“What are you talking about?”

I’m forcing in every breath I take, trying to stay calm.

“Let’s go in,” Sergio says, his eyes dark on mine when he takes my arm and walks us up the stairs to the front door.

I glance over my shoulder at the tall iron gates in the distance.

“In, Natalie. Now.”

“Are we in danger?” I ask, Pepper loping beside us.

He doesn’t answer but greets the men when we get inside. “Natalie, you know Eric. This is Ricco.”

I glance at Ricco. He’s big, kind of brutish looking, and he nods at me in greeting. I shift my gaze back to Sergio.

He’s watching me, and I know he’s weighing his words. “Ricco’s going to keep an eye on you while you’re at school.”

I pull my arm free, step backward. Pepper’s fur brushes against the backs of my legs. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Another man will be stationed at your house.”

“What—”

“What that means is I intend to keep you safe.” He turns to the men. “Eric, there’s a bag of dog food in the trunk. I need you to get that. I’ll meet you in the study in a few minutes.”

“Wait,” I start, but the two simply do as they’re told and Sergio turns to me, and all of a sudden, he looks different. Bigger. Scarier.

“Nat.” He takes my arm again.

“I told you I don’t like being called that.” But it doesn’t matter. I don’t care what he calls me right now.

“Come on,” he says, tipping his head to the side, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite make it. “Let’s get you a drink.”

“I don’t want a drink,” I snap, freeing my arm again. Or I try to, at least.

“Natalie.”

“What’s happening?” I hear how I sound, feel panic bubbling inside me, making goose bumps rise all along my body.

“Calm down. You’re safe.”

“Why would I not be safe?”

He studies me, wraps his arm around me, pulls me toward him. I plant my hands on his chest.

“Sergio, why—”

I stop because his fingers move up along my spine and his hand closes around the back of my neck. His eyes search my face. “You’re with me now. Things are different. You knew that.”

I glance away, shake my head. “I don’t—”

“A drink, Natalie. Even if you don’t want one, I need one.” Without waiting for a reply, he walks me into the kitchen. He spins a stool at the counter and gestures for me to sit. I do.

From a cabinet, he gets a bottle of whiskey and two tall glasses. He brings them over to the counter and turns the stool beside mine toward me and sits. I watch as he sets the bottle and glasses down, then pours about three fingers full into each glass. He closes his hand around one, pushes the other toward me with the knuckles of the same hand. His eyes never leave mine and when I raise my hand to the glass, it’s trembling. Sergio sees it too.

“The flowers,” I say, looking at the liquid, knowing it will burn when it goes down. “Were they a sign?” I pick up the whiskey, bring it to my lips, force a swallow. I hate this stuff but I take another sip because I need it right now. When I look up at him, he’s still watching me. “You said they’re funeral flowers.” I’m processing my own words as I say them. But I’ve known this all along, haven’t I? That knowing him, being with him, it puts me in danger.

He doesn’t answer for a long time, just watches me like he’s reading my thoughts, reading me.

Pepper lets out a bark from nearby and we both turn to her.

Sergio sets his glass down, gets up and opens a drawer, gets a bowl and fills it with water, sets it down in one corner and puts a second, empty one beside it.

“Why don’t you get her fed. I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’ll cook us dinner then.”

“I’m not hungry,” I say, swallowing the rest of the whiskey and setting my glass down before getting to my feet, walking over to where Pepper’s drinking the water. I kneel beside her, my back to Sergio, and pet her. She’s so old, her skin and fur feel oily. I don’t want to think about how much longer she’ll be around.

Sergio sighs, but then he walks out of the kitchen and I assume he’s gone to his study to meet with those men when I hear a door close.

I take a deep breath when he’s gone, then get back up. Taking the bowl, I get Pepper’s dinner then walk back to the counter, take the bottle of whiskey he left behind and pour myself some more. I drink and make my way to the living room.

