by Skyla Madi
I put the car into reverse and back out of my parking space. When I straighten up, I keep my eyes peeled for any sign of Stefan, but I don’t see him. He killed a man for me. Why would he do that?
As I drive home, I keep nervously checking my rearview mirror, in fear of someone following me. They don’t. And, much to my relief, no one is parked in the visitor’s space in the parking lot either. I was certain Chris was going to be here when I arrived. I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe he’s just as mad at me as I am at him. Maybe he’s not coming?
A girl can hope.
I step into the elevator and hit the button to the sixtieth floor. It’s a strange feeling…going from fearing for your life to standing so casually in the elevator to your apartment, splattered in someone else’s blood. Surely this is some kind of nightmare?
When I reach my floor, the first thing I do as I enter my apartment is take off my coat and my salmon blouse, and dump them in the trash can in the kitchen. Then, I go to the bathroom and have a shower so hot my skin turns pink and threatens to blister.
When I get out, I open the mirror, pop a Xanax, and go to the kitchen, wearing my plain white silk nighty. Instead of making a coffee, I heat water in the coffee pot and fill it with chamomile. The first sip is divine. The hot liquid gushes down my throat, warming me from the inside out. I stroll over to the sliding doors that line the kitchen and lead outside to the balcony. I look at my reflection. My hair is a wet mess, my skin is still pink from the scalding shower, but…damn. I deserve this tea.
I sip at it and stare through my reflection and over to the roof of the neighbouring apartment building. It’s a few floors shorter than mine, its roof aligning with my level. It’s the perfect spot for Mr. Valentino to watch me.
I know he’s out there. Energy dances down my spine, lighting me up like a Christmas tree. What I wouldn’t give to have one short conversation with the man who has such a titanic effect on me. Confirming my body’s reaction, a tiny torch light switches on from across the gap and it’s pointed directly at me. I tilt my head as the light drops, like it’s hanging from a pocket. Stefan wants me to see him. I see his silhouette once my eyes adjust. How does he do that? How does he remain so still?
I wave a little, a small flick of my wrist. He doesn’t wave back and my lips twitch. I’m beginning to find comfort in his little game. I sip at my tea. Doesn’t he have anything better to do on a Friday night?
Bang! Bang! “Cammie?”
Startled, I turn around. I knew Christiano was going to show up. I knew he’d never let our conversation go. Stepping forward, I set my chamomile tea down on a side bench. The last thing I want is him breaking another one of my favourite teacups.
He bangs his fists on the door again. Bang! And again. Bang! Bang! I don’t open it. Why? Because if something happens to me tonight the police will see it was a break and enter and they might be able to pull some of his DNA off the shards of my door. Fingers crossed it’s a decent cop that isn’t in the Russos’ pocket.
I lean against the glass behind me as he slams into my door one last time, snapping the wood around the lock. My heart races, thundering in my chest like an abused bass drum. I swallow hard, then exhale. Here we go.
He storms into my living room before slamming the door behind him, only for it to swing open again. Grunting and cursing, Christiano bends low, scoops up a ceramic elephant and places it behind the door so it doesn’t swing open.
I take in the sight of him as he straightens his spine. White sneakers, black jeans, a white button up shirt that he’s rolled to his elbows, exposing his thick, tense biceps. Christiano Russo is definitely looking for trouble. I wonder if he found it on the way here.
“You shouldn’t be throwing yourself at locked doors,” I say and his entire body tightens. “You’re going to reopen your wound.”
Christiano turns slowly, glaring over his shoulder at me with his black eyes. I swallow again as he faces me directly, pursing his plump lips and tightening his jaw. I remain still, like a hunter would in the unprecedented presence of a grizzly bear, and he devours me with his evil gaze.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he demands, his voice low and dangerous as he swallows the distance between us. “Hanging up on me?”
God, he’s tall. I cower as he towers over me. “I didn’t hang up on y—”
“Liar!” Christiano snatches my face in his large hand and I gasp as he yanks me forward.
