Page 95 of Dark Romeo

“Fuck,” he hissed in my ear. “You sound so pretty when you scream.”

I shuddered and sagged against the windowsill, the night air damp against my sweat-beaded forehead, my chest heaving.

There was a long pause on the other line. Long enough for me to become self-conscious. Oh god. What had I done?

My eyes shot open, searching the darkness below for him, heat rising to my cheeks. “Roman?”

Before the line went dead, I heard him whisper:

“You’ll be the death of me.”

ROMAN

____________

It had been a mistake to watch her from the dark of the empty apartment across from hers. Lying in my bed, my mind assaulted me with the memory of watching her hand moving between her legs, of her head thrown back, sweet panting in my ear.

If I were there…

Come here, then.

I grabbed my aching cock in my fist and worked myself into a fury, wrecking myself upon her memory, collapsing in a fever after my release, begging for sleep. Sleep didn’t come. And she tormented me, still. Perhaps this was the penance for my sins.

It was early. Much too early. The sun was barely peeking up over the horizon, splashing the glass and concrete buildings of Verona with her bloody brush. I threw off the sheets that were sticking to me from my sweat. I showered, dressed and went out walking. I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew that one foot in front of the other was the only thing stopping me from going mad.

I found myself sitting in the pews at the back of Waverley Cathedral attached to the graveyard where my mother and brother were buried. Fitting, as it was where I would end up one day. Too soon, I was sure. Everyone attached to me ended up here before their time, torn from this earth in a flurry of bullets and blood.

That’s why I needed to stay away from Julianna. I didn’t want her to end up here too.

But she was making it so damn difficult. She was just…everywhere. Showing up at my apartment, at Nonna’s house, at Fated…asking all the wrong questions, saying all the wrong things, staring at me with hope in her beautiful amber eyes, acting like…acting like she cared about me. Telling me that I was good. Making out like she couldn’t believe that I could have killed a man.

Well, I did, Julianna. I shot him in cold blood and stole his life. I chose my life over his. Would knowing that be enough to drive you away? Would spilling this secret finally make you understand that I am not worth saving?

I stared up at the statues of Jesus on the cross. He sacrificed his life for us. I couldn’t even sacrifice my lustful desire for a certain detective to keep her safe.

“Roman! Is that you?” a familiar voice called from behind me.

I stood up, spinning, my hand going automatically for the gun hidden at my back. I froze as I spotted the familiar figure dressed in a black button-up shirt and the telltale white collar. Bad Roman. I was about to draw a weapon at a priest in a church.

“Father Laurence.” I dropped my hand and smiled. I didn’t have to force it. I was genuinely glad to see him. In the eight years since I left Verona for the anonymous freedom of Europe, his fine hair had gathered more silver strands and his kind chestnut eyes seemed wearier than ever before, but otherwise he looked just the same. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise, my boy.” I clapped the older man on the back as he pulled me in for a hug.

Father Laurence had been close friends with my mother since childhood. He had been the one to marry her to my father. He had been the one to bury her.

He pulled back and smiled, his kind brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Let me look at you.” He studied me, clucking softly. “You went away a boy and came back a man.” Affection filled his voice. “I barely recognized you.” We sat down side by side in one of the pews.

“Well, you look exactly the same.”

The Father snorted, such an odd sound to hear from a man of the cloth that it almost made me laugh. “You’re just lying to be kind. I’ve aged much too fast since you left.” His face fell. “Verona has become a darker and darker place. It’s been more of a struggle to keep the people’s hopes afloat.”

He didn’t have to convince me. I could see how far my father’s twisted roots had dug into the community.

He placed his hand on my shoulder, his face growing solemn. “I’m sorry about Jacob. It was…a senseless tragedy.”

It still felt like someone had closed a fist around my throat when I thought of Jacob. I still held on to the memories of him when we had been kids, when he still acted like my brother. I still loved that Jacob. Sometimes I wondered if I could have saved him from himself. Maybe I should have stayed and tried. Would I have made a difference? I doubted it. I couldn’t save myself.

I swallowed down the knot in my throat. “Thank you, Father. He will be missed.” My voice sounded hollow, even to me.

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