Summer
There are so many moments in my life I wish I could have do-over. The night I fell for John’s bullshit charm. That jump into the orchestra pit that shattered my foot. None of those even come close to how much I want to re-do Pete’s birthday party.
I barely eat, too sick with regret. My apartment has never felt so lonely-not even when I first moved in, after my breakup with John. I haven’t heard from Carlo since he texted yesterday.
I pick up my phone and call my mom. She’s my second best friend.
As soon as I hear her voice, I start sniffling.
“Baby, what’s wrong?”
“I screwed up,” I tell her.
“Uh oh. Tell me what happened.”
I tell my mom about dating Carloskipping the part about stripping at The Candy Store and our kinky sex sessions. Then I explain what happened at the party.
“Oh, honey. Sounds like you hurt his feelings.”
It’s crazy to think about someone as stoic and strong as Carlo getting hurt, but I realize she’s right. I must have. “I acted like a self-involved pain in the ass,” I agree. “He probably feels like I used him to make John jealous.”
“Did you?”
I suck in a sobbing breath. “I guess I did. Which is so stupid. I wish I could go back in time and fix it all. I would have never gone to the dumb party. Or if I had, I’d only worry about what Carlo thought and felt.”
My mom hesitates. “He told your dad you’re still hung up on John.”
“He talked to Dad?”
“Well,”-I hear a wry note in my mom’s voice-“they had it out. I don’t think your dad was happy about him going behind his back on this.”
I go cold. “Is Carlo okay?”
“I’m sure he’ll live.”
“Did Dad hurt him?” My voice rises in pitch.
“Don’t ask me things I don’t know, baby.” I hear the familiar note of warning in my mother’s voice. It’s not for us to know what goes on in the organization. They keep the women out of it. Some kind of Old World chivalry to protect us. Or sexism, depending on how you look at it.
“Are you still hung up on John?”
“No!” I answer immediately. I remember how I hadn’t been able to forgive him. How I was hanging onto that resentment.
I guess that means I was hung up. But not anymore. Not when I know what it cost me. And as soon as I detach my blame from him, I realize it was never about John at all.
“I mean, maybe I was. But not on John, the actual person, more on what he represented.”
“What do you mean?”
That old sense of failure and inferiority rise up, but for some reason, now that I’m faced with losing Carlo over it, I can see that it’s stupid.
I don’t need John to want me to believe I’m enough.
I honestly don’t even need Carlo for that although he’s the one who helped me gain my confidence back.
“I thought he was the measurement of whether I was good enough or desirable enough. But, of course, that was bologna.”
“It’s because he gaslit you,” my mom says. “I might let your dad hurt him after all.”
I realize suddenly how truly insignificant John is. He means absolutely nothing to me. I would never want to be with him again, and not from that place of anger and resentment that I held before. I mean, even if I’d never found out he cheated on me and we hadn’t broken up, even if I still believed he was a decent guy-he’s absolutely nothing compared to Carlo.
He brings nothing to the table. Has nothing to offer me. I know now he was a judgmental, negative self-absorbed piece of crap.
And I don’t care about any of it. I’m not bitter. I don’t want to get even. I don’t want him to know what he missed out on.
He’s nothing to me.
He’s nothing like Carlo. He never made me feel sexy or took charge of my body. He never gave me mind-blowing orgasms. He never cared about the details in my life or how I handled them. He belittled me. Talked down to me.
So different from Carlo’s dominance.
Carlo… Carlo was amazing. He cooked for me, cared for me, protected and punished me.
And what did I do for him?
Zilch.
I didn’t thank him. I was needy and insecure. I used him at the party, which must’ve been hard to take. Especially for an alpha man like him. And yet, he wasn’t even angry. He just seemed sorry about the whole thing.
Which… hell. That means he truly cares. Can I make him care again? Make him give me another chance?
“Do you think I can fix things with Carlo?” I ask, my voice wavering.
My mom hesitates. “Do I think Carlo will give you another chance? Yes.”
I hear my dad growl something in the background. It sounds threatening.
“Is that Dad? Tell him to leave Carlo alone.”
“Carlo can handle himself with your dad. You go figure out how to make things right with him.”
