Page 13 of Scar

My mind screams the words at me as I look at her messy bleached blonde hair that she keeps permanently mussed to appear eternally sexy. She is sexy; she could be so much more without the added effects of a bottle of peroxide. Or the implants. Or the Botox injections that I know she gets every few months but doesn’t need. She’s fallen prey to how society perceives a woman should maintain herself, and there’s no coming back from that.

She winds her arm around my neck, moving her hand down my chest, angling for another round, but I very subtly remove it and give her knuckles a quick kiss.

“I have meetings, Cara,” I say, the words insincere even to my own ears. Suspicion is laced in the slant of her eyes; I know she doesn’t believe me, but that’s not my problem to solve. I’m sure her ego can take it. She deflates, hopeless as she moves away from me, but I don’t give myself a moment to think nor care about her feelings. I’m not in the business of making people feel good. I’m in the business of murder and mayhem.

“You always made time for me before,” she whines, getting off the bed, taking her time to get dressed. She deliberately stands in front of me, bending her naked ass to give me a view to remember as she steps into her skirt. Sans underwear. Marisa never wears underwear. I used to find it hot. Now I just find it crude.

I wipe a hand down my tired face; she kept me awake all night and she can keep going, but I just want to shower and forget she was ever here.

I’m starting to think this thing with Marisa has run its course. I’ve been seeing her for about seven months, and the entire time, she’s always tried to stay past breakfast. But I haven’t allowed it. Next step after that, she’d be moving in. Which is precisely what I don’t want. Commitment of any sort to a woman is not for me. The only thing I’m committed to now is making my fake wife’s life hell and decimating Don Marone. Something my father swore to his dying breath he’d do but never got the chance to. The responsibility has fallen to me. The eldest son. The first born. In place of my father, I’m to carry out his wishes and complete his orders. I’m to accomplish what he didn’t have enough time to.

“When will I see you again?” Marisa asks, breaking into my train of thought.

My silence should be answer enough, but it isn’t, because she places her hands on her hips and glares, daring me to remain silent. She wants an answer, and she means to get it.

“I’ll call you,” I tell her, as vague as I possibly can be. I have no intention of calling her. And I have no intention of seeing her again. I think she knows this and she’s trying to buy one last try at a commitment from me, knowing my word is gospel.

“No, you won’t!” she snaps, picking up her heeled sandals and slipping them on her feet. “Just remember this, Carlito, the next time you fuck your new whore – you will never find a woman anywhere near as good as I am. Remember that.”

“I’m too old for this shit,” I mutter, as she slams the door on her way out. Her exit from my home will not go unnoticed with all the noise she’s making.

I grab my phone and message the front gate to alert them that she’s coming. I don’t want her ramming the gate like she did the last time she had a tirade. As an afterthought, I also tell them to remove her from the accepted visitors list.

CHAPTER 12 – ALLEGRA

I’m finishing my morning run and slow down as I approach the house. There’s no reason why I can’t maintain my normal daily routine while I’m here; I get a few laps in every morning, which always leaves me feeling calmer, more grounded.

It’s too early for the sun to scorch its heat across my skin, but I’ve managed to work up a sweat, and now the hair that managed to escape my long ponytail is matted to the side of my face.

My body aches with the hours I’ve been putting into my fitness regimen. Bu it’s a delicious pain that courses through my body as I feel the strength of my muscles contracting.

The front door suddenly flies open and a tirade of curses spills forward. I watch as a carefully made-up woman with tousled blonde hair emerges through the front door, cursing and cussing at the top of her lungs. I stop mid-walk and watch as she balances on skyscraper heels, pulling at the hem of her skirt distractedly. I haven’t seen her before, and I don’t know who she is, but it’s almost comical how she bounces down the stairs in a fit of rage.

“You must be his new whore!” she screeches, looking in my direction.

I look around as she approaches, then point an innocent finger to my chest to ask if she’s referring to me.

“Yes, you! Stupid slut! You think he gives a shit about you?” she slurs, and I’m sure my eyes pop wide open in surprise at her attack.

I don’t know this woman from a bar of soap, although I can see she’s nothing but a high-priced whore, and that sets my blood to boiling. Knowing that she’s probably here for Scar, and I’m the fool that’s taken the mantel of “wife” while he’s free to entertain and go on with his life. The wife and the mistress; how apt of a mafia family. And I’m sure I’m expected to turn a blind eye and let him have his fun. Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen? While I rot away in my tower.

“Get away from me,” I grunt, pushing past her to get into the house. She takes a step forward so that my shoulder connects with hers as I brush past her. Before I know what’s happening, her hand is on my arm and she’s spun me around to look at her, her long false nails digging painfully into my flesh. My eyes fall to her hand on my arm, fury building inside of me. Who does this lame assed piece of shit think she is?

I hear the front door open as I stand facing the woman, and from all corners of the gardens, I see soldiers surging forward. They’ve always been invisible, but they’re front and center whenever they’re needed.

“You think he loves you?” she asks. “You think…”

“Get. Your. Hands. Off. Me,” I hiss, shaking my arm away from her. She holds on for dear life and bares her teeth as though she’s about to take a bite out of me. I watch as her eyes flick to a point behind me, but don’t turn back to see what’s attracted her attention. I don’t care what she’s looking at. But I do care that she has her filthy paws on me. I raise my other arm and extend it, my palm open until it connects with her face. She loses her balance and stumbles back, letting go of my arm, and I stepforward, an overwhelming urge to hurt her enveloping me. I’ve been holding back so much rage and anger that needs to be let out, and I’ve just found the perfect target.

But before I can take my shot, I’m stopped by a heavy arm around my waist pulling me back, lifting me off my feet. Soldiers move forward to assist the woman, and I watch on in irritation, my frustrated legs kicking out, wanting to unleash my anger on her.

“Easy there, tiger.”

I hear Scar’s voice whisper in my ear, his breath so close to me, it sends goosebumps skittering across my skin. My legs go lax of their own accord, and I sink into him, my back to his front as he continues to imprison me in his arms.

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that Scar?” the woman screeches.

“Yes, I’m well informed,” he mutters, although the whisper seems to reach only my ears. His words are directed at me; I’ve only told him so a dozen or more times.

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