Chapter Twelve
Chiara
He leaves the room and locks the door behind him. I immediately run to my purse and retrieve my phone. I have absolutely no bars! He wasn’t lying! Oh, my God I literally cannot believe this!
I look around his bedroom again, this time not dwelling on the cleanliness. I need to find a way out of here! I’m trying very hard not to panic, but it’s getting hard to breathe!
The windows on either side of the bed are covered in heavy, dark brown velvet. Of course. I pull one of the curtains open, and find that the window has been nailed shut. I run around the bed, to find the other has been permanently closed too. He’s not only a psychopath, he’s paranoid as well! Cell signal jammers, windows nailed shut, and a gun beside the bed. What kind of man does that?
I open the top drawer in the other bedside table, and find several books inside. They are mostly classics. The top book on the right hand side is The Catcher In The Rye, and the paperback cover is so well worn that the corners are pulling away. Is it his favorite book? That makes me sad. I see a copy of Stephen King’s Carrie. I read it when I was like fifteen. Underneath his fiction novels is a copy of the Bible. And it’s not one that came out of a hotel room, either. It’s a nice one, with illustrations and everything. It looks nearly as well worn as Catcher. So he likes Salinger and Jesus. Well, he does have some religious tattoos, I just wasn’t sure they were meaningful.
This man obviously has some interesting layers.
But no matter how good looking he is, with his soulful eyes and his sparkling smile, and no matter how fantastic he is at the sex thing, I am not, I will not, fall for him. He is a killer, the Ivanovich Bratva’s bloodiest hit man. He is the embodiment of all of the reasons I do not want to marry Frankie.
And yet, I want him. I want to get to know him. I want to discuss his love of books. I want to take a road trip on the back of his motorcycle, then make love all night in some roadside motel. I want to head to the beach with him, somewhere really warm like the Gulf of Mexico, and watch as his ripped and shredded body steps out of the ocean. I want to see droplets of water fall from his silky pale skin onto the pages of the book I’m reading under a wide umbrella. I want him to laugh as I protest, and join me on my blanket to kiss my neck and whisper in my ear, pleading with me to join him in the water so we can play like teenagers.
I want everything I never wanted with Frankie. And it’s killing me.
I open his closet, and find two black suits, one dark and one light gray suit, a tie hanger with six or seven really expensive ties, and several fine dress shirts in white, black, and light blue. I bet he would look amazing in the light gray suit with the blue shirt. I bet his eyes would really pop. Several thick sweaters and a few pairs of khaki pants are also hanging up neatly.
His shoe rack holds a pair of black dress shoes perfectly shined, a pair of casual brown suede shoes that lace up, several pairs of athletic shoes, and several pairs of black combat boots.
So I can’t wait to find what’s inside the dresser beside it. I open the first drawer, and find black pants, folded neatly. Cargo pants, jeans, comfortable looking slim fit trousers, about a dozen of them and they are all black. The next drawer holds black shirts, mostly cotton and long sleeve like the one he wore last night. Another drawer holds jeans, tons of them. He is so organized, so OCD, I want to pull them all out of the drawer and litter the floor with them. Then I could sit on his bed and watch him fold them all. That might be interesting.
Just as I pick one of the pairs up, I hear the key turning in the lock. I quickly rumple everything in the drawer before I close it, then jump into the chair in the corner just as the door opens. He has removed his jacket, and he’s carrying a silver tray with an expensive looking coffee set. This would be a great time to ambush him. His hands are occupied, so I could shove him and run for it. But then I’d have to leave behind my things, like my purse and phone, my expensive shoes, and Frankie’s ring.
Damn him. He has me in a fucking corner just like my father does. Being blackmailed is getting really annoying. I refuse to allow it to happen any longer.
“My dad is blackmailing me to marry Frankie. He said if I didn’t, he’s going to let Dante Moretti marry my sister Guilia.” He’s placing the tray on top of one of the bedside tables as I blurt it out. He doesn’t turn toward me as I speak. He seems as if he’s preoccupied, but I know he heard me. I wait a moment or two, and when he still says nothing I ask, “Now can I have my ring so I can go?”
