Page 134 of Bitter Poetry
“She’s here. Christian just left. Said shit was kicking off with Ettore.”
“That was sooner than I expected…”
“I said the same thing.”
“I can only imagine the magnitude of Ettore’s meltdown. That I would like to see… I’ll put our soldiers on alert… How is she?”
I huff out a breath, my eyes shifting to the closed door. “I don’t know. She locked herself in the guest bedroom.”
His chuckle is low and humorless.“Take the time you need. She’s been through a lot… and Chris isn’t exactly known for his finesse… I’m assuming he didn’t bring anything with her. I’ll ask Cherry if she can source some basics and send them up.”
“Thanks.”
“This goes without saying, but go easy on her, Dante. She used to play with Gia when they were kids. I’m going to remind you once again that I think of her as a sister, and I’m very protective of my sister.”
That stings. “Don’t preach to me, Leon. I’m not a complete dick.”
“I wouldn’t be here nor having this conversation if you were. Later.”
He hangs up, the asshole. Also, he’s right. Dark, uncivilized emotions begin coursing through me as I activate the childproof lock on the entry that the previous occupants conveniently fitted… just in case. No one, specifically Carmela, will be getting in or out of here without the code.
She’s alone in my home.
With me.
Trapped.
Dependent.
There is nothing but a locked bedroom door between us, which, as my brother just pointed out, is no barrier at all.
I can’t lie to myself—I like this a lot.
My footsteps carry me over to her door. My heart is beating double time, and my hand trembles as I lift it and knock.
“Fuck off!”
Not a great start. Maybe she thinks it’s Christian. “Carmela, it’s Dante. Let me in.”
“Get lost, Dante!”
I wince, sigh, and then stalk back to the built-in closet in the foyer, where I hope there might be a screwdriver… It’s not like I’m a regular handyman. If something needs doing, I call someone up.
At the back, behind cleaning equipment I have never once used, I find a brand new toolbox containing an equally new set of screwdrivers.
It takes me a hot minute to figure out how to unlock the door from the outside—I don’t want to linger on how Christian knows how to do this shit—and the mechanism turns with a softsnick.
A loud thud sounds on the other side, followed by footsteps.
I swing the door open swiftly in case she has any ideas of creating a barricade.
And there I stop.
Carmela.The object of my desire. The woman I’ve been waiting a year and more to make mine. Broken and hauntingly beautiful. If her tear-ravaged cheeks and the dark circles under her eyes hurt my heart, the glimpse of yellowing bruises peeking out the collar of her sweater makes me want to go on a rampage.
I drop the screwdriver.
She turns and runs.