Tonight, I feel like I have some rights here. Some authority. Because I’m realizing something. Something I’ve been processing since I met him. Something I still don’t quite understand.

I haven’t yet made the connection with what mafia life truly means. Not in the terms of real life. Of my life.

My mind wanders to what might have happened if Sergio hadn’t changed the locks on my borrowed house. Would whoever left the lilies there have broken in? Would someone have been waiting for me inside when I got home? Waiting to do me harm?

No, that’s not it. I don’t think they meant to hurt me. I think they meant to send a message to Sergio.

I’m studying the photos in the living room when I hear the study door open. Sergio’s saying something in Italian. I didn’t realize he spoke Italian, but of course he does. A few minutes later, the two men leave, and Sergio walks into the living room. I turn to face him.

“It was a message for you, wasn’t it? I don’t matter. I’m just a vehicle to get to you, aren’t I?”

He walks toward me but I halt him.

“Answer me, Sergio.”

He considers for a moment, then answers. “Yes.”

“Who did it?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, I think it might matter.”

His eyes harden a little. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Like you did Professor Dayton?”

He takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly, and closes the space between us. I don’t step back, but I want to. He takes the glass out of my hand and sets it aside. “I said I’ll take care of it.”

“Don’t you think I have a right to know?”

He shifts his attention to my hand, takes it in his. He turns it over and pushes the three-quarter sleeve of my dress to my elbow. He studies the skin of my wrist, traces a vein up the inside of my arm. His touch sends shivers along my spine.

“These are my enemies, Natalie. Not yours.”

“But if they’re at my house, leaving me funeral flowers, they’re my enemies too.”

“I said I’ll take care of it and I will.”

“How?” Why am I asking? How much of this do I want to know?

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll fix it.”

I shake my head, look down at his hand, at his fingertips light as a feather as they tickle my skin. He’s watching too. Holding my small wrist in his big hand. It makes me feel vulnerable. Makes me think how easily it could be snapped. By whose enemies hardly matters. It would break all the same.

It’s strange what I’m feeling for this man whom I’ve known for only weeks. Who is dangerous. Whom I know I should run from. But thing is, I can’t imagine walking away. Can’t imagine not having him in my life.

But I’m being stupid. I can’t disregard what happened tonight, even if he ‘fixes’ it. I pull my hand free of his. “What about the next time? I’m guessing you have more than one enemy.”

I reach for my whiskey, but he recaptures my wrist and takes my glass, swallows its’ contents.

“Is this normal for you, Sergio? Normal life? Nothing out of the ordinary in someone leaving funeral flowers at your doorstep?”

He rubs the scruff of his jaw, the back of his neck. He’s looking at me but he’s in his head. I see him struggling with something. Maybe it’s the same thing I’m battling.

It takes him a long time to speak. “I have many enemies. And I don’t want it to be your normal. I’m a dangerous man. It’s dangerous for you to be with me.”

“What are you saying?”

His eyes burn. There’s so much inside them, conflict and rage and an intense darkness. An almost palpable violence.

He finally turns away, then answers. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

I go to him, touch his shoulder. “You want me to leave? Walk away? Is that what you’re telling me?”

He faces me, gives me a small smile, exhales loudly as he brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s too late for that, sweetheart. I won’t let you go. That’s been the problem from day one.”

“I don’t want some man following me. I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“You don’t have a choice,” he says. “Not on this one.”

“I do. I have to. This is my life. I get a say.”

“Not when it comes to your safety,” he says, his tone harder, his eyes darker. “Don’t be naïve. You don’t know this life. This is non-negotiable.”

I try to pull free, but this time, he tugs me to him, making me bounce against his chest.

“Let me go.” I try to push him off.

“No.”

“You don’t listen to anything I say when it doesn’t suit you.”

He cocks his head to the side.

“You didn’t when you beat up my professor. Not when you changed the locks on my house without my permission, and now you’re not listening either.”

“Aren’t you glad that I did change those locks?”