The strong scents of whiskey and cigar seep into my nose and there’s a faint feminine smell hanging on his collar. I wonder who the lucky lady was tonight. Talia? Beth? What was the name of the new girl they put on two weeks ago? Ah. Mandi. Christiano picked her himself. Why couldn’t he take her home instead of coming here? Why does he always have to come here?
“I didn’t hang up on you,” I manage to squeeze out, “but I wish I did. I don’t want to see you.”
He smirks, making my tummy flip.
“Yeah?” He releases my face and advances on me, forcing my back against the sliding door. With a swift flick of his hands, he pushes the thin straps of my nighty over my shoulders and they slide down my arms, exposing my bare breasts. “You’re gonna do a lot more than see me.”
Gripping my shoulders, he turns me around and thrusts me against the cold glass. I catch myself with the palms of my hands and gasp as its cool surface kisses my skin, forcing my nipples to harden. I turn my head, resting my cheek against the glass. I’m too embarrassed to look across the gap. Is Stefan watching? Will he shoot Christiano like he shot the man in the parking lot earlier tonight?
God, I hope so.
“You’re going to feel me.” He kisses the back of my neck and my attention flickers across the gap. “You’re going to taste me.”
I see Stefan’s silhouette as he rests against a vent, but his light is off. What’s going through his head?
Christiano tugs my nighty down, pulling it low on my hips and inching it over the curve of my backside. I move my arms, shielding my breasts with one of them while trying to keep my nighty covering my southern region with the other.
“People will see,” I murmur over my shoulder. I can’t believe I’m saying this just to avoid embarrassment…“Take me to bed.”
Without warning, Christiano scoops me into his arms and carries me away. I peek over his shoulder before he rounds the kitchen and I see a tiny, white light across the space. My stomach turns as embarrassment prickles under the surface of my skin. I wonder how I look to him. I bet I look weak and pathetic. Why do I keep allowing this?
For ten years I’ve told myself sex with Christiano is just that: sex.
But it’s not. Each and every time I have sex with him, it chips away at me. Ten years at his every beck and call and I’m tired of it.
I’m tired of him.
Chapter Four
I’ve never Googled anyone before, but here I am, sitting in front of my laptop, at the crack of dawn, typing Stefan Valentino’s name into the search engine.
Ding.
I hit the enter key and then dive for the fresh pot of coffee that has officially finished brewing.
Thankfully, Christiano left well over an hour ago. He wanted to stay and keep me company until I leave for work, but his phone rang and Tony requested he go back to the house. Apparently, Marco is unwell and Chris is needed to run his father’s errands. Without complaint, he showered, put on his clothes from last night, kissed me on the head, and left. As soon as he was gone, I jumped into the shower and scrubbed his smell off of me. I used half a bottle of body wash and I swear his scent still lingers.
Truth be told, I hadn’t thought of Stefan when I woke up. He didn’t cross my mind at all, not until I saw the small budding rose on my bathroom sink while I was brushing my teeth. He’s very good at what he does and I know that every day he allows me to live is a gift from him…or maybe it’s a punishment. I haven’t decided yet.
I fill my mug with coffee and slip back onto the stool. A lot of search res
ults have come up. Some for Stefan. Some for Valentino. A handful of Stefan Valentino Facebook profiles pop up too, but nothing relating to the man I’m looking for. I’m not after much. I just want to see his face. Does he have kind eyes? Or full lips? I feel that knowing these things will release some of this anxiety building up inside of me.
After twenty minutes of searching, my coffee is finished and I’m no closer to figuring Valentino out. Out of desperation, I Google Franco Moretti and, unlike Stefan Valentino, the man is everywhere.
Mug shots.
Fun shots.
Photos taken by bystanders.
There is no shortage of images of Mr. Moretti.
He’s a chubby man with black eyes who’s balding on the top of his head. It seems he likes to cover his pudginess with expensive suits and nice sports jackets, typically. You know, he’d be handsome if he didn’t scowl so much.
