Page 45 of Twisted Fate

We don’t talk that first night. He’s too angry with me. But each night, his anger eases a little. He still won’t talk about the night I called Markus, but we talk about other things. Our childhoods. High school. College. Politics. He tells me funny stories and I laugh until I cry. And I won’t pretend I’m not secretly thrilled that he laughs at my stories, too.

“How did you get this scar?” I ask one night, tracing my fingers along the pale line on his lower back.

“Knife,” he says. “Guy was aiming for my kidney. He wasn’t fast enough.”

I stare at him. “And this one?” I ask, touching the curved mark on his shoulder. The marks are old, healed, just thin white lines now.

“Also a knife,” he says. “Different guy. Different fight.”

I lean in and press my lips to the scar on his shoulder. Then I kiss the scar on his lower back. I kiss the one on his thigh.

He shifts so that my lips hover over his hard cock.

So I kiss that too.

Each night, he leaves me sated, exhausted. And each night, he leaves.

The fact that I crave his touch each day while he is gone is bad enough. The fact that I crave his company, his laughter, the way he looks at me when I talk, the way he shares little pieces of himself with me is even worse. I tell myself that sex with Damian is something I can walk away from when this is all over. It’s harder to convince myself that I’ll be able to walk away from his friendship.

Is that what it is? Friendship?

No. It isn’t even a temporary friends with benefits arrangement. I am his captive, his collateral.

I know that. And I’m too smart to fall for Damian Russo, Mafia prince, criminal, killer.

Aren’t I?

18

Alina

When Damian said a boat, I expected a boat.

This isn’t a boat.

The thing is huge and sleek and like something out of a magazine or a fever dream. No sails, just clean lines, white and chrome and oozing piles upon piles of money. The kind of yacht I imagine Jeff Bezos or Elon Musk might own, parked alongside their rocket ships.

My steps falter as we approach it and I realize that this is where I’ll be spending the weekend. But it isn’t just the boat that’s making me anxious.

It’s the dynamic Damian and I have established.

I’ve come to crave his body. That doesn’t mean I like it. I mean, I like Damian’s body. A lot. A whole fucking lot. But how can I want someone like Damian Russo so much that I can barely sit still? He’s like an addiction just lying under the surface of my skin. A want...a need...an addiction I can’t control.

But it’s only for a little while. This—whatever this is—isn’t forever.

I keep telling myself that’s a relief. But I’m having a hard time believing it.

I sigh. It’s one thing to want his body. Quite another to want…something more.

“Problem?” Damian asks. He stands beside me wearing a white linen shirt, black pants and a pair of mirrored shades that hide his eyes. Beside him is Luca, holding true to his promise to accompany me on all field trips outside of the condo. He’s been mostly silent, a stony statue in jeans and a polo, wearing his most professional persona. Or was the guy who ate ice cream with me on the balcony the persona, one designed to ferret out all the secrets Damian thinks I’m hiding?

Despite having spent time with each of them separately, I haven’t really had a chance until now to see the two men together. He and Damian are clearly comfortable with each other, managing to have entire conversations with only a couple of words spoken between them.

“No problem,” I mutter. “I just didn’t realize that your family has more money than God.”

This doesn’t get a reaction from him—not a snort, not an acknowledgement of my delightful wit. Not that I expected such an acknowledgment. Whatever.

“We’re late,” is all he says in reply.

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