A Debt So Ruthless, page 9
Rosa answers me in Italian. “Do you want me to bring her something else? She could barely drink the coffee. She wanted tea.”
“Tea?” I ask, raising my brows.
Rosa all but shudders. “I know.”
I lean back in my chair, eyes still lingering on my laptop. “Add it to the shopping list. Buy it today. Whichever brands are best – buy a few different ones. No, buy them all.”
Tea already tastes like hot garbage, and I have to imagine that buying cheaper or less quality brands only makes it worse.
But the beverage question doesn’t answer the why is Deirdre not eating? question. I pull out my phone, open a search engine, and use voice-to-text to ask in English, “What do Irish girls eat for breakfast?”
The results are varied. Eggs. Beans. Something called blood pudding.
“You know how to make blood pudding?” I ask Rosa.
“Sanguinaccio dolce?” she asks. “The sweet one?”
“No, the Irish one.” I flip my phone screen around to her. “It looks like a sausage.”
She glances at the image on my screen then nods. “It looks like sanguinaccio. I can make it.”
“Follow an Irish recipe,” I tell her. “And stick a birthday candle in it when you bring it to her.” I grimace, the scar tissue at the side of my jaw pulling. “Just make sure it gets blown out.”
I wonder what my Songbird would wish for.
Probably to be free of me.
Rosa looks at me like I’ve lost my goddamn mind. And maybe I have. She knows the rules as well as anybody in this house – no candles. Ever. She’s probably also not keen on the idea of straying from her Italian roots in the kitchen, and the irritation is reflected in her affronted gaze. I almost want to smirk at her boldness. Men half her age and twice her weight wouldn’t dare look at me like that.
I don’t know what it is about old Italian ladies. They aren’t afraid of anything. You could have horns and the name SATAN stamped on your forehead and all they’d do is glare, flick salsa di pomodoro at you like it’s holy water, and tell you to get the fuck out of their kitchen.
“Make it happen, Rosa,” I say, giving her a clear dismissal. But she doesn’t leave. Instead, she reaches into the basket attached to her cart and pulls something out. My jacket. The one Deirdre was wearing last night. The one I instructed Rosa not to throw away or clean.
“Put it on the desk,” I say, jerking my chin to a clear spot on the shining dark wood. Rosa does so, carefully flattening the garment so it doesn’t wrinkle, despite the fact there’s a fucking bullet hole in the back of it. As she turns to go, I spot blood-stained white satin in the basket and rise from my chair. I’m around the desk in an instant, grabbing hold of the basket so she can’t roll it away. I ignore Rosa’s questioning look as I fish out Deirdre’s dress, crushing the delicate fabric in my fist.
I stroll back around to my chair and sit down. Rosa takes the cue to leave and rolls her cart out of the office, closing the door behind her. I finger the fabric of Deirdre’s dress, remembering what it looked like on her.
And what it looked like when I ripped it off.
Something falls to the floor, and I lean down to see what it is, ignoring the pain in my shoulder as I do so. It’s yet more smooth white fabric. I lay the dress over my lap and pick it up.
Deirdre’s panties.
I spread the white panties in my hands, making them take shape in the air before me, and picture Deirdre in them, her legs spread on my desk. Plump pussy lips nudging the silky lining. I wonder if she’s shaved or waxed, or if there’s dark red hair there, curling and damp, soaked –
Fuck me. It’s like my cock’s taken on a life of its own since I got Deirdre. No control. I’m popping boners like a teenager who’s never gotten his dick wet.
I ignore the absurd urge to shove Deirdre’s panties into my mouth.
Instead, I press my nose to the crotch of the tiny garment and sniff.
Madre di Dio.
A couple of flicks over the keys on my laptop and I’ve cut off the security feed to this room and unzipped my pants. With the amount of blood I lost last night, there’s no way I should be this hard. But the way that girl smells is like fucking magic.
Or maybe like a curse.
