Page 62 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia King

She looks confused.

“Harper’s father. Who was he?”

Her mouth opens and closes, expression twisted like she doesn’t know what to say. It burns me up inside. Outside. All over. My hand clenches again. When she doesn’t speak, I finally add, “Were you in love with him?”

“Yes,” she eventually whispers.

I scoff under my breath, steel myself for the next question I want to ask. I can’t bring it up. My throat closes on it. I am pathetic—and it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

“Ren,” she says. She steps forward, reaches out to touch me, as if trying to have a heart-to-heart. One hand brushes my chest. The other—pain lances through my arm like a machete as she touches it thoughtlessly. I shove her away, biting down on the pain with a low, angry growl. She staggers back. Bumps the wall with a breathless little “Oh.”

I look at her, and I can see that she’s afraid.

It makes me want to destroy something—but not her. Never her.

“Ren,” she begs, her tune changing fast now that she’s actually afraid. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago; just let it go. Please let it go. I belong to you now. I’m yours, Ren. I’m all yours. Whatever you want.Please.”

Her hand slides along my tie.

“You said you would take care of me.”

“You think I’m not trying—”

Her touch wanders up to my cheeks, makes me look at her.

“Ren. Take care of me.”

She presses her lips to mine, sets me on the path she’s trying to drag me down. Nadia gives me her body like a balm, an anchor point. The pain in my hand retreats to the back of my head, sulks into the corner as the heat slowly takes over. She kisses me, long and demanding, a distraction. And weak idiot that I am, I chase it. I take it willingly, like swallowing down the pills or the booze. Whatever it used to take to get through the night before it all stopped working at all.

I gather the pain up, forge it into willpower as I scoop Nadia up and take her to the bed.

She pulls me down to her, crashes me into her.

Half my weight lands on my hand, but I barely feel it as I box her in against the mattress.

“There you go,” she whispers, like she’s the one taking care of me. It makes my chest ache. Memories go off like flares inside my head, lighting up the dark corners of my thoughts for brief, brilliant moments. Nadia and I laughing in bed after. Curled up against her, still half hard inside her. Some cartoon on the TV playing on mute. One of those moments so peaceful and profound, it imprints itself on your memory despite how simple and mundane it is. Everything worth remembering happens in your head—a feeling without words—but you still never forget it.

The memory sizzles out, fades, lets the shadows creep in again.

I want to capture it. Capture her. Make sure it will never, ever escape me again.

“Stay there,” I rasp at her.

She stretches out on the sheets, watching me move around the room. I drop my watch onto the dresser and massage my wrist. Nadia lies in my bed like she’s drowning in it, treading the water of the silence stretching between us. Just waiting for me to come pull her up or push her under.

I find an extra sheet in the closet and I twist it tight into a rope. She watches. Doesn’t question or complain when I tie it snug around each wrist, pinning her hands behind her back.

I take my tie and do just as I told her I would with it, hooking the fabric around her mouth, between her teeth. Once she’s gagged, I roll her over onto her side, hike her leg up so that it hugs my shoulder. I run my hand over her panties, massaging the wet heat between her thighs. I take in the sight of her like that. Completely fucking helpless.

Her gaze bores into mine. I feel a shudder of déjà vu. A flicker of familiarity. How many times did I see eyes like hers looking up at me? That same desperate helplessness. Her bloodline, looking for pity.

It makes guilt tug at the back of my throat. I look away, look at her body, her curves, the tight lines of her bound arms. Anything to avoid those begging, pleading eyes.

“I loved you, Nadia.”

She lifts her head, squirms pathetically on the mattress as I play with her pussy. She tries to talk around the tie, her words muffled into whimpers. Her head drops against the pillow, surrendering as the fight in her arms lessens.

“This is exactly how I want you,” I confess, “Helpless. Pathetic. At my mercy. Because this is exactly what you did to me—”

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