I stare up at him, and before I can answer, he puts the flat of one hand in the middle of my chest and walks me backward until my back hits the wall.

“I’m a modern man, Natalie, but I have my limits, and when it comes to your safety, I decide.”

“And what, I do as I’m told?”

“That’s ideal.” He’s trying to make light of it.

I try to push his hands off but can’t. “Let me go.”

“No. I already told you, I’m not letting you go.”

“You don’t get to decide for me.”

“I won’t leave you unprotected.”

“I wouldn’t be in danger if it wasn’t for you being who you are.”

“Enough!” He slams his fist into the wall.

I let out a small scream, and freeze.

There’s an anger that’s barely controlled when he next speaks, his voice low, a warning. “You went into this with both eyes wide open. You know it and I know it.”

I shudder.

Is he right? I didn’t know it, though, not like this.

But isn’t that bullshit? And does it even matter? I won’t leave anyway. That, I know.

He grips my jaw and tips it up, makes me look at him. “The first time we met, I had a gun aimed at the asshole hurting you. The second time, I had that gun pointed at your head. You’ve known from day one who I was. I’ve told you to stop me, to make me go. Told you I would if you told me to. But you didn’t, did you? The other night when I fucked you , when I told you to tell me to leave, you didn’t. Again. You. Did. Not. Well, it’s too fucking late now, Natalie.”

“I didn’t intend…” I shake my head, try to clear it.

“What? You didn’t intend what?”

But the words that come into my head make no sense.

“What?” he growls, this time slapping both hands flat on the wall on either side of my head, making me wince and cower, caging me in.

He must see my terror because he exhales, rubs his face with his hands. “Fuck.” It takes him a few minutes but when he speaks again, his voice is controlled. “What didn’t you intend?”

Someone clears their throat. Sergio takes a deep breath in, clearly irritated, and turns to Eric who’s standing beneath the arched entry.

“You need to see something,” he says, then adds something on in Italian.

Sergio walks over to him, and they both look at Eric’s phone.

“Fucking bastard,” Sergio mutters. “Give me a minute.” Eric leaves and Sergio comes to me. “I have to go.”

“Where?”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Are you fixing it? Is this you fixing it? Will you come back with another bruise on your knuckles? Maybe blood on your shirt this time?”

His eyes narrow and when he steps closer, I take two steps back. “Don’t fucking test me. Not now.”

I swallow. He’s warning me and for the first time since I’ve known him, I realize I don’t know the lengths this man will go to, the violence he’s used to. The violence he’s caused. I thought I did, but I was wrong. To think you know something but then to really understand it, to feel it, those are two very different things.

He clears his throat. “Natalie—”

I look away, fold my arms across my chest. “Just go.”

“There’s some food—”

“I’m not hungry. Just go. Go fucking fix it.”

“Trust me, Natalie.”

I walk away. I don’t want to hear anymore. I need to get Pepper settled. I find her in the kitchen eating the last of her dinner, oblivious to the shit storm in the other room. I don’t turn around when I hear the two men speaking in hushed tones in the hallway. The front door opens and closes, and I hear a car’s engine start. Pepper licks my face when I sit on the floor beside her. I don’t know if I’m angry or hurt or scared or what. Sergio takes liberties, assumes things, and thing is, I know that’s him. I know this is how it will be with him. Tonight is just a preview of what I’m signing up for.

Irritated with myself, I get up, take Pepper by the collar.

“Come on, let’s find ourselves a bedroom.” Because I’m not sleeping in his.

It’s four in the morning when I abruptly wake up, bolting upright in the strange bed, gasping for breath.

The nightmare is gone as soon as my eyes open but it takes me a moment to remember where I am. Why I’m here.

Pepper’s snore comes from the foot of the bed. I draw the covers back and get up. I don’t want to sleep again. I don’t want to go back to that dream.

Quietly, I walk out the door and into the hallway. It’s dark, and I wonder if he’s back yet. If I’m alone in this big, strange house. But when I reach the top of the stairs, I hear a sound. Music. It’s muted, like it’s coming from far away.