I grip my shaft and pump it in hard, swift strokes, still holding Deirdre’s panties with my other hand. The worn leather of my glove is raw-yet-smooth friction gliding up and down. I don’t take my time or try to draw the act out. This isn’t about sensual pleasure. It’s about quick release so that I can get my fucking head on straight.
I throb and lean back against my chair, groaning when the pressure on my shoulder adds pain to the flurry of sensation inside me. The tip of my dick is wet already. I’m close.
I want to shoot my load into Deirdre’s panties. Completely soak the slippery fabric, stain it with myself the way I stained her skin with my blood last night. But even more than that, I want to preserve the garment exactly as it is now. I don’t want to fuck up that perfect scent.
At the last second, I grab some tissues from my desk, wadding them up against my slick tip. I glance at the laptop where the feed to Deirdre’s rooms is still displayed, and my hips jerk involuntarily when I see her. She’s in her bathroom in those tiny pyjama shorts and tank top, bent over at the sink, washing her face. The view of her sweetly rounded ass in those shorts is fucking glorious. The arched sway of her back as her tank top rides up is a goddamn revelation. I’ve never really been a back guy. I like big tits, open mouths, and wet pussy. The finer, subtler points of the female form are generally lost on me.
Not lost on me now. Because all I want to do right now is splay my black gloved hand across Deirdre’s lower back. Press my thumb into one of the pretty little indents above her hipbones. Admire the artistry of her spine.
Deirdre stands and dries her face with a towel, then piles her hair on top of her head, twisting it and tying it there. Even the flex of her exposed shoulders as she ties up her hair turns me the fuck on, blood pounding through my groin as I stroke. I can see her reflection in the mirror. Her raised arms make her breasts move, the small but delicious curves bouncing each time she tightens her hairstyle. I remember what it was like to palm her breasts, and for the first time in a long time, the first time I can remember, I wish I hadn’t been wearing gloves. The scars on my hands are usually pretty numb to sensation though. I wouldn’t have been able to feel her too much anyway.
Unless I’d used my mouth.
That thought has me closer than ever. One last long, deep inhale of Deirdre’s scent throws me over the edge. I explode, dick spasming, balls tightening. I completely drench the tissues and part of my glove.
After my breathing has somewhat returned to normal, I strip off my gloves and toss them in the trash along with the tissues, then head for the bathroom that’s attached to my office. I wash and dry my hands without looking at them, because I never look at them, then fish out a new pair of leather gloves from a drawer and slide them on. These ones are stiff, not as broken-in as the pair I just tossed. The tough leather reminds me of my own scarred skin. It’s taken multiple surgeries just for me to be able to use my hands mostly normally, to ease all the tightness.
When I return to my office, my gaze goes first to the laptop, where I see that Deirdre is now dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. She’s pacing the room like a caged animal. I wonder if she’ll try to leave through my room. I’ve told the soldiers stationed all over this house that she can roam if she wants to, as long as they keep her under constant supervision and don’t let her go outside. I haven’t explicitly told her she can leave the room, though, and I watch her to see if she’s brave enough to do it anyway.
The sound of my phone buzzing distracts me, and I pick it up. It’s a text from Valentina.
Don’t forget the gala. 8pm. Are you bringing Natalia with you? She’s on the guest list.
Natalia Rizzo. She’s not my girlfriend or my mistress but she’s good for a quick fuck and she loves attending snazzy shit like Valentina’s galas. I have a feeling she wants to be more to me than what she currently is, though, and that thought makes me want to put a knife through my eye. I don’t particularly like her, nor her me, but we get what we need from each other. Sex. Status.
Maybe I should bring her. The rushed jerk-off session at this very desk proves I need to fuck someone. Get this out of my system. Natalia would enjoy it, too, especially after the gala. Being around all that glitz, glamour, and cold, hard cash always makes her horny.
But the thought of Natalia, with her gorgeous curves and long, bleached-blonde hair does nothing for me now. Not even the slightest hint of desire stirs through me, and I know it’s not because I just came. Because when I think of someone else, someone with freckles and blue eyes and red hair, hair that I normally hate, the desire comes roaring back.
