Page 13 of Fight Me Little Pearl

“Just wait. Just wait a minute,” he yells. The idiot is stalling. Wasting my time.

I capture one of his fingernails with the pliers and before he even knows what has happened, I’ve ripped the nail off and exposed the nail bed. It is white for a second before it turns red as blood rushes out. Alban howls and writhes in pain.

“Can someone bring me some salt?” I ask. Maybe Francesca is right. I am a madman.

“Okay, okay, stop,” he screams in a panic. Urine flows down the chair legs and forms a yellow puddle. Good. He has crossed over into terror territory. “I don’t know why my boss is stealing your oil. We were just following instructions. Please, Don Barone, you have to believe me. I’m not lying. I’m not highenough in the pecking order to know anything. I just take the drums I’m told to take. That’s all.”

“You mean you steal my oil?” I ask softly, looking down at his hands.

“Me, I’ve only picked up about ten drums. I can pay you back for them. I can work for you. Anything you want. Just say it.” His eyes plead for the forgiveness that he knows will not come.

“Where do you take the stolen drums to?”

“We drop the drums off at Biovéne Health warehouse, West of the Valera. I know they are shipped, but I don’t know where to.” Alban meets my gaze. “Please, that’s all I know.”

I slip my hand into my pocket and touch the golden bracelet. “Which members of my team help to make this work?”

“I don’t know. The only names I have are Jerome and Alejandro. They take the stash off us.” He shakes his head as I loom over him. “Please, that’s everything. That’s the truth, I swear it.”

“If we catch you again, you’re a dead man. Now go tell your boss if he pinches another ounce of my oil, I’m coming for him. And for what he’s already taken, I’ll be sending him a bill with interest for it.”

I turned away from his sorry sight. Bogo needed to be taken care of and I had other pressing matters to attend to, but they all seemed far away and unimportant.

Chapter Seven

FRANCESCA

It’s day two of my honeymoon.

I turn on my stomach on my vast bed and my belly rumbles with discontent. I flip onto my back and stare at the splendid moldings on the ceiling. How can I be in one of the most beautiful cities in the world and be so freaking bored?

I want to return to New York so badly. I miss my family, especially Mama. And Louisa. I wish I hadn’t snapped at her. Not knowing any better, she was genuinely happy for me and simply complimenting my husband’s looks back at the wedding. There was no need to be as rude as I was to her. Now that the haze of despair is not so completely blinding, I can see and think more clearly.

I decide to call her later.

With a sigh, I get out of bed and ring room service for breakfast. It’s a few minutes past eight, and of course, my dear husband is nowhere to be found. He left the room at the crack of dawn, and I haven’t seen him since then. Even though he has most of his bases in Italy and America, he still finds a way to work and keep busy while we’re on honeymoon in Paris.

Yesterday, I went the entire day, only seeing Valentino once when I returned from Mass. He disappeared shortly after, and I didn’t see him again until past midnight.

Is he avoiding me? What does he actually do in the huge chunks of time he is away from me? Maybe he truly cannot stand to be in my presence.

This makes me happy. I mean, it should make me completely happy but I can’t ignore the slight twinge of disappointment settling in a corner of my heart. When he’s here, I hate him. When he’s not, I spend my time thinking about hating him. Regardless of his absence or presence, he’s always on my mind, and that annoys me. And I know why. All of this confusion and self-torture I attribute to that little bud between my thighs, throbbing with need whenever it even so much as catches a whiff of his presence.

As I pad on my bare feet to the bathroom, I wonder once again why we have to share a bedroom. He’s rich and there is no one around and so no reason for us to pretend to be a pair of cooing lovebirds. So why the hell is he torturing me? A part of me expected and dreaded the idea that he would force himself onto me, but he hasn’t so far so why can’t we just get our own rooms and sleep in peace? Why can’t he sleep in the master bedroom?

Maybe I should move in there…

Then I can think about Thomas instead of worrying about where Valentino is and what he is doing. I brush my teeth with extra vigor when I remember that I’ve hardly had a chance to think about Thomas anymore. I blame Valentino for that.He ruins everything. Horrid man. As I brush my hair, I allow my thoughts to dwell on Thomas.

Poor thing. He must be suffering in silence.

I leave the bathroom, go into the living room, and stop dead in my tracks. Valentino is at the dining table, fresh as a daisyand eating his breakfast without a care in the world. Sunlight is pouring in through the lofty windows and making him look gloriously grand and unapproachable.

How long has he been around?

I didn’t hear a thing. His stealthiness bothers me. I’ve noticed how silently he moves. One second, he’s not here, and the next, he is, all without making the smallest sounds. For a man that big, it’s a wonder how he moves so quietly. I’m barely over five feet and cannot climb down the bed without waking the whole hotel up.

Valentino looks up from his food and eyes me for a fleeting moment before returning his attention back to his meal.

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