Page 40 of Unhinged Little Angel

I pour myself a cup and add a little bit of half and half, then take a sip. I sputter as soon as the first drop hits my tongue. This shit is strong enough to strip a driveway, and it’s missing the little hint of cinnamon I’ve gotten used to Luca adding.

“What the fuck, Luca? Did I do something to piss—” I spin around with the mug in my hand, my face still wrinkled with disgust. The words die momentarily on my tongue when my gaze lands on the man sitting on the couch. “Who the fuck are you?”

The dude is wearing what I’ve been thinking of as the Official Moretti Uniform, a dark suit and expensive Italian shoes, but he’s definitely not Luca. He’s lounging on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table, some finance channel playing on the TV. It takes him a long second to look away from the screen and lazily turn his head in my direction, like I’m some kind of inconvenience.

He drags his gaze over the part of me that’s not hidden behind the island counter with a dismissive flicker, his lips twisting into a hint of a snarl.

“Antonio. I drew the short straw,” he says.

I arch an eyebrow and, without thinking, bring the cup to my lips again to take another sip. I cringe again and set the mug down on the counter more forcefully than I need to, coffee sloshing over the rim to make a ring on the counter.

“What the hell does that mean? Where’s Luca? By the way, you make vile coffee.”

He scoffs. The sound is as dismissive as his look was, making my hackles rise defensively.

“Luca had somewhere else he had to be today. And apparently I did something to piss someone off since I was ordered to waste the day babysitting Salvatore’s stripper whorehusband.” He doesn’t have to physically make air quotes around the word husband for me to hear them.

I rear back like his insult is a physical slap right across my face.

“Fucking excuse you?” My hand twitches towards the coffee mug again. Is it hot enough to scald him if I march in there and throw it in his face? Maybe it would be worth it to ruin his suit anyway, even if I can’t leave him with any serious burns.

“Don’t need to be excused, sweetheart. This whole thing is a fucking joke and I’m not going to pretend to take it seriously. But boss told me to get my ass over here and make sure nothinghappens to his pet, so here I am. Now, shut the fuck up.” He turns the volume up on the TV as an extra ‘fuck off.’

My body flushes with a rush of fury, my fingers curling instinctively into fists and my heart pounding so loudly in my ears I can barely hear the man on the TV droning on about stock prices. I have no doubt this prick is strapped. The question is, can I vault over the counter and beat him to death before he can pull his gun? I don’t like my odds.

If I called Salvatore and repeated the insults Antonio just spewed at me, would he leave whatever meeting or shady dealing he’s currently in the middle of to race home and rip him to shreds for me? However I feel about fighting my own battles, the thought is pleasantly warm and comforting, like a hug. It’s enough to keep me from testing Antonio’s quick-draw skills… for now, anyway.

But if he thinks he’s going to sit on his ass all day and I’ll “shut the fuck up” and make this easy on him, then clearly no one warned him about me. My rage slowly rearranges itself into a delightfully spiteful feeling instead, and a smirk curls on my lips. I’m going to drag this asshole all over the city and make him hold my goddamn shopping bags. Make me feel small, and I’ll make you feel even smaller, bitch.

I dump the coffee down the sink and head back into the bedroom to get dressed. While I pick out clothes and get ready to go out for the day, I amuse myself with fantasies of wrapping Antonio’s tie around his throat until his face starts to turn purple and his eyes get all glassy and bloodshot.

My phone vibrates with a text from Salvatore.

SALVATORE: Morning, Angioletto. I’m thinking about you. How’s your morning going?

It’s not the first time he’s sent me an annoyingly sweet good morning text this week, and my body reacts the same way it has all the other mornings. My heart races and my stomach fluttersand twists with too many confusing feelings to sort out. It almost feels like he thinks this is real, like he’s actually my husband, adoring me and not afraid for me to know it. I swallow hard and stare at the text for a few seconds, entertaining the idea of ratting on Antonio while also wondering what it would be like if I responded to Salvatore as if it was real too.

I missed you in bed this morning. I can’t wait to have your hands and mouth all over me again tonight. I’m starting to crave the way your stubble drags over my skin when you kiss the insides of my thighs.

My throat tightens and I wheeze out a laugh. Even all alone in the bedroom with the TV blaring too loudly for Antonio to hear me, I’m embarrassed by how anxious the sound is, high and tight and full of a thousand insecurities I don’t want to put words to.

I tug down the collar of my shirt and snap a picture of the bruise and send it without any words in response. My cock swells a little, thinking about his reaction to the photo. I know there’s a primal part of him that wants to mark me up, as if physical evidence of his claim will chase away anyone stupid enough to try to fuck with me. Another hot shiver runs through me. Maybe that’s why I like the bruise too.

SALVATORE: Are you trying to get my dick hard while I’m working?

I chew on my lip, screwing up my courage, then type a reply.

DANTE: Seemed like the bratty thing to do.

SALVATORE: Brats do it to get attention. Is that what you want, Angel? My attention?

My hands tremble and my cock gets even harder. I think… maybe I do want his attention. Yes, I need his help, and this marriage is for practical reasons, but both things can be true, can’t they? I can need him and wanthim, can’t I? I’m only human and he isSalvatore. Gorgeous, confident, well-dressed, dangerous in exactly the right ways…

I type and delete a reply three times, unable to make myself send one simple word.Yes. Because if I do, everything changes. Another message comes through while I’m fighting with myself.

SALVATORE: I can practically hear you seething from here. Tell you what, I’ll tie you up tonight and make you come until you’re so drained and oversensitive you’re begging me to stop, and we can pretend like you’re only doing it to keep me happy.

My mouth goes dry, and I swallow down a needy whimper, even though no one else would hear it anyway. I reach for my stiff cock with my free hand just as another text comes through.

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