice he spilled a quarter of it in the jerky action. “After everything he’s done to us—to you—you’re going to pretend again like it didn’t even happen?”
“Daniele—”
Angelo’s words were again cut off by Daniele’s laughter.
“You’re still trying to protect him, Dad. You’re still fucking saving his worthless ass. And he doesn’t even give a single fuck about you or the rest of us!”
Well, his half-brother was right about that.
Daniele’s drunken gaze fell on Caesar as he mumbled, “I guess maybe he does give a shit about you, Dad. Your wife is the only one he hasn’t fucked, right?”
Caesar stiffened—liquor loosened lips, and sunk fucking ships.
In more ways than one …
His brother shook his head, and then turned before he stumbled back into the house. The deck was silent, and the problem was gone. Yet, Caesar still couldn’t relax, and his father hadn’t said a word. In fact, Angelo didn’t react at all.
He was cold.
Even as he looked back to Caesar.
It made him look at his father again.
Considering again …
“Seems you have something to handle now with the De Rose woman,” his father said.
That was it.
Nothing else.
Did Angelo know?
Could he?
Not possible, Caesar told himself.
It just wasn’t possible.
“And I think it best you stay away from your brother until he’s … beyond this stage in his grief,” Angelo added before he pushed out of the chair.
Huh.
A bit—or a lot—of money went a long way.
A few thousand dollars into the pocket of an eighteen-year-old who Caesar trusted to do what he was told and keep his mouth shut while he did it, and it didn’t matter that he was unable to follow Aria around and keep tabs on her whereabouts. He had someone else to do it for him.
“Guy didn’t even really try to hide where they were going,” Cason said as he chewed on his ever-present toothpick. “I don’t know how you’re going to get into her room, or—”
Caesar pulled a roll of bills out of his jacket pocket, and handed it over to the kid—the rest of his payment for doing relatively decent and providing information, too. “That’s for me to figure out. Is that where she is right now?”
“Dinner in the dining room with the guy—Nico?”
“His name isn’t important.”
“Yeah, well, there. They have different rooms.”
Good to
know.
“Get back to Philly, huh?”
Cason nodded. “Got it.”
The kid stepped out of Caesar’s rental, and disappeared into his beat up Toyota. There was no way in hell Nico—considering he seemed to be the fool constantly tasked with watching Aria—didn’t notice that piece of shit following him to a whole new state.
But hell, who was Caesar to say anything?
Maybe he just wasn’t a good bodyguard.
Caesar checked his mirrors to make sure no one was watching him from anywhere, and then stepped out of the vehicle. He headed for entrance of the five-star hotel that Aria’s husband had holed her into—for protection, likely.
At the front desk, Caesar smirked at the sight of a pretty, young receptionist behind the desk. Like taking candy from a damn baby. He strolled up to the desk wearing his usual fuck-me smile that women fell for every single time.
Never failed.
And it wouldn’t this time.
The receptionist smiled at him—Courtney, her tag read.
Okay, Courtney. Let’s see what you can do for me.
“How can I help you today?” she asked after her welcome-to-this-shithole greeting.
Caesar stuffed his hands in his pockets, and leaned against the desk a bit. “Well, it might go against policy, but … see, I sent my wife away for the weekend. Three kids, and she never stops, you know?”
The woman nodded like she understood—the chick was way too fucking young to have any kids, but a good looking man was smiling and talking to her. No woman would ignore that. Caesar banked on it a lot of the time.
“Anyway, I meant to surprise her with me being here. Thing is, she checked in under a different name. I don’t want to—”
“Oh, you don’t want to ruin the surprise.”
Caesar shrugged. “You got it. Think you could help me out?”
Another long stare.
Another smile from him.
All he had to do was describe Aria, and the woman practically threw the fucking spare room card at his face with a giggle. Caesar wasted no time—lest Aria come out of the dining room and run into him—getting up to the fourth floor, and inside Aria’s hotel room.
A room fit for a queen, really.
Caesar didn’t take time to look around, or familiarize him with the space. He just took in the laptop sitting on the desk by the wall, and the dress that had been thrown over the foot of the bed. He didn’t have time to do much else because the murmurings coming from just outside the hotel door told him dinner was over, and the woman of the hour was back.
He slipped into the shadows of the darkened bathroom, and stayed out of sight.
“It’ll be fine, Nico,” he heard Aria assure.
“Let me come in—he’s less likely to—”
“He said me. He gave me three minutes. That’s more than Raffe usually gives me. Just … go back down and enjoy your dinner. You know how he is.”
What was happening?
Caesar stayed in his hiding spot.
“Come on,” Nico muttered.
“I will call you after,” Aria replied. “I don’t have time for this. It’s worse when I make him wait.”
The door closed, and then a lock clicked, too. Caesar got his first sight of Aria as she moved across the room quickly, and tossed her purse aside to a chaise. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t for her to go to the laptop.
Except it chimed with a Skype call.
Aria kept her arms down at her sides as the Skype call picked up.
“Cutting it close,” he heard a familiar voice say.
Raffe.
Her husband.
“I was several floors down, and enjoying dinner with Nico,” Aria said softly. “I told you that when you called.”
“Mmm, and so did he. Point remains the same—I speak, you move.”
“I know, Raffe. Here I am.”