I suck in a breath. “Okay. I will. Thanks, Mom.”
Pulling on my big-girl panties, I bake a batch of double chocolate brownies with nuts-the way he likes them-and arrange them on a plate, covering them with plastic wrap. It’s not much, as far as gestures go, but it’s the first thing I think of. Something I can do immediately. With love.
I need to see my sweet kittens and pick up my things, anyway.
Grabbing my purse, I take the brownies and head to my car. If Carlo won’t take my calls, I’ll just have to camp out at his apartment until he talks to me.
When I arrive, I don’t see his car on the street. Ignoring the pounding of my heart, I take the elevator up to his place and knock on the door.
He doesn’t answer, so I use my key to go in. The lock feels jammed, but then the door swings open.
Cookies and Cream run to me, mewing. Their little tails are lifted. They try to climb my legs. I set the brownies down and scoop them both up for a cuddle.
“Hi, my babies. I missed you so much, you sweet, furry things. How’s my”
I break off, realizing that something is terribly amiss in Carlo’s apartment. The place is trashed. Drawers pulled out with their contents scattered all over the floor. Paintings off the walls are smashed on the floor.
My heart pounds.
Jesus. Did Carlo do this? Maybe he was angrier with me than I suspected. Or more torn up.
Then I hear a sound in the bedroom.
“Carlo?” My blood rushes in my ears. Is he okay?
Drunk or hungover, maybe?
I hesitate, then cautiously approach the bedroom, not sure what I’ll find. “It’s me. I just wanted to tal”
Someone standing behind the door slaps a rough hand over my mouth as I step through, and a cold blade presses against my throat.
I scream against the sweaty palm that smells metallic and rank.
“Shut up,” a thick Russian accent rasps in my ear.
I go cold. Understanding dawns.
I know who this is. The guy Carlo mentioned. The human trafficker.
I scream again. The knife blade punctures my skin. “I said shut up, or I’ll cut up that pretty face of yours.”
I frantically drag breath in through my nostrils and try to shut off the noise.
“I have gun in my pocket, but knives are better for women.” He’s breathing unnaturally hard, too. Like something’s wrong with him.
“Should I carve up your face? Teach your dago boyfriend a lesson? Stain his floors with your blood? Hmm?”
I whimper, my gaze traveling frantically around the room, looking for anything that will help me escape.
“Get down. On your belly.” He forces me down to the ground and puts his knee in my back and pulls my wrists together.
I peer over my shoulder to see a greasy-haired man. Thin and sweaty. There’s definitely something wrong with him. I’ve been sheltered my whole life, but I’ve seen this look sometimes on people on the street.
He’s on drugs.
“Because of your boyfriend, police put a fucking tail on me. I had to move my operation.” He duct tapes my wrists together.
“What do you want? Money?”
“No. It’s very simple: Carlo lost my girl; I will take his.”
“I’m not his girl.” The fact that it’s not a lie almost hurts worse than having my arms wrenched like this. My face pressed into the rug.
“Right. You are mine now. This is perfect.” He seems to be muttering more to himself than to me now. “Viktor will get over his temper tantrum over me losing Mila. Perfect solution.”
I realize I can’t leave with this guy. If I do, I’ll probably never come home. Risking him following through on his threat to cut my face, I let out the loudest scream I can muster.
And then my head smacks violently against the floor, and I black out.
I don’t think I’m out for long because I’m still in the same position when my vision clears, only there’s blood pouring from my nose.
“Get up. I have no intention of carrying you to the car.” He hauls me roughly to my feet. “Let’s go.”
I lurch forward when he shoves me, tottering, my wrenched arms throwing off my balance.
He tosses his jacket over my shouldersprobably to hide the taped wrists. The knife blade prods my throat again. “You make one sound-one single sound-and I’ll cut your tongue out. You understand, yes?”
Tears leak from my eyes, and I bob my head.
He yanks off the tape and drags me out of the apartment and down to the street.
I search frantically for someone to call out to, someone close enough to help, but there’s no one.
My captor pops the trunk and shoves me inside then slams the door.
I scream and scream, but it doesn’t matter. The car starts up and pulls away. I’m about to become this man’s new sex slave.