Barefoot, I walk down the stairs without switching on any lights. It’s eerie this time of night. Old houses always are.

The music grows louder as I near the bottom of the stairs. It’s coming from his study. I go to it and stop, and I hear him. He’s singing along with the music.

“It’s cold. It’s dark. It’s deep and it’s wet. And you ain’t gonna make it if you don’t let someone in.”

I feel like I’m intruding on something very private so I knock once, quietly, before opening the door.

Sergio’s sitting behind his desk. His jacket’s off and his shirt’s unbuttoned half way down, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His hair’s ruffled, like he’s been running his hands through it, and his eyes are bloodshot. I know why. The bottle on the corner of the desk is almost empty.

“You’re back,” I say, when he just sits there and looks at me. I realize the song is on repeat because it dies down then starts up again.

Without waiting for an invitation, I step inside and close the door behind me. It smells like him in here. Like his aftershave and whiskey.

I look down at what’s on the desk. At the large parchment that spans the entire surface. He’s holding two pencils in his hand. Charcoal. His white shirt has smears of it and so do his hands and forearms. The triangle wedge of a worn eraser sits near his glass.

He doesn’t get up when I go to the desk. When I look down at the large sheet. It takes me a moment to realize it’s a family tree.

I begin to read the names, the dates. There are symbols next to some of them—a small cross. It’s the only thing that’s not charcoal, but red marker. The crosses are the only permanent things, I realize. All the rest can be erased.

Sergio watches me as I study his lineage, follow the line from great-grandfather, to grandfather, to his father, Franco Benedetti. To his mother. To Sergio.

His brothers’ names are beside his. Alongside those, I see lines drawn, boxes prepared for a second name. But next to his, where there was a line, it’s now just smudged, erased. Just his birthday beneath with a dash. An eerie emptiness on the other side of that dash. A sort of permanence.

When I look up, I find him watching me. “Did you draw this?”

He pushes his chair back, rises to his feet, gestures for me to come to his side. I do and he takes my hand, draws me closer, stands me between himself and the desk so I’m facing the desk.

Sergio closes his hands over the backs of mine, takes the pointer finger of my right one and traces a line up to his father, to another name I don’t know. Presses it over the red cross—it’s shaped like a cross from the days of the crusades. Gothic almost. Like he spent time shaping each one. Outlining each with darkest black, colored each in deepest red.

“The cross is a mob killing,” he says. And, without a word, we trace ever single macabre cross on the sheet, he and I. I don’t count. I lose track. I feel him behind me, feel the weight of his silence. The meaning of it.

When we get to his name, he traces the erased line. He’s standing so close, I feel the heat of his body behind mine, the tickle of his warm whiskey-breath on the nape of my neck. The light kisses there.

“You know what I didn’t intend?” he asks, picking up our earlier conversation, just before he’d abruptly left. “I didn’t intend on falling in love with you.”

The song begins again, the tone dark and heavy.

I ain’t got a kiss left to give you,

Cuz you weren’t good to me…

It makes me shudder, makes an icy chill run the length of my spine.

I should be happy, right? Aren’t these words every girl wants to hear?

Why does it feel like a cement brick has just landed in my belly?

“This one,” he starts, releasing my left hand, wrapping his around my middle, pulling me to him, while using our right hands to point to the remnants of an erased box connected to his. “It’s for you.” His hand snakes up to cup my breast, squeeze it, then wrap around my throat, fingers gripping my jaw just a little too hard, like he wants me to look, to really see.

A moment later, he extends my right arm out, forcing us both to bend forward as he wraps my fingers around the edge of the desk, releasing my throat and taking my left arm to stretch it to the opposite side.

He pushes my hair off to the side and I lay my cheek on the drawing, knowing it’ll come away smeared with charcoal. Maybe a little red, too.