Caesar’s brow dipped.
Why did she sound so … meek?
Weak and quiet.
Dead and flat.
That was not the woman who used words against others like they were weapons to wield power. That was not the woman who had all the passion in the world when she was on her knees and wanted to beg for a man.
That was not Aria.
Except it was.
He was looking at her.
Caesar wasn’t sure what made him step out of the shadows of the bathroom, but he thought his father might enjoy knowing Raffe had—at the very least—seen or heard his wife be killed by the Accardos. Angelo’s whole thing seemed to be to make a point of it, after all.
Across the room, Aria’s gaze drifted from the screen at the moment Caesar stepped out of the bathroom. Her eyes widened a bit, but just as fast, her attention was back on the screen and her mask of nothingness was firmly back in place.
“Something interesting in there?” Raffe asked.
“The lightbulb in the bathroom keeps flickering. It’s distracting.”
To make her point, Aria glanced Caesar’s way again—this time, though, surprise was not what stared back at him. A fear lingered there—thick and heavy. Like she was pleading with him through her green eyes to stay put, and shut up.
It struck him.
Silenced him.
Shocked him.
What in the fuck was happening?
“For the money I pay for that room, they better jump from the damn floor to fix the bulb,” Raffe grumbled. “Now, stop wasting time. Undress.”
Aria blinked. “Raffe, you know I’ve been here with Nico, and—”
“And he sleeps in a separate room. Undress.”
Aria’s head tilted a bit to the side; not to look at Caesar, but simply to stare blankly at the wall as she undid the buttons at the front of her dress, and began the work of removing her clothes. It wasn’t very long before she was standing naked.
Well, except for her heels and the scarf around her throat.
“Turn,” her husband demanded. “Show me what I want to see, donna.”
Aria let out a quiet breath, but did as she was told. She turned when her husband demanded it, and came closer to the screen when she was told to. She did it all like a little doll on a turntable being forced to move, and not because she wanted to. Her husband took his time looking her over, or as much as he could through the screen.
You look untouched, he said.
Good girl, he praised her.
Caesar swore with every word, Aria’s jaw tightened more, but her eyes remained dead. Entirely cold, and unseeing. Unfeeling, even. It was … baffling.
This was not what he expected …
Not what he thought.
“Remove the scarf,” he heard Raffe order.
For the first time since the lightbulb mention, Aria’s gaze lifted past the screen to find Caesar’s prone form on the other side of the room. She didn’t give Raffe the chance to order her again to remove the item; instead she reached up and tugged the silk away from her throat with slightly shaking fingers before she dropped it to the floor.
Caesar froze.
He blinked.
Bruises dotted her throat—varying in shades of yellow, blue, and brown. Her golden skin marred with fingerprints all over the delicate column of skin and muscle. Like she was regularly grabbed around her throat, and with some force to leave marks like those behind.
Caesar had held her throat.
Choked her, even.
But not—
“You can’t keep wearing scarves,” Raffe muttered. “Someone is going to notice.”
“They already do, Raffe. You could always try listening when I say—”
“Who are you?”
Aria straightened in her heels, seemingly unbothered by the scene happening or the fact she was entirely naked but for her red heels. “Aria De Rose.”
“You’ll change that last name one day—mark my words.”
“Da
ddy let me keep it for a reason.”
“And now he’s gone. Point is—who do you belong to?”
Aria’s heart had to be racing; Caesar could see her pulse in her throat from all the way across the room. Rage, he thought, not her nerves. It had to be rage because that deadness in her eyes was gone, and had been replaced by something else entirely.
And oh, he knew that look well.
He knew those feelings too well.
Hatred.
She stared at the screen with utter hatred.
Caesar got it, then. He really fucking got it.
“Who?” Raffe asked again.
“You, Raffe. I belong to you.”
“Exactly. You do not get to tell me no. You do not get to refuse your husband, Aria. Not your body, or anything else I want. And if you want to keep me from adding more marks on that throat of yours, you’ll learn to listen and like it.”
This hadn’t been about his family, or the streets of their city. This hadn’t been about Caesar, or hurting him. It hadn’t been about a father she wanted killed, or a woman too greedy for her own good, and desiring more power.
This was about this woman.
This woman right here—manipulated, and abused. With a husband who used her, and one she probably couldn’t escape.
Caesar knew, then.
None of this had been what he thought it was.
She was not who he thought she was.
“And don’t you ever fucking forget it,” Raffe snapped.
The laptop chimed with the ending of the call. It took Aria a second, and then one hard, shaky breath before she reached over, grabbed the screen, and slammed it shut. She bent slightly over the laptop and desk as her shoulders hunched.
Caesar didn’t move.
Couldn’t move.
When she looked up at Caesar again, tears had streaked glistening lines down her reddened cheeks.
Humiliation.
Shame.
Sadness.
It all stared back at him, then.
God.
He knew that well, too.
“Have you come to kill me, then?” Aria asked in a whisper. “Because right now, I might even ask you to do it.”
No … not anymore.
TWELVE
ARIA REFUSED TO look up again—would not allow someone else to see her shame and degradation one more time. Wasn’t it bad enough that she was standing there naked for Caesar to see after everything? She had done so well to hide this part of her marriage; she kept Raffe’s treatment of her hidden so no one would ever know.