Page 10 of Red Retaliation
Arianna
WHY ARE THEY ALL staring at me? My eyes flick between the three men in the room looking at me with suspicion, scorn and disbelief.
My focus draws to Redmond Bateman. Like his office, he’s not what I expected, and I’m unable to stop my eyes from trailing over his dark, tailored suit. It’s top quality and fits his muscular frame perfectly. The fine material sits perfectly on his wide shoulders and tapers into his narrow waist. His shirt is pure white, and the starched collar around his thick neck holds a burgundy tie fashioned into a Windsor knot. Then there’s the cuffs of his shirt just below the jacket sleeves with a hint of gold cufflinks peeping out, which match his tiepin.
I try not to make it obvious I’m peering at what looks like a tattoo peeping out above his collar. I don’t know why I’m looking, let alone wondering what the rest of the design is.
I feel guilty frustration when my line-of-sight tracks to the face possessing angular cheekbones, a straight nose and a strong jaw peppered with dark stubble. And his hair - the thick, wavy dark mass on his head with unruly waves pulled into a rough ponytail, leaving curls resting just below his collar - isn’t a sharp cut to complement his attire, but more in line with the Hells Angels.
His eyes are blue-gray, fiercely cold and filled with sin. Sin that makes me burn.
This is wrong. This man - thesemen- are Batemans. They’re not good people. But Red - that’s what the rest of them here callhim - has a raging magnetic pull which unwillingly drags me into his orbit.
I look away. He won’t knock me off-kilter. I’ll stand my ground even if it kills me.
And it just might.
Besides, thinking of him as “Red” is too familiar. He’s not familiar, and I don’t want him oranyof these people to become so. The Batemans are as far removed from me and mine. They are exactly what everyone said -feral.
Wearing tailored suits and expensive shoes is one thing, but you can see,Ican see, they have no class; no breeding. They’re wild gutter rats who’ve pushed their way into this line of work. They might have a spangly casino and posh offices acting as a front for theirrealbusiness, but it’s no secret their organization is new compared to old firms like my father’s.
My Papà has deep-seated roots in this life. His firm was passed down for generations. Like all Italian families, his values are old. Traditions are the way things work, even though these very traditions have caused me endless pain. The decisions as to my future weren’t vindictive; it’s just the way we work, and I understand that.
The traditions may have destroyed me, but I won’t let antiquated rules destroy my parents or siblings.
And that’s why I’m here. But it’s difficult.Reallydifficult.
Aware of three pairs of eyes burning into me, I look up, unsure what to do or say. I’ve spoken the truth, so what more do they want? My hands clench into fists. I won’t beg these men to help me.
Will I?
I’ve made a mistake. I thought the Batemans would jump at the chance to rub salt in the wounds of the Bristonis, but I’m wrong. Maybe they’re just too stupid to grasp the opportunity? Whatever the reason, I haven’t got time to waste. I won’t be intimidated, nor will I get sidetracked by how one man in particular affects me.
No one can do anything to me that hasn’t already been done. Short of my life, I’ve got nothing to lose, and that will be over too if I don’t sort this out.
I’ll just think of another way to deal with the problem.
Determined not to break my resolve, I move towards the desk and scoop the meagre contents of my bag back inside, but my lipstick clatters to the floor as my feet leave the ground. I gasp as I’m lifted away from the desk and pressed back against the wall.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Red’s fingers sear my skin; the same way they did the first time he grabbed me. And the second. The molten heat coming from him threatens to melt the skin off my bones.
I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to see those cold eyes holding a base ferocity which doesn’t correlate with the swarming feelings in my head. It makes me nervous in ways I can’t explain.
But I have to look at him. He’s in my face; his body crushed against mine. Every drop of air squeezes from my lungs, but not because there’s no oxygen - it’s because I don’t breathe. If I breathe, I’ll remember I’m alive, and if I live, I’ll have to touch the stubble on his face to see if it’s as coarse as it looks. I’ll trace along the strong angular lines of his jaw to see if my finger gets cut and then I’ll...
What am I thinking? He’s Redmond Bateman - the evil psycho. Everybody heard about him driving his fiancée to suicide.
Redmond Bateman undoubtedly treated his fiancée the same way Roberto treated me - with contempt and abuse, using his perverse sexual appetite any which way he desired. Mentally and physically torturing the woman, leaving suicide the only option.
Sickness washes over me. If it reallywassuicide... Perhaps he killed her?
What I did to Roberto was different. This manchosethe girl he was to wed.
I inwardly shudder. That photograph in the desk - the stunningly beautiful blonde with the limpet eyes - washer. Redmond Bateman’s fiancée. How sick can you get, keeping a photograph of the woman you gave no alternative but to end her own life like a trophy? If the suicide verdict was a smokescreen andhe’dmurdered her, it was even worse!
My eyes track to where my handbag andmytrophy concealed within it sits and I push away the second similarity I have noticed between me and this lowlife.
