And it’s not just a slight resemblance we share.
It’s the strangest feeling, but this could be a photo of me. Everything, especially the eyes. They have the same shape, that same strange color, although the look inside hers, it’s different. So very different than mine.
And I can’t help but wonder if that’s why he wants me. Is it that I look like her? Is he thinking about her when he’s fucking me?
I decide I don’t care about that the moment the thought arises. I push that twisted nudge of jealousy aside because I can’t be jealous. That’s not what I am feeling.
He’s the first man I’ve fucked in a long time. The first man I’ve chosen to fuck.
Although is that true? I mean, he chose me, right? It’s not like I decided. Although I know if I’d said no, he wouldn’t have forced me. Like when he punished me last night, I know he was careful. I know he could have been harsher. He could have used his belt. Broken skin. Hell, he could have crippled me if that’s what he wanted.
Maybe I’m stupid to think this at all, but I do feel safe, knowing he will protect me. I think maybe he’s the only one who can keep me safe against Alessandro. Dad could, once, but not anymore.
Dad.
I shake my head and return my attention to the photo.
Beneath the photo are scribbled dates. She was twenty-three when she died. One year younger than I am now.
A shudder runs through me.
I drag my gaze over to the page beside the one of her photograph. There’s a folded, yellowing sheet of paper there. As much as I know it’s a violation, I pick it up, unfold it. I know I should put it back the moment I realize that it’s a letter from her to Giovanni. But it’s in Italian. I double-check the date against the one on her photo. Strange. She wrote it a few days before she died. I can pick out a few words, guess their translation based on my Spanish. I don’t get much farther than that, though, because I hear a door close, and I’m startled. Because I’m caught.
How can a man his size be so quiet? How did I not hear the door open?
Giovanni stands in the room. I watch as his eyes fall on the podium, on the open letter. He doesn’t say anything. He’s carrying a bag, a garment bag, which he sets over the arm of the chair I’d sat in just a little while ago.
I step away when he nears the podium. He picks up the letter, scans it, and I watch him when he folds it, sets it down, and looks at her photograph. I watch his face as his eyes fall on it. But I don’t know what I’m looking for, and he’s too good at hiding whatever it is he’s feeling because I can’t read him.
He returns it to the atlas, taking care to put it facedown. He closes the book then turns to me.
“Interesting reading?” he finally asks, his voice level. Like we’re talking about the weather.
“It was in Italian, so no.” My heart is racing. I don’t know how he’ll react, but it’s not that he forbade me to enter this room. It’s not that I broke in, and it’s not like I was snooping. It was just there.
Still, when he takes a step toward me, I take one back, but that’s a mistake because I’ve backed myself into a corner.
“Are you afraid of me?”
I don’t answer. I don’t want to lie, but I won’t admit the truth.
He grins. My silence is answer enough. He sets one hand on the wall beside me, leans into it. Into me. His gaze roams over my face then downward.
“Don’t you want to ask me anything?”
I shake my head no, but we both know it’s not true.
“Come on,” he taunts, setting his forearm on the wall, leaning into it. He undoes the top button on my shirt, then the second, then the third, and slides his hand inside to cup my breast, knead my nipple. My breathing is ragged by the time he pulls his hand out and meets my eyes. “You must have some questions? I told you all you had to do was ask.”
I stare up at him, and every hair on my body stands on end as I again shake my head.
He leans in close, so close his nose is almost touching mine. “Ask me your fucking questions.”
“I look just like her.”
“I already told you that, and that’s not a question.”
“Did you…is she…did you hurt her?”
“There you go,” he says, backing up a little, giving me a dark grin. “No. I didn’t hurt her. But I didn’t save her either.”
I’m processing his words when he continues.
“That letter, I finally found out what my father did. When I understood why she did it. Why she killed herself. Too little too late, though. So no, I didn’t hurt her. I hurt him. And this letter is a reminder to me. A reminder that trust is for fools. That family will betray you like no other.”
I know this already. I know the sting of blood betrayal.
Abruptly, he steps back, but not far enough that I can slip past. He takes my hand, and his grip is tighter than it needs to be.
“Does that satisfy your curiosity?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer but continues. “Let’s go upstairs,” he says, but I draw back.
“Is that why you’re the way you are?”
“And how is that?”
“Cruel.” I don’t mean it. I don’t know why I say it.
He exhales. Cocks his head to the side. “You don’t know cruel, Emilia.”
“You have no right to say that. You don’t know me like you think you do. You don’t know what I’ve been through.”
His eyes narrow. “Then tell me. Because I’m dying to know. Because what I’m thinking is that lashing your brother gave you, there’s more to it that you’re hiding and I can’t figure out if you’re protecting him or yourself.”
But he doesn’t give me a chance to respond, and I’m glad because I can’t. Not only do I not want to, I can’t. Instead, he picks up the bag and, with my hand in his, he walks me up the stairs to the third floor, to his bedroom. There, he releases me.
“Get undressed.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
I stand there as he unzips the garment bag, takes the dress out. He holds it up to show it to me.