I click through various articles, stopping to read the only one that catches my attention. The Death of Abelie Moretti. The photo headlining the article is black and white and incredibly solemn. It’s raining, a gentle drizzle, the warning before the downpour, and they don’t mind it. No one is in any rush. I clear the itch at the base of my throat and click on the picture. It zooms in and the pain in Moretti’s face as he carries her coffin on his shoulder with five other men is making me all tight in the chest. I have no idea why.
I’m about to close the picture when it catches my eye. A small white rose, the only shred of white breaking up the never-ending sea of black fabric. It’s him. It’s Stefan. It has to be. The rose is pinned to his lapel and something over his shoulder seems to have caught his attention. Butterflies flutter around my tummy as I scramble to open a new tab. I type in “Abelie Moretti funeral” and hit enter. While it loads, I click back to the article to look at Stefan a little more. God, he’s tall and lean, broad only in the places it counts, like his shoulders and his chest. Without thought, I lift my empty mug and sip at it. Short, dark hair and a five o’clock shadow that he keeps in check. He holds his large hands together in front of him. In this photo, he is relaxed, yet tense, like he’s ready to jump into action at any moment.
I close the tab and search through the other funeral images Google has brought to me.
Nothing.
He’s either not in the shot or avoiding the camera altogether. He knows what he’s doing that’s for sure. Sighing, I close the tab, clear my browsing history, and shut my laptop.
Oh, boy. Why am I so flustered? I sweep my long, caramel locks into a ponytail to air the back of my neck. It doesn’t help much. Heat still spreads like wildfire under my skin and my nerves continue to frizzle. Who are you, Stefan Valentino, and why won’t you show me your face?
I grab the small rose that I found in the bathroom from the pocket of my white hoodie. Why does he continue to leave roses? Why hasn’t he killed me yet? I am so full of questions and they just keep adding up.
Slipping from my seat, I take my mug and dump it into the sink. I give the rose one long, deep whiff before dropping it into the bin.
The sound of my phone bleeps from my bedroom and I race to it. My stomach plummets when I lift it from my bedside table and Christiano’s name flashes on the screen. I bite the inside of my lip. Do I even want to answer it? I slump. What’s the point in avoiding his calls? He won’t stop. I roll my eyes before accepting the call. “Hello?”
“We need your help.”
Thick tendrils of dread burrow through my chest. What do they want now?
“I have a shift today,” I point out, dropping onto the edge of my bed.
“So call in sick. This is more important.”
I dig my toes into the fluffy carpet at my feet. “Oh, yeah? Who’s dying?”
“What’s the matter?” he snaps. “These past few weeks have been fucking hell with you. Whatever is going on needs to stop right now.” He pauses with a heavy exhale. “I thought we made up last night?”
“Make up sex doesn’t fix murdering a father in front of his children.” I cringe as the words tumble out of my mouth. “You’ve traumatised them for the rest of their lives.”
“Are you still on that?” He laughs. He actually fucking laughs. “What do you want me to say? I’m a fucking monster and I’m sorry. Is that what you want to hear?”
I drop back onto my mattress. That’s hardly a heartfelt apology now, is it? I want more. I want him to convince me that he’s not a complete monster, that there was a reason I fell in love with him all those years ago. I want validation that I wasn’t some silly little girl with a crush on a big, bad man, but I know pushing him further will only make things more complicated for me. Smile and wave. Grin and bear it. That’s all I can do.
I exhale. “I’ll call the hospital and let them know I won’t be in today.”
“Good. Bring happy Cammie with you and wear that pretty yellow dress of yours, the one I like so much.” I hear him smile. “I need a pick me up.”
Smile and look pretty. That’s all I’m good for. “I’ll see you in an hour.”
“Don’t bother driving. I’m sending a car.”
I grit my teeth. “Thank you.”
He hangs up and I toss my phone to the floor.
It doesn’t take long for me to let the hospital know I can’t make it and get myself dressed. I put on the yellow dress Christiano requested I wear. It’s what I was wearing the night I first met him. The night I saved his mother’s life. It’s hard to believe that there was once a time Christiano Russo made my heart race. He filled me with excitement and roused unstoppable passion from deep down inside of me. Once, I might have even loved him.
Oh, how time changes things.
