Page 4 of He Should Be Mine
Dario
As the door of the apartment swings softly shut behind us, a small wave of relief washes over me. I have no idea why. This place isn’t safe. It isn’t home, and this night is far from over.
Molly saunters down the hallway, swaying his hips. The sequins glitter in the horrid LED lighting that has decided to automatically switch on. The things are as temperamental as hell and rarely work.
I dump my keys into the bowl, and glare at the home security system. There is no point in resetting it. Molly has figured out how to disable it.
I scowl and set it anyway. Molly isn’t the only threat to my well-being. Just the most persistent one.
Sighing, I head down the hall. Molly is in the large open plan living area. Pouring himself a vodka from the tasteless faux bar that takes up an entire corner of the room.
I watch him tip back his head. I watch his long, slender throat bob as he downs his drink in one. My eyes want to roam downwards. They long to feast on the sight of his nearly naked body.
Molly slams his empty glass down on the bar.
“Put some fucking clothes on!” I snap.
His eyes narrow. He thinks about arguing with me. Or teasing me. But something he sees in my expression makes him decide to obey for a change. He still rolls his eyes and then walks past me towards his bedroom with an exaggerated roll to his hips.
I grind my teeth. There is no point in rising to every single one of Molly’s provocations. That would be endless and tiring. I’ve learned to pick my battles.
With a heavy sigh, I step up to the bar and make myself a whisky on the rocks. Outside, and far below, a parade of sirens blare. Several police cars and a couple of ambulances, by the sound of it. The noise is muted by the thick glass and the distance, but still clear enough. Some other poor bastard is also having a shit night.
I sip my whisky and crick my neck. I hate this city. I can’t see how I will ever feel at home here. But where is home? I’d no longer fit into the rural Italy of my childhood. The America of my youth is a blur of different cities, different states. There was no one place that was mine.
I’ve lived everywhere, and so nowhere is home.
I wonder if Molly feels at home here? He is clearly British to his bones. But I don’t think he has always lived in the capital. There is a slight roll to his R’s and an exaggeration of some vowels that hints at further West. Devon or Cornwall. Possibly Somerset. Maybe he grew up in a little village by the sea like I did.
A smile teases across my lips. The idea of Molly making sandcastles and hunting for crabs is endearing, but also incongruous. It seems far more likely that he was born wearing glittery hot pants and with a personality far too big for any small rural town. No, Molly was made forbright lights. Bright lights and glamor. And hanging off a gangster’s arm.
My smile vanishes. Riccardo never shows Molly off like he should. He keeps him locked up in here. With me.
Not that I can blame Riccardo for that. The Ajello heir cannot flaunt a boy toy. So no, I’m wrong. Molly shouldn’t belong to a gangster. He should belong to a celebrity. Someone who can show him off. Take him to fine restaurants. Parade him around art galleries. Show him the opera.
Maybe that was Molly’s dream. The reason he came to London. He probably never intended to get caught up with the Mafia.
I down the rest of my whisky. The burn down my throat feels good. Molly never meant to be a gangster’s moll. He was dragged into it. Dragged into it by me.
This is all my fault. I’m the one who found him. I’m the one who gave him to Riccardo.
I pour another whisky. Without the rocks this time.
Molly’s bedroom door opens, and the sound pulls me out of my thoughts. I straighten up and brace myself.
He pads around the corner and comes straight for me. Pink sweatpants, fluffy socks and a black tee shirt.
Well, there’s a surprise. I was half-expecting him to flounce up in something even more outrageous than what he left in.
He walks right up to me, takes the whisky from my lax fingers, and gives me a wink. I watch him sip my drink.
My gaze drifts down to his tee shirt. It has writing on it. In a big bold font, white words stark against the black.
‘I would bottom for you sohard.’It says.
I bite back my scowl. Letting Molly know he has annoyed me would only delight him. So I inhale deeply through my nose instead. But there is no calm to be found.
“I need to punish you,” I state.