It’s beautiful, a dark red that will compliment my olive skin and dark hair. But there’s a problem with it.
“I can’t wear that.”
“Why not?”
“It has no back.” It’s a halter-top dress, with a deep V down the front and cut on a bias low on the back. It’s long, floor-length, but the back is cut so low, it will frame every single mark on my back like a painting.
“That’s the point. Get undressed. Put it on. I want to see you in it.”
I swallow. It’s hard to breathe sometimes when he’s close like this.
When I don’t move, he tosses the dress on the bed and comes toward me, walking me backward, kissing me just as my back hits the wall. He pulls the shirt I’m wearing over my head and turns me around. He unhooks my bra and peels it off before reaching around to unbutton my shorts. His fingers brush over my mound, my clit, and I suck in a breath. But that’s not what he wants right now. He pushes my shorts from me, takes my hands, and places them flat against the wall. My panties are the last to be stripped off. Once I’m naked, he stands back.
He’s close, but he’s not touching me. I feel him behind me, though. Feel his eyes on me. The heat of his body near mine. I turn my head, so I can see him from the corner of my eye. He takes off his button-down shirt, tosses it on the bed, and steps closer to lift my hair up and set it over my shoulder. His touch is soft. He’s not hurting me. He nudges my legs apart with his own and kisses the nape of my neck, and when he steps back, I set my forehead against the wall.
“You’re beautiful.”
A moment later, I gasp as I feel two fingers dip into my folds, then rub my clit. He pulls them away, and I hear him undo his belt, unzip his pants. His hands cup my ass, splay me open. His breathing is shorter, and so is mine as I anticipate what will happen. What he’ll do. And when he slides his thick cock into me, I bite my lip and take him, feel
him stretch me.
“Do you want me because I look like her?” I force myself to ask only because I don’t have to look at his face when he answers.
He’s moving slowly, hands keeping me spread, my pussy wet for him, dripping for him. He pulls out, and I feel a sense of loss. When I move, he sets one hand on top of mine and the other on the back of my head, turning my forehead back into the wall, keeping my arms over my head.
“Stay.”
“Do you?” I ask again. He brushes his knuckles over my back, right down the center of it.
I gasp, it’s barely a touch. He’s being careful with me, and that featherlight touch is sending shudders along my spine.
His mouth is on me then, kissing the back of my neck. My eyes close, and I catch my breath. I hear how it quivers as he tenderly kisses what must be every ugly scar on my back.
“Do you want me because I remind you of her?” I don’t want to ask it. I don’t want to spoil this moment, this tenderness, but I have to. Because tenderness, it doesn’t belong to me.
My eyes are still closed, and I’m still just feeling him when he reaches my lower back, kisses me there.
“Is that it?” I ask.
He straightens. He’s naked behind me and pressing against me. He kisses my cheek. “No,” he says before sliding down, splaying me open again, licking the length of me, then coming back up to kiss my cheek.
“Is it because you couldn’t save her? Am I your second chance?”
He stops, and I feel his body go rigid, just for a minute, just long enough to tell me there’s some truth to my words.
“I was a boy then, Emilia. And she’s dead and buried. Let her lie. This isn’t about her. I’m here with you. You.” His fingers slide down over my back again. “I have no secrets. But you? These lines? They hide something. Something darker lies beneath them. Tell me. Tell me your secrets.”
But he’s kissing me again, my back, my neck. It’s not my secrets he wants. Not right now. I wonder if he’d want me at all if he knew. If he’d touch me like this.
A tear runs down my cheek, then another. I feel my hands slipping from the wall, and I’m cold, so cold. He’s naked behind me, taking my arms, hugging me to him from behind. He drags my arms upward, takes both wrists into one hand and holds them against the wall as he resumes kissing my neck, my back. He turns me around, and I know he isn’t surprised by my tears because he kisses them too. He kisses my face, then my mouth, and it’s the most sensual thing I’ve ever felt. The most erotic touch. The most gentle.
I don’t know gentle. I never have. All the men in my life have hurt me. All except my father. I thought Giovanni was just one more to add to that list.
My arms wrap around his shoulders, and I’m kissing him back. My eyes are closed, and I feel the urgency to be with him. It’s not the sex. It’s not getting off. It’s not those things, and it scares the fuck out of me what it is. I wonder if he feels it too. This need. This strange need to be close. Closer. Closest.
A moment later I’m lying beneath him, Giovanni’s still kissing me, and when he slides inside me, I catch my breath and barely stop the words that are about to tumble from my mouth because they make no sense. They can’t.
I know he feels the shift the moment it happens, the instant I stiffen, because his fist is in my hair and he’s forcing my head back, forcing my eyes to open.
“What happened to you?” he asks, but he’s still fucking me. Watching me intently as he thrusts.
I shake my head, feel a tear slide from the corner of my eye down over my temple. I hold onto him, hold him tight to me. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want his eyes on me. I don’t want him to see me. I just need him to hold me like this for a little bit. Just for a few minutes because I can’t ask for more. Forever doesn’t belong to someone like me. I just need to feel him inside me now, feel his weight on me, covering me, hiding me.