I use voice-to-text to reply, No. My phone has a resistive screen, so technically I can type on it wearing the gloves, but it’s a pain in the ass.
Thank God, my cousin replies. Valentina gets along with Natalia about as well as I get along with her outside of the bedroom. Which is to say, she doesn’t. Are you bringing someone else?
I’m about to reply, No, again when I freeze. A slow smirk unfurls on my face. Because I am bringing someone. Someone who will make the night a lot more bearable, maybe even interesting.
Deirdre, I reply. Get here a few hours early to help her get ready. Nice dress, shoes. Jewellery. The works. Use my credit card. I want her flawless.
She looks flawless in her fucking T-shirt and jeans, to be honest, but that’s not what I’m telling Valentina. There’s a long pause without response, and I know it’s because she’s absorbing what I just said. Absorbing the fact I want Valentina to dress Deirdre like she’s one of us.
I want her to look like a fucking principessa.
It’s the perfect opportunity. The perfect, public place to put Deirdre up on display and to let everyone in this city know she’s mine. I’ll give Severu his money, and even if no Irish are there, no doubt word will filter back to Darragh quickly that Deirdre belongs to Elio Titone now.
And Elio Titone keeps what’s fucking his.
I’ll have her at my side, dripping with diamonds and pearls, just within reach and yet completely untouchable.
Untouchable to everyone but me.
Valentina’s reply flashes across my phone. I’ll be there.
I send one last reply before sliding my phone into my pocket and letting my gaze once again land on Deirdre in her room.
Good.
Chapter 15
Deirdre
Other than Rosa coming to bring me the weirdest possible lunch I could have imagined – some kind of dark-coloured sausage with a single burning candle stuck into it – I’ve been alone all day. I haven’t heard from Willow. Or my father. Despite the fact that he’s the one who’s put us in this situation, I can’t help but worry about him. I wonder where he is. And I wonder if Elio knows.
But I don’t get any answers, and the day ticks by into afternoon. Around 4pm, a quick knock sounds at the door that leads from Elio’s room into the hallway, and then Valentina breezes in.
At least she knocked, I think with an internal sigh. And honestly, I’m glad she’s here. The isolation was killing me.
Her arms are loaded with stuff. She’s dragging a suitcase on wheels, along with what looks like a few garment bags slung over her shoulder. She gives me a dazzling smile and strolls through Elio’s room into mine, dumping all the garment bags on the bed that Rosa made when she came in to deliver the lunch I didn’t eat.
“Hellooo,” Valentina says in a sing-song voice as she turns to face me, hands on her hips. She looks drop-dead gorgeous, with perfect contouring, smoky eye-shadow, fake eyelashes, and bright pink lips. Her hair looks like it’s been professionally done – freshly blown-out in big, luscious waves. Her outfit seems slightly out of step with her hair and makeup. She’s wearing simple black leggings and a plain black T-shirt.
“Hi,” I say, confused by the sudden apparition of her. “What’s all that?” I ask, jerking my chin at the stuff she’s put on the bed.
“Dresses and shoes. I would have brought makeup, but I’ve already filled your bathroom’s drawers with it.”
I hear her words and absorb their meaning in a literal sense, but find myself staring at her with a complete lack of understanding. She doesn’t seem bothered by my lack of response. She just bends over, lays the suitcase flat, and opens it. Inside are about ten lumps wrapped in paper. As she unwraps them, I see that these are the shoes she was talking about. Each pair looks brand-new and unimaginably expensive.
“I don’t know your size, so I aimed for the middle. Most of these are between seven and eight, but I have a couple size six pairs, and even a nine somewhere in here.”
“Those… those are for me?” I ask, frowning and staring down at the beautiful shoes she’s unwrapping like presents. “Why?” Is this some kind of weird work uniform Elio wants? I usually wear flats when I play. Wearing heels alters your posture, and can change the quality of the performance if you’re not actively aware of it.
“For the gala tonight!” Valentina straightens. “Elio didn’t tell you?”
I snort at that. The guy hasn’t told me anything besides the fact that he basically owns me now.