“Stay,” he says, his breath warm on my ear, lips soft when he kisses my cheek. He straightens, and I see him in my periphery, watch him loom over me, watching me. It’s so dark, he’s almost a shadow wrapped within a shadow.

His eyes glisten, and when the next part of the song plays, he sings along: “It’s cold. It’s dark. It’s deep and it’s wet.”

I hear him open a drawer, take something out, but I can’t see what it is. His hands are on my back. Sliding down over my hips. Raising the oversized T-shirt I’m wearing high on my back.

Blood surges to my sex and I crane my neck to watch him. His focus is intent on his work as he drags my panties down over my hips, my thighs. Let’s them slide to the floor and waits until I step out of them to stand between my legs. To take my ass in his hands to splay me open.

I swallow. He’s watching me there, and a moment later, his thumb comes to rest against my asshole, presses lightly there.

When I tense, and begin to straighten, he squeezes his hands over my hips.

“I said stay.”

I lay back down. He pushes the tip of his finger inside me. I realize what he took out of the drawer a moment later when I feel the cool drops fall on the cleft of my ass.

“Sergio,” I start.

“I’ve been struggling ever since I met you,” he says, beginning to rub the cream into me. It feels strange. Different, but good. “I know what being with me will mean for you and part of me is screaming to let you go. Not to condemn you to this life.”

When he slides the fingers of his other hand to my clit, I suck in a breath. He keeps rubbing, and I hear the wet sounds of my arousal, hear his own breath coming shorter. And when he pushes a finger slowly inside me, I let out a moan.

“Natalie,” he says, and I hear him unbuckling his belt, unzipping his pants.

I can’t answer though, not when he’s touching me like that.

“I need to be inside you. To come inside you.”

I’m not protected. He can’t come inside my pussy.

He’s rubbing his cock between my folds, dipping into my wet pussy as a second finger penetrates my ass. It hurts, but it feels good too, and I want him inside me. I want him to come inside me. He’s not the only one who needs this. Needs to be this close.

“Darlin’, darlin’, darlin’, why don’t you sleep at night?” he sings louder in time with the music and he pulls out of my pussy and I look back, watch him pumping his cock with his hand, smearing cream all over it, watching me as he sings along, glancing away only for a moment to draw his fingers out and line his cock up to my asshole and when he pushes in, I gasp, and tense and arch my back and grip the edges of the desk hard.

It hurts, he’s so thick, but he rubs my back, takes his time, stretches me slowly. When he strokes my clit, I find myself lifting to him, wanting him, and the sounds in the room, I think they’re coming from me, short gasps, moans, and fuck I’m going to come and he’s pushing deeper and deeper inside me and a moment later, I’m coming and he’s watching me, burying his cock inside me, moving slow and deep until it’s over, until the wave passes.

That’s when he grips my hips and fucks me. That’s when he really fucks me, drawing all the way out, thrusting back inside, the base sounds of an animal rutting coming from him, from his chest.

I know the moment he’s going to release, to explode inside me and when he thrusts one final time, laying his full weight over me, his chest and face wet with sweat and his cock throbs and I feel him release and empty and we’re so close, so fucking close. Closer than we’ve ever been. And when he stretches his arms over mine and intertwines his fingers with my own and he’s still throbbing inside me, I think I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to ever be apart from him. I don’t want for him to ever go away. For us to ever leave this room. Because here, we’re safe. Here, he’s safe.

Sweat mixes with tears and when he finally pulls out of me, I’m spent. I have nothing left. My knees buckle and he lifts me in his arms and I just cling to him.

It’s a long while later when we’re upstairs and he’s bathed me and put me in his bed when I ask him:

“Why, Sergio?”

It’s that song, the melody haunting me now. He had it on repeat. I don’t know how many times I heard it. Don’t know how many times he’d heard it before I got there.

“Why don’t you sleep at night?” I ask.

He looks away from me. Rolls over on his back and stares up at the ceiling.

“Sergio?”

He turns his head. Studies me for a long moment before answering.

“Because time is running out.”