An hour later, after calling the detective and taking the girl to the police department, I get home. I’m certain Summer will be asleepit’s one in the morning.
But she waited up. She greets me with far more enthusiasm than I deserve.
I disentangle her arms from around my neck and give her a perfunctory kiss. “Go to bed, bambina. I’ll be in soon.”
She’s disappointed, but I feel too dirty to touch her. And not the kind of soil a shower can wash off. What I saw tonighthuman traffickingmakes me sick.
It grinds up against my moral codes. I’ve murdered. I use intimidation, violence, and threats to get my way on a fairly regular basis. I operate in a world of crime. Always have. I was born into this life. Raised in it. I have nerves of steel when it comes to most things.
I don’t know why this shit bothered me so much.
Actually, I do.
It’s too close to the games I play at in bed. The non-consensual version.
That girl had been whipped. Used.
What happened to her was wrong on every level. Yet those are the exact scenes and scenarios I love to enact in my own bedroom. With my willing partners.
I’m a sick fuck, and I’ve taken the don’s daughterthe princess of the mafiainto my warped world. I’ve trained her as a submissive. Treated her like a pretend sex slave.
It’s so wrong.
I turn on the television, unable to face the sweet girl I’ve corrupted.
When I fall asleep, my dreams are soaked in guilt.
I’ve been on a killing rampage, taking down a rival family back in Italy. I gun down the last one and step over him to take the girl he was keeping prisoner. It’s the Russian girl. I put her in my car without untying her, and then she turns into Summer. Tied up. At my mercy. Begging for an orgasm as I drive the car. But then we’re hit from behind. Glass shatters. Metal crunches.
Gunshots riddle the car with holes. I hold Summer’s head down to keep her safe.
Mario looks through the shattered window. He’s holding a gun. “You shouldn’t have taken the girl.”
“I know,” I say, but I’m unwilling to give her up. Unwilling to make it right by giving Summer to Mario or returning her where she belongs.
He points the gun at my temple. “Then you know what I have to do.”
Summer
I wake before Carlo and get in the shower.
It might be time to end this little fling with him. I suspect he’s getting bored, and I’d rather be the one to end things first. Salvage my pride and all that.
For the first time since I moved in a week ago, he wasn’t interested in sex last night. He came home from whatever work he was doing last night and seemed shut down.
I had stayed up for him, and I threw my arms around his neck, offering up a kiss, but he gave me a perfunctory peck and disentangled himself from me.
“Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine, Bambi. Go to bed, I’ll be in in a minute.”
I went to the bedroom and stripped down to my panties, waiting, but he never came in. Instead, I heard the television go on.
It’s not like we have to have sex every night. He might be tired. Or stressed out. Just because he spent hours giving me mind-blowing orgasms the rest of the week doesn’t mean he always will.
But it hurt my feelings way more than it should have, which is why I think I should probably end things.
Carlo’s up and dressed when I get out of the shower. “Buongiorno.” He cups my nape and kisses me in that masterful way he has that makes my knees go weak. I try to stay strong, breezing past him and getting dressed.
He leans against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, watching me. “Sorry I was a dud last night. Can I take you to breakfast, principessa?”
I shrug into a cute dress. Maybe I was being hasty. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”
I lace up a pair of high-top Chucks and enjoy Carlo’s appreciative sweep of my bare legs.
He leads me out to his Mercedes and opens the door for me. When I settle in the passenger seat the scent of cheap perfume assaults my senses. My head spins as Carlo gets in and starts driving. With a sick lurch, the pieces of the puzzle rearrange themselves and fall into place. He didn’t want to have sex last night because he’d already had it.
I want to puke.
He’s no different from John or any other cheating bastard. Not that we ever had a discussion about exclusivity, but Mother of God, I’m staying at his apartment!
“Pull over.” I grip the door handle.
“What? Why?”
“Pull over the car, right now.” I start to open the car door, and he swerves to the curb.
“Summer, what-?”
I jump out before the car stops rolling, not shutting the door behind me.
I hear the slam of a door and heavy footsteps behind me as Carlo flies out in hot pursuit. Horns honk behind his SUV.
“Summer, what in the hell is going on?” He jogs to keep up with me, catching my elbow.
I shake him off, baring my teeth. “Don’t touch me.”
He continues jogging beside me, holding his palms up. “I’m not touching. Just tell me what’s going on.”
I cock my arm and slap his face as hard as I can, tears spilling from my eyes.
Before I turn away, I see deep concern on his face. But then, if he’s a player, he’d be very good at playing, wouldn’t he?
He catches me around the waist and pulls my back against his front.
I struggle against his hold, but his forearm is like steel.
“Hey.” His voice is soft in my ear. “I’m not going to hurt you, but I’m sure as hell not going to let you run away without at least telling me why you’re upset.”
“Who was she?” I demand.
Carlo goes still, confirming my worst fears.
“Oh God,” I croak.
“No, baby, no. You’ve got it all wrong. Something happened last night, and I will tell you all about it. But not out here. At home. Or at least in the car.”
“I’m not getting in that car with you.”
“Summer, please. The truth will not hurt you, I swear. I would never cheat on you. Not ever.”
My breath rasps in my chest. Not ever.
The place inside my solar plexus that’s vibrating like a frantic moth caught in a lampshade eases. He does consider us exclusive, then.
And he swears he would never cheat. It’s a misunderstanding. Or am I being gaslit?
No, Carlo has honor. Or at least I thought he did. But then again, how much did I know about him?
“Your car smells like perfume.”
Carlo blows out his breath. “I’m sure it does. And there’s an explanation. Do you want to hear it?”
I do, but I also want to hold my ground. This isn’t the time to let Carlo boss me around.
“She’s a Russian sex slave being held against her will. I don’t know her name. I took her somewhere safe. Now, can we please get in the car? I really don’t want to be talking about this out here.”
I slump back against his body, all the fight leaving me. My legs wobble.
“I’m sorry you thought something happened, bambina, but I’m not that guy. I’m not going to fuck around on you. Not ever.”
He turns me around to face him. “Look at me.” Cradling my face in both hands he locks eyes with me. “You’re my girl. I’m not going to do anything to mess that up.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have freaked out. It’s just that John”
Carlo’s face contorts with irritation. “I’m nothing like John.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I sniff as he thumbs away my tears.
“Get in the car, and I’ll explain everything-if you want me to, that is.”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I need to hear it.” I let him lead me back to the car, where my door still stands ajar. I climb in and let him shut the door.
When he gets behind the wheel, he says, “I didn’t do anything illegal, so telling you won’t make you an accessory. Even so, the less you know, the safer you are.”
“I need to know.”