Valentina rolls her eyes. “Typical. Titone men hate opening their mouths unless they’re discussing business.” She turns to the bed now, unzipping the three garment bags. “There’s a gala at the AGO tonight. We paid for a new wing and tonight’s a private opening night. Elio wants you there.”
Nerves flutter in my stomach. I squeeze my hands together and press them against my belly.
“Am I the musician playing tonight?” God, I’m completely unprepared for this! Playing for the duration of an entire gala… That’s hours. I don’t have songs picked out or rehearsed, and I don’t know if there’s a band I need to fit into. The thought of performing at an event of that calibre with less than a day’s warning makes me feel like I’m going to throw up. Having consumed nothing but water and two sips of espresso probably isn’t helping in that department, either.
But Valentina shakes her head and turns around to face me again.
“God, no!” she says, sounding shocked. She shakes her head again and hastily adds, “No offense. But I booked the band months ago.”
“Oh.” It comes out more like a relieved sigh than a word. “Then what will I be doing there?” Maybe they need a last-minute server or something.
Valentina taps a long, polished beige fingernail against her chin.
“You’ll be there as Elio’s… Honestly, I don’t know. Date?”
Date.
The word skewers me, and the relief I felt a moment ago vanishes, replaced once again with nausea.
“That’s not possible,” I sputter.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I asked him if he was bringing anyone and he said you. He wants you all dolled up, too. I brought some dresses to try…” Her words trail off as her eyes widen. “Fuck me, you’re pale. I mean, you’re already pale, but I didn’t know somebody living could get that white. Good thing I’ve got a shitload of blush and bronzer in the bathroom.”
I can feel what she sees – the quick exit of blood from my face.
Valentina’s eyes narrow, her thick lashes fluttering heavily.
“What have you eaten today?”
“Eaten?” I echo woozily.
She mutters something under her breath and quickly closes the distance between us. She’s shorter than me but surprisingly strong as she grasps my elbow and leads me to sit on a small chair over by the desk and music stand.
“Don’t tell me my cousin hasn’t been feeding you,” she snaps.
“No, no,” I say, bending to put my head between my knees. “Rosa brought me stuff.”
Not that I could bring myself to eat any of it.
“Hold on,” she says. I hear her heels tapping as she moves away from me. From Elio’s room, I hear her calling into the hallway. “Hey! Robbie! Tell Rosa we need snacks, would ya?”
Her voice gets louder, aimed back at me.
“You’re not a vegan or something, are you? Gluten free?”
I weakly shake my head, bumping my own knees as I do so.
“OK. Good. Because if you were, you really would starve in this house. There’s no escaping the meat, cheese, bread, and pasta.”
Normally, those are all things I like eating. But this is not normal. Not for me.
Just as I’m getting the strength to lift my head back up without feeling like I’m going to fall off the chair, Valentina’s returning with a cart like the one Rosa uses, a tray perched on top. Actually, it isn’t a tray, but a charcuterie board, laden with thinly sliced meat, olives, sliced mozzarella, tomatoes drizzled with balsamic vinegar, and fresh bread. There’s more olive oil and balsamic in a small dish for dipping the bread, and my mouth waters. Beside the charcuterie board is a large glass pitcher of ice water with lemons and some sort of leaves floating around in it, along with two glasses. Valentina pours a glass full, then thrusts it at me.
“Here. Drink this, then have some food.”
She may be smaller than me, and I’m sure she’s younger, but there’s an undeniable edge of authority in her voice. But I guess that comes with the territory when you’re the only daughter of a mob boss. I take the glass and have a sip. While I’m drinking the water, Valentina busies herself loading up a small plate with all kinds of stuff from the charcuterie board. When it’s done, she holds it out to me.
“Come on. You don’t want to attend one of my and Mamma’s events on an empty stomach. The booze flows like fucking water.”
I can’t imagine I’ll be drinking at the event, but then again, I didn’t imagine I’d be attending on Elio Titone’s arm, either. Just what am I to him? What does he want me to be?