Smothering me.
Making me disappear.
“Emilia,” he groans.
I know he’s close. I squeeze my legs around him and draw him deeper inside me. His thrusts come harder, pushing the breath from me, and when he comes, he bites my neck, burying his face in my hair, and I hold him. I hold him and he can’t see me and I am sobbing and I have to stop. He’s throbbing inside me, his cum is filling me up. And I wish we could stay like this forever. I wish I could hide here forever. Safe and protected, hidden from the world.
“What the fuck happened to you?” he asks without raising his head from the crook of my neck.
What he says, it makes me turn my head away, makes my heart hurt. Because if he knew how damaged I was, how truly broken, how sick, he wouldn’t want me. He wouldn’t want to touch me. And he’d be right to run the other way.
He moves, and I force back my tears. His breathing is ragged, and he’s warm against me. When he pulls out, I feel his cum slide out, and I wish I could hold it inside me. Hold a little piece of him. Because this is going to slip away. I know. It’s coming, the end. And I think when it’s over, when it’s done, I think I won’t be able to put myself back together again. I only just managed it last time. And look at me; I’m like a doll barely stitched together.
Coming apart at the seams.
14
Giovanni
I’m standing in my bedroom, listening to Kill’s message, my mind and my eye on her. She’s in the bathroom putting on makeup, and I can see her reflected in the mirror behind her.
Making love to her just now, it was strange. Different.
Making love. Shit. What am I talking about? What the fuck is wrong with me?
I fuck. I don’t make love.
She’s wrong about what she said. And it’s true what I said. When I first saw her, it was that resemblance that drew me. But she’s different. She is so very different than Angelica.
I shake my head but think back to how Emilia clung to me and at the same time, how she used my body as a shield, hid herself from me. And I knew she was crying. The silence of that sobbing, it felt endless, like bottomless grief. I want to know what it is that broke her, because it’s not those marks on her back. It’s not as simple as that.
Emilia straightens, checking her reflection one final time before coming into the bedroom. I tuck the phone into my pocket and look her over. Her expression is fixed. She gives nothing away. Not a single, goddamned thing.
She’s is as unreachable as she is beautiful.
I want more than anything to reach her.
Fuck. I need to get my head out of my ass and in the game because this is fucked up.
I motion for her to turn a circle. She does. For the first time since I’ve known her, she has her hair loose. I know why, though, and that’s not going to work. Not for my purposes tonight.
“Put your hair up.”
“Why? I thought you liked it down.”
“I do, but you’re not doing it to please me.”
She cocks her head to the side.
I step to her, push some hair behind her ear, and tilt her face up. “When you ride my cock later, I want it down. For now, I want it up.”
Her cheeks flush. She swallows, then collects herself. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”
“You just have to trust me.”
“You keep saying that. Using that word. But I don’t trust you.”
“I’m just the lesser of two evils?”
“I hope so.”
I shake my head. “Go put your hair up and try not to piss me off.”
She presses her lips together but turns to go back into the bathroom. A few minutes later, she emerges with her hair in a bun. It’s far from perfect. Pieces are already coming undone. But it’ll do.
The dress, on the other hand, is a perfect fit. She’s stunning in it. She slips into the high-heeled sandals that go with the dress, and I open the bedroom door.
“I should grab a sweater.”
“No need. It’ll be warm enough at the club.” I don’t know that, but I do know if s
he has anything to cover up her back, she will. And I need the message that gets to Alessandro to leave no doubt in his mind about who the woman I’m with is.
I open the door, gesture for her to go ahead.
She’s reluctant, but she does. She’s hyperconscious about her exposed back. Vincent is discreet as he leads us to the car, but I have a feeling the men at the club won’t be.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“Mea Culpa.”
“What’s that?”
“Killian Black’s club.”
“Why do you want my back bare?”
“Because you have nothing to be ashamed of.” It’s true. It’s just not the reason I’m doing this.
“I’m not ashamed.”
“Right.”
We arrive. I climb out and help her out. With the flat of my hand on her lower back, I lead her inside. It’s noisy, the place is packed. And I’m sure there are spies here. Word will get to Alessandro one way or another that I have his sister. I look at Emilia’s face, see her take in the scene. See her look at each of the strippers on their stages, see her surprise at my choice of venue.
“This way,” I say, gesturing to the private meeting room at the back. Killian stands just outside with Hugo at his side. They watch us coming, eyes unreadable.
“Gentlemen,” I say, shaking Kill’s hand first, then Hugo’s.
“Giovanni.” Killian’s eyes slide to Emilia, who is cautiously watching. I don’t introduce her.
“They here?”
“Every one of them.”
“Give you much trouble?”
“Well, they didn’t come willingly, but we didn’t think they would, did we.”
“And the women?”
“Downstairs.”
“Good. Thank you for your trouble. The other matter…” I let my words trail off.
Killian’s gaze wanders to Emilia then back to mine. “I have some information and should have more in the next hour. Come upstairs when you’re finished. Hugo can watch the girl.”
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