***
Flashback
2006
I sip at my red wine. I can’t believe they didn’t check my I.D. It’s the first time I’m using it since my eighteenth birthday and they didn’t even bat an eyelid when I requested an alcoholic beverage with my fettucine.
“You need to stop looking around like you’re guilty. You’re old enough to drink alcohol,” Mae utters, nudging me with her knee.
I set my glass down and tilt my head, letting my hair work as a curtain between me and the rest of the restaurant. Glancing at Mae, I giggle. “Sorry. Am I that obvious?”
She arches an eyebrow at me. “Is a prostitute at a nun convention obvious?”
I frown. “I don’t know.”
Mae snorts, flicking her dark, dead straight hair over her shoulder. “Yes. Yes, she is.” She sits forward, settling her dainty elbows on the table. “So, what did you think of Dr. Logan?”
“The embryology professor?”
“Yeah.” Her golden, whiskey eyes flare. “God. Wasn’t he hot?”
I grimace. “He’s as old as your father,” I point out.
“You can’t go wrong with a silver fox. They’re established, they have experience, and they have money.”
“They also have wives, children, and baggage,” I counter, stabbing my fork into my pasta.
I’ve never dated anyone older than me, certainly not twenty years older, but men that age seem to be Mae’s fetish. Or at least I think they are. If I’m being honest, I haven’t known Mae Hasekura for long. In fact, I only met her on orientation day a few months ago. We met by accident. She was chatting with an older gentleman in the main hall when I slipped between them. She cussed me out for being rude, but in my defense, I didn’t even see them. My nose was buried deep in a textbook on internal bleeding. The older gentleman—who turned out to be a biochemistry professor—asked me where I was going and, apparently, the library was in the other direction. For some reason, he suggested Mae walk me in case I get lost again. Mae was irritated at first, but began to warm up to me. Now here we are, drinking wine in one of Sydney’s nicest Italian restaurants, talking about which professors she’d like to blow behind the genetics lab.
I grab my wine glass and take another sip as I glance around the room. Primavera on Queen is known for its long line
s, delicious foods, and romantic atmosphere. It cradles its guests with fine wood, deep, regal golds and reds, and spoils them with a menu to die for—and this wine. Oh my God, this wine! I’ve never had anything so smooth, so full of flavour.
“Holy shit. Turn around,” Mae orders as she leans forward, almost dipping the white ruffles of her blouse into her bowl of traditional spaghetti and bolognaise.
I stuff a forkful of fettucine into my mouth and turn around in my seat. I watch as a large family enters and fills the sizable area of reserved tables on the secluded side of the restaurant.
“You know who they are, right?”
I shake my head. I come from a small town in Western Australia. I haven’t been in Sydney long enough to know who is who in this mammoth of a city.
“The Russos,” she whispers. “They own the joint.”
“Russo?” I repeat, looking back to her. “Like—”
“Yup. That’s them.”
I glance over my shoulder. Of course it’s them. Now that I think about it, I’ve seen some of them before on the news and in the newspaper. The lean, grey haired man at the head of the table is Marco Russo. From what I’ve gathered so far, he’s a ruthless murderer who owns a variety of businesses. From dry-cleaning to casinos, Marco Russo has his hands in them all. The lady next to him is his wife, Gabriella Russo. She’s chubby and short with black hair as long and as thick as a horse’s tail, but she sure is beautiful with her olive skin and smoky eyes. My attention falls to the young man, who drops into a seat next to Marco Russo. His dark, mysterious gaze flickers over the restaurant and my breath catches in my throat when his glare catches mine. A shiver zips down my spine, igniting something dark and sinister deep down inside of me.
Christiano Russo is his name. Son of Marco and Gabriella, mafia prince, and future king of Sydney. He’s broad shouldered and built like a brick house. His jaw tightens and he looks away, raking an angry hand through his slick, black hair. I clear my throat and grab for my wine. The rest of the crew they brought with them are cousins, uncles, aunties. Some are soldiers. Others are associates. All of them are criminals, and the fact they’re all in the same room as me makes me uneasy.