Page 11 of Caesar DeLuca
Which means Carisi and his crew believe I’m dead.
Perhaps the greatest advantage possible when plotting revenge.
A few times between slipping in and out of consciousness, I consider making another escape attempt.
The woman keeping me here is terrified of me—she’d trembled on the spot gripping a baseball bat, staring wide-eyed, lips parted. I could practically hear her erratic breathing.
Her chest had heaved up and down. Something extremely noticeable even in my injured, half-conscious state.
The blindest man on earth could see large tits like those. Double Ds at least. If not larger.
I shove away the dumb thought, scolding myself for having it in the first place. Who gives a fuck if she’s got big titties?
This isn’t some sweet arrangement out of a fucking Hallmark movie. This is the infuriating result of my closest ally betraying me and some foolish woman bringing me inside her home to care for me.
She’s demonstrated skills as far as sewing me up—probably some kind of medical background—but beyond that, she’s a fool.
If Carisi and his men were still lurking in the area, she might’ve led them straight to her home. They wouldn’t hesitate to hurt her in any way they saw fit.
I’m in no condition to fight them off, nor would I stick my neck out for some lady dumb enough to involve herself in a mafia feud, however unknowing. She’d be on her own…
I go back to the kind of thoughts I’m supposed to be having. Thoughts about revenge and the bloodshed I’ll ultimately bring to Carisi and his regime.
The bedroom door creaks open and a strip of light from the hall filters into the otherwise pitch-black room. The woman’s silhouette appears, clutching a tray covered with several items.
Some kind of bowl where tiny tendrils of steam curl up and a tall glass that’s probably filled with water. The other things I can’t make out in the dark, even with the light from the hall creeping in.
She pads over, balancing the tray in hand, and then sets it down on the bedside table.
Immediately, I’m struck by two different and distinct aromas—the first one makes my aching stomach grumble, with its savory smell of what must be herbs in the soup. The other scent makes my groin jerk with its gentle hints of coconut. A perfume of some kind.
Her fucking scent.
This thought makes my lower half give another pull.
I grit my teeth and chastise myself for the second time in minutes.
The woman glances at my face to check if I’m awake. Once she realizes I am, she reaches over and twists on the bedside table lamp. Though it’s still not enough light to combat the rest of the shadows eating up the room, it’s enough so that her face comes into view.
There’s no use denying she’s a pretty woman.
She’s got big, innocent, doe-like eyes with long lashes that flutter when she peers down at me and lips that are plump and ideal for kissing. Her face is full, her nose and cheeks round.
She’s thick—what people would call plus-sized—but I’ve always liked a soft, curvy woman, and she’s got curves for days. All the tits, ass, and thighs a man could ever want.
I tamp down on these thoughts. Didn’t I just remind myself I don’t give a fuck?
It has to be the meds making me this scatterbrained…
“How are you feeling?” she asks. She speaks in what’s a calm and nurturing tone. The kind of voice that sets you at ease. A natural caregiver.
It’s like I never shoved her down or threatened her.
She’s still taking care of me.
I glance at the tray she’s brought in—all items with a marked purpose. Things that’ll help me feel better.
I lick at my dry lips and rasp out, “Who are you?”