He takes his time, arranging everything the way he wants it. Apparently his OCD has taken over. I glance over at the door, and find it still open. He knows he has what I need, and I won’t leave without it.
He turns toward me, and there’s an almost pained look in his eyes. “I’m sorry your father is doing that. Would you like cream and sugar?” How in the hell can he be so calm?
“Cream,” I reply, a little stunned by his non-reaction to my statement. He hands me a cup and saucer, and the coffee inside it is the perfect shade. It’s very proper, and the set looks expensive. Why would a mobster have a traditional China coffee set?
“The food will be here shortly. We’ll eat downstairs, and then you can have your ring and go.” His voice is hollow, and his expression is wooden. He takes a drink of coffee and I can see his hand is shaking. Is he angry? If he is, he is good at hiding it. He isn’t yelling or lashing out like my father normally does when he’s mad. But he’s intentionally avoiding my gaze. He’s obviously thinking.
“Whatever you’re planning, don’t.” I say it with enough force that he finally decides to stop ignoring me.
His stare is as cold and calculating as I’d expect from the Bratva’s best assassin. A tiny shiver of fear teases up my spine. I cringe when he speaks. “Dante Moretti is a sadistic son of a bitch. Why in the hell would your dad even threaten giving that beautiful young girl to him? That’s just wrong. He should be punished for even thinking it.”
“That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. It’s not your business,” I counter. I try to keep my tone calm, but I fail.
He hastily sets his cup on his saucer, and it makes a pretty clinking sound as it settles into place. “It is my business, Chiara. You are my business now.”
“You can’t do anything to my father. My family depends on his income, and if you take it away my mom could never afford to care for my brother. His medication and treatments are very expensive.” I shouldn’t have to explain this to him. It’s not rocket science.
“We could take care of your family together,” he offers, almost lightly.
“Do you think I will condone this discussion of murdering my father?” I yell back at him. I hope my voice is full of all the emotions I’m feeling. I don’t want to marry Frankie, but killing my father is not the answer.
His eyes catch and hold mine. He may be trying to control his emotions, but his eyes are blazing. “Do you want to marry Moretti, yes or no?”
I sigh loudly. “If it were that simple I wouldn’t be demanding you give me back that ring.”
“Let me worry about the planning, Chi. Planning and carrying out the plan to the letter are why I’m so good at what I do. I don’t deviate.” His doorbell rings as he’s speaking. He places his cup on the tray, and grabs it. He pauses to wait for me to stand, and I relent and do so. We walk down the steps to the first floor, me in front. When we arrive at the landing, he says, “The dining room is to the right, and through the sitting room.”
Everything in the sitting room is a very boring brown and cream, and the colors continue into the dining room. But the furnishings all look expensive, especially the dining table and chairs which I would swear are mahogany. I’m admiring his China cabinet as he enters the room, with two bags full of food in one hand, and the coffee tray balanced on the other.
“Would you take this?” he asks politely, and hands me the tray. It’s heavier than I expected it to be, and he was holding it with one hand.
I at least get it sat down on the table without dropping it. “Are you feeding an army?” I wonder aloud, as I watch him place the bags on the table.
“I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I ordered a few different things. Will you unpack the bags while I get plates and silverware?” He moves toward me, and I flinch and step away. That’s when I notice he’s walking toward the kitchen, which I can see through the open doorway on the other side of the room. I step toward the other end of the table, still avoiding him.
He places his hand on my shoulder, and says, “Hey.” I glance up at him, and I’m swept away by his beauty. He’s hiding his emotions again, even somehow keeping them from his expressive eyes. “Can we have a normal breakfast? Can we have an hour or so where we can be a normal man and woman enjoying a delicious meal together?”
I shrug. I mean, all I really know about him is how good he is at the sex thing. We’ve had zero conversation. We’ve had no interaction that didn’t involve getting physical in some form. It makes me nervous to think about conversing with him. What if I actually like him?
“Okay,” I reply. He kisses my forehead, then walks toward the kitchen. I watch him, imagining his rippling muscles underneath his plain, loose fitting clothing. I continue to watch as he reaches into a cabinet, and the shirt rides up his back, teasing me with a hint of ink on pale skin.
I’m biting my lip at the sight of him. The things I want to do to his body are sinful. I shouldn’t want him as bad as I do, but I can’t control my reactions to him. Just the thought of seeing him naked again makes my hands shake. I can hear the Styrofoam squeaking together as I try to remove the boxes.
He catches me staring and smiles. I smile back at him, and I feel my cheeks getting warm. As he joins me in the dining room, he walks behind me toward the head of the table. This time he’s too close and I don’t move away. He kisses my exposed neck and pats my hip. It feels very domestic and I like it.
Once we have our plates filled and we’re seated, I begin to watch him again. He eats the way he does everything else, exuding a sense of control I’ve never seen before. When Italians get together, everyone is talking and eating all at once. When I’m out to dinner with Frankie, he…
Why do I continue to compare Misha to Frankie? They are nothing alike.
“How is your brunch?” he asks me. It sounds like he’s really interested. It’s so strange, it’s almost surreal. Us sitting here together in his boring dining room, eating brunch after we spent a magnificent night together, chatting after he stole my engagement ring and blackmailed me to be here. His eyes are so soft, so caring as he gazes at me.
It’s all just a bit too much. And I’ve had more than enough.
“Why are your windows nailed shut?” I demand, as I drop my fork.
“Because I don’t want anyone coming into my apartment uninvited,” he replies calmly.
“Your windows have locks on them,” I argue.
“Window locks are not very reliable. How do you think I got inside your place?” I know he’s been in my apartment, he has my clothes. But hearing him say it out loud is strange.
“How often have you been in my apartment?” I glare at him as I ask it. He looks away, returning his attention to his food. His answer is a shoulder shrug. “More than once?” He doesn’t answer me. His silence is deafening. “More than twice?”
“I don’t know,” he answers back, without looking at me.
What kind of answer is I don’t know, to the question of how many times he’s been in my house uninvited? “You’ve been stalking me?” No matter what he says I realize the truth. We didn’t meet by chance. We met because he was following me, and he found me in that bar.
“No, I wasn’t stalking you.” He catches my glare as he says it, and I understand his meaning. “My father ordered me to follow you.”
It takes a moment for that information to settle in. Ivan Ivanovich knows who I am and has his son following me. Not just any of his sons, either. He has the assassin tailing me, breaking in to my house, blackmailing me. We stare at each other without speaking. I thought we’d talk about books for an hour or so, then I’d get my ring and leave. But this is so much worse than I could have imagined.
“Ivan Ivanovich wants me dead. Is it because of Frankie?” I enquire.
“I’d know if he wanted you dead,” he says off-handedly, and returns to his food.
The Ivanovich is crafty, cunning, and devious. There’s a reason behind everything he does. He won’t convince me that his father has him watching me for no reason. Ivan Ivanovich has a reason. But if he wanted me dead, I’d be dead. Or would I? I’m staring at Misha, wondering if he’d kill me if his father ordered him to.
“Eat,” Misha encourages. As if I don’t know I’ll be dead soon. As if he’s not the angel of death. As if my life is anywhere near as normal as it was this time yesterday.
When he notices I’m not eating, that I’m merely pushing my food around my plate, he reaches into his pocket and places the ring beside my plate. “Please eat,” he murmurs.
It’s nice that he’s worried about me, that he’s trying to take care of me. Even after everything he just told me, after everything he’s done, he doesn’t want me to starve.
“Thanks,” I say, as I take the ring and place it on my finger. It doesn’t belong there, I know, but I don’t have any pockets in these pants.
He eyes the ring as if it’s his enemy. Maybe it is.