Page 23 of Ruthless Desire

But then he steps aside, beckoning me in with frightening politeness. "Mr. Corleone will see you now."

I stare at him, my legs unwilling to budge. "Who the fuck are you?"

The chilling sound of a gun cocking cuts me off, all the blood draining from my face. Because now I can see past my wannabe doorman. See the scene of carnage awaiting me in the gallery beyond.

Blood. Rivers of it, coating the crisp white walls like macabre finger paint. Shattered glass and splintered wood crunching beneath steel-toed boots as figures in black move with ruthless efficiency.

And in the center of it all, a body. Splayed out on the polished floor like a broken marionette, limbs askew and head lolling at an unnatural angle.

Mark. Oh, Jesus, it's Mark. Or what's left of him.

Bile rises in my throat as I take in his sightless eyes. The ragged hole where his jaw used to be, weeping claret and shards of bone.

I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't do anything but stand there, my mind trying desperately to reject the horror before me. This isn't real. It can't be real. Wake up, Natalie. Please god, just WAKE UP…

Rough hands seize my arms, startling a weak cry from my paralyzed lungs. No no no, this isn't happening. It's just another nightmare, the dark birthing of my twisted psyche. Any second now I'll jerk awake, panting and clammy but blessedly alone.

But the hands on my body are all too solid as they drag me into the gallery. The blood squelching beneath my boots is too warm, too thick. The stench of gunpowder and viscera is all too real as it clogs my nostrils and coats my tongue.

I'm barely aware of the duffel bag being ripped away, my precious canvases clattering to the floor. All I can see is Mark, his ruined face searing itself into my retinas. Oh god, all that blood, all that beautiful crimson, I can't look away, I can't-

"Exquisite, isn't it?" A familiar voice cuts through the chaos, smooth as silk and cold as ice. "The way the light catches the arterial spray... it's almost poetic."

My head snaps up, vision swimming as I meet obsidian eyes. The same eyes that have been haunting my dreams, infiltrating the dark corners of my subconscious.

Dante Corleone. The devil incarnate, standing before me in a perfectly tailored suit without a speck of blood to mar its crisp lines.

"You," I breathe, a thousand emotions crashing through me like a tempest. Fear, revulsion, fascination. And beneath it all, a traitorous curl of heat in my belly. "What the fuck have you done?"

His lips quirk, a ghost of a smile devoid of warmth. "Nothing you need to concern yourself with, moy voron. The only thing that matters now is us."

Us. The word rattles around my skull like a bullet, ricocheting off the confines of my sanity. How can there be an "us"? I don't even know this man, this beautiful monster with the devil's eyes and an angel's face.

"There is no us," I spit, struggling against the iron grip of his goons. "You're a fucking psychopath. I want nothing to do with you or your sick games."

Dante's eyes flash, a hint of something dark and hungry sparking in their depths. "Oh, but you do, my little bird. You've been playing this game since the moment you caught my eye. And now?" He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. "Now it's time to claim my prize."

Before I can react, he's there, invading my space. His hand cups my face, fingers digging into my jaw with bruising force. I try to turn away, but he holds me fast, forcing me to meet his gaze.

"Look at me, Natalie," he commands, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down my spine. "Look at me and tell me you don't feel it. This connection, this pull between us. It's destiny, my little paintbrush. Written in the stars and sealed in blood."

I want to deny it. Want to scream and rage and tell him he's out of his fucking mind. But the words stick in my throat, choking me with their insincerity.

Because deep down, in the twisted, shadowed corners of my psyche that I've tried so hard to ignore... I know he's right.

There's something between us, a dark current of recognition that terrifies me more than any physical threat ever could. It's like looking into a mirror and seeing the monster you've always feared lurking beneath your skin.

"No," I whisper, but it's weak, unconvincing even to my own ears. "This isn't... I'm not..."

Dante's smile is all predator, sharp teeth and dark promise. "Not what, solnyshko? Not the kind of girl who craves the darkness? Who longs to be consumed, body and soul?"

His thumb traces my lower lip, and I hate myself for the way my body responds. Heat pools as my breath catches in my throat.

"I've seen your art, Natalie," he continues, his voice a seductive purr. "The violence, the passion, the raw, bleeding emotion. You can't create that kind of beauty without having touched the abyss. Without letting it touch you in return."

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out his words, his touch, the intoxicating scent of him. But it's useless. He's already under my skin, a poison spreading through my veins.

"Please," I breathe, not even sure what I'm asking for. Mercy? Oblivion?

---