Page 57 of Isle of Seduction

I slept like shit.

That’s habitual for me, but I didn’t expect to wake up in a pool of my own sweat, the scent of burnt flesh in my nostrils and the wails of my mother in my ears. It felt so real. I knew it was all a dream, but couldn’t wake up until it was too late, until I lived through my worst nightmare all over again.

It’s been a while since the nightmares have been this bad, this vivid. I usually keep them at bay with pills, and more recently, by watching over my sweet goddess, illuminated by moonlight. But the stress of the last thirty-hours caught up to me, my own mind becoming my enemy.

DeRossi showed up extra early this morning, in an impeccable three-piece suit when he usually dresses casually around me, and flanked by a blonde model that looked ready to kill him with one look.

She introduced herself as Shelly Clarke and apparently, she’s also my solicitor now.

And a friend of my wife.

“You’re gonna be granted bail. I suppose you’ll have the means to pay. We’re expecting an amount between one and five million pounds.”

“That won’t be a problem,” I say confidently.

Her cold blue eyes land on me, and she watches me without speaking for a moment. I’m sure lesser men have cowered under that stare, but I match it.

“If you hurt her, you’ll wish you ended in prison for murder.”

She smiles then leaves, the threat hanging between us like a live-wire. I don’t miss the way DeRossi bites his lower lip and watches her ass as she goes.

I snap my fingers in front of his face. “What the fuck, Luca?”

“Don’t ‘Luca’ me, Capaldi,” he admonishes. He hates it when I remind him that I’ve known him since we were in diapers and that he isn’t the big shot lawyer he thinks he is in my eyes.

“Who is she?”

“One of your wife’s favours. And the biggest shark in all of England. I’ll see you out.”

“You fucked her?” I ask, just to fuck with him.

He turns a murderous gaze to me, and I know I’m not far from the truth. If it hasn’t happened, he wants to.

“Don’t fucking talk about her like that. Would you like me to say that about your wife?”

“Her name leaves your lips, you’re a dead man.”

“Consider the same for Miss Clarke, stronzo.”

I smile, and he mirrors me. It feels good not to talk about how I spent the last two nights in a damp cell that reeked of mould instead of in between my wife’s legs, or watching over her, the soft rise and fall of her chest the only pendulum I’ll ever need.

I clasp his hand. “Thank you, Luca.”

“Just doing my job.”

“You know that’s not true.”

He rolls his eyes, tired of my antics as always, and walks out. An officer brings me back to my cell where I only have to wait for half an hour. I count every minute.

When I come out, I pay for my bail and the custody officer gives me back my possessions. I clasp the gold chain of my medallion around my neck, the engraving reminding me of my motto. Il sangue non è acqua. Blood is thicker than water. Both a promise to my family, to my blood and a threat to my enemies.

I put on my wedding band as I turn around, a prickle of awareness drawing my gaze behind me.

She stands at my back, the light from outside creating a halo around her. She illuminates the sad white corridor where the paint flakes and the linoleum yellows.

My angel of doom, coming to save me.

I take her in, from the high black heels she wears, the ripped jeans that I’ve never seen before that hug her thick thighs and the little grey oversized shirt with a cat in the left breast pocket. My lips tip up and I walk to her, making sure she measures my every